#rest in peace grandmama

[cyberphuck]

I'm not gonna reblog the post because it's super long and mostly about Saris (and how it's fine for white people to wear them for any reason they feel like) but there was like a two-sentence mention of how some people (wrongly) think it's not okay for non-Japanese people to wear kimono. First of all ime most Japanese people's reaction to a foreigner wearing a kimono is "oh my god, rad!!" Second of all a kimono is literally just. A garment. The complex, intricately patterned, vividly colored kimono that people associate with the word "kimono" is just a really fancy expensive dress. (there's a history associated with the making of really nice and beautiful kimonos because the hand woven fabric and the carefully planned and placed designs and theme/meaning of the imagery and colors and the traditionally made dyes used mean that that expensive kimono is a work of art in the same way that a painting in a museum is a work of art. Some Japanese people use kimono as an artistic expression, and honoring those carefully made and often historically significant pieces is honoring the talent and hard work that went into creating them, not honoring like. The concept of clothes. Someone, even a Japanese person, acquiring a priceless kimono and then slam-dunking it into the trash would cause outcry not because "white person" but because "HEY MY ARTWORK :(") But there are very plain and cheap kimono and mid-price kimono and knockoff kimono made in like Sri Lanka and imported and sold to tourists. Both men and women historically wore and still wear (differently styled according to presenting gender) kimono, both expensive ones to important events and regular ones to other places and times where they feel like wearing one. It's like the difference between wearing a nice dress to a wedding and a sundress to the local garlic festival. Similarly, there are special types of garments (I can't be arsed to look up the proper names for these) that are for religious and/or cultural ceremonies ONLY, and those are often made specially for the person who will be wearing them or have been handed down through the family and thus have family significance (like a family crest). If the garment wasn't made with specific-you in mind, then it's weird and rude for you to walk around wearing it in the same way people are gonna side-eye you for showing up at mass dressed up like the priest. But the takeaway here is that in the phrase "special clothing" the important word is "special," not "clothing." Get a kimono if you want. Plain, fancy, made in Japan, made in Finland, whatever. Put it on, run around in it. Do housework in it. Wear it wrong. Set it on fire. No one cares.

Source:

GRANDMAMA.

[kei-ing-yourcar]

KNOWING THE DIFFERENCE

Summary: Yo-yo's sister gets dragged into the Three Stooges mess when they come to her grandma house running from trouble.

Warnings: none

✏️✏️✏️

Ressee loved to sleep. It was one of the only times she ever truly felt peace. So naturally she hated whenever something or someone woke her up. It always made her heart beat a mile a minute and feel slightly confused.

When Ressee fell asleep tonight she was, once again, at peace. She had been sleeping good when she heard knocking on her window. She sat up quickly, heart racing, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

The knocking came again. Ressee hopped out of bed making her way towards the window. She looked out to see her sister, Slick Charles, and Fontaine outside. All three looked like they had seen a ghost.

She quickly ushered them in. Watching as they all climbed in the window one by one, she looked out to make sure the coast was clear and then she closed it back.

"When y'all change the locks on the front door?" Yo yo whispered.

"This morning." Ressee told her as she handed her the new key. "But what the fuck y'all got going on?"

Ressee looked the three up and down, making sure to glare at Slick Charles.

"Fuck you looking at me like that for?"

"I can look at you however I wanna look at you."

"Nah, you mother-"

"Both of yall shut up before you wake up Grandmama!" Yo yo whisper shouted to the two bickering idiots. Slick Charles and her sister always have had problems with each other. For good reason too, but now wasn't the time for them to argue.

"Fuck what they talking bout, when we going back to that underground lab?" Fontaine asked, anxious to get back to the lab he saw himself dead in.

"In the morning, Taine. We gotta lay low for the rest of the night."

Ressee looked at her sister like she was crazy.

"Underground lab? Y'all niggas high?"

"This don't pertain to your Kermit The Frog as-"

"Shut the fuck up Limp Di-"

"Both of you shut up! Look the underground lab is a lab underground that we got to through a secret elevator in a house and it had a buncha weird powdery shit that made us laugh and a weird looking white black man and a dead Fontaine who really isn't Fontaine because Fontaine is right here with us!" Yo yo rambled off, her shoulders sagging in relief when she was finished.

Ressee looked at the two men to see if they believed anything her sister had just said just to see they were already looking at her expectantly. She sighed. She wanted to believe that this was some coked up idea Slick Charles and Yo yo had come up with, but Fontaine didn't look high. His eyes were just slightly wide. So everything her sister said must've been somewhat true. It was just so hard to belive though.

"First of all, what is a white black man?"

"After everything she just told you, that's your first question?" Slick shook his head in disbelief.

"He was white but had an afro." Yo yo said while eyeing Fontaine who had started pacing the floor.

"I'm Fontaine. I ain't dead."

The night's events still had him on edge. His thoughts were racing a mile a minute.

"Taine chill. We'll go back in the morning to check it out." Yo yo lead him towards the bed. Ressee was going to protest him sleeping in her bed, but decided against it. He needed it more than her if she was to believe their tale.

"I'll go with y'all. Ya know, to make sure."

All three of them looked up at her.

"Yea the more the merrier." Slick grumbled and she rolled her eyes at him.

End of part 1

Part 2 coming soon🙃

[hiswordsarekisses]

Rest in peace my precious cousin. My very first insperable best friend. I often think of the way, every summer when we were little, I would call you to let you know I was at Grandmama’s and then we would run down the dirt road toward each other with outstretched arms. One of my best memories of you was your contagious laugh. You were one of my very most favorite people my whole life long. One day we will run toward each other with outstretched arms again and never have to say goodbye. 🌹🌺🌸🌼💐

[witchofthesouls]

Listen, tarn may be desturbed by Grandmama Addams but we all know his situation would be far worse If the most well known generation is there too.... It would be a lot louder at night for them too.

Tarn would never know peace. Only suffering. (Less physical pain than his countless victims wanted, but they can work with the emotional damage.) Especially with Gomez's cheery enthusiasm, Wednesday's critiques of his literary work, and the lively romance between Gomez and Morticia along with Vos and Grandmama.

Gomez is a chipper fellow. Delighted over the techniques that the DJD employs, he understands why Grandmama had traveled with them. Has even offered pointers to “get that particular pitch of scream. Something beyond physical agony.” Calls everyone, everyone, young. Has a very lively handshake and a death grip that could drive a mech to chew off their own wires.

Tarn has no idea what to do when Gomez lays his optics upon Morticia after a few hours of separation. It’s passionate. It’s indecent how their fields roll and twine together as Gomez presses his lips to each hidden seam and joint in her arm to her face. “I have missed you woefully. Wretchedly. Wrathfully.”

Kaon thinks it's quite sweet how Gomez and Morticia are dreadfully in love. They seem to be on each other's minds even in the middle of a hunt.

The entirety of the DJD could agree that Morticia is absolutely dangerous. There’s something about how her svelte form moves as if gravity couldn’t touch her, how shadows seem to twist in her cold presence, in that curl of dark satisfaction upon her painted lips, bright and bloody like a precious gem and terrible warning…

Pugsley seems to have a love for anything that detonates. Nickel has to constantly upgrade the medbay security because the mechling finds ways to get better chemicals and resources…

Because of that, Nickel would get assistance from Pugsley and Wednesday since she needs to delve into the larger mechs’ frames. The inner framework is exposed as she reaches for blades and tanks to strip and clean. She needs to keep a close optic to make sure that the kids don’t make off with some equipment.

Wednesday, dear Wednesday… Tarn will find out that she is a fearless, godless creature, and she definitely poisons the meals. Pugsley is the target, the rest is simply bonus collateral.

[chaptersinprogress]

post-canon | @ciriweek 2022 | ciri/mistle | book series spoilers, canonical character deaths, gore & beheading, suicidal thoughts

"Do you hate me, Mistle?" Ciri asked the air from where she was leaning back against the stone.

She twisted in place from her seat on the snow-dusted ground, until she could rest her arms on the barrow and pillow her cheek on her arms.

"I hate myself," she whispered staring out past the trees around the boneyard, her words a thin stream of breath fogging in the cold.

"Maybe if I hadn't left, we could have taken him down together. If I hadn't arrived too late... I did it, you know. I killed Bonhart."

Ciri squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in her arms.

She still saw it in her dreams, night after night. Mistle's glazed eyes, the rend in her abdomen, the red puddling beneath her body, the smell of piss and shit.

And the hands that forced her head in place.

Fingers prising open her eyes, buried in and yanking her hair, gripping her chin. The casual way Bonhart had sat, the corpses of the Rats leaning against his thigh as he dragged the knife back and forth, back and forth, slicing through the skin, cartilage and muscle.

And the rasp of the saw as it was dragged shrieking over bone, slowing grinding down to sever the final thing that connected their heads to their necks.

She had screamed herself hoarse.

She had screamed, cried, and pleaded for him to stop, to not make her watch anymore. Bonhart had watched her with his fish-dead eyes, a faint smile on his face the whole time.

She had thrown up over herself when he'd started the slow process of beheading. And again when he'd started preserving the first head. And again when it was Mistle's turn.

"Everyone I've loved the most is dead," Ciri told the stone beneath.

"Grandmama, Eist, my parents, Mama, Geralt, you."

"Sometimes," she whispered, "sometimes, I wish I had been with you and the rest. So that I could have died in your arms. It wouldn't have been so bad; we would've been together. And I wouldn't have known what it was like to lose everyone."

It was a secret. One that she'd never told anyone else. But there was only her and the dead there, and the dead told no tales.

Ciri finally sat up. The silvery light of the moon and the fresh white snow cloaking the barrows like a soft blanket made the whole place seem serene and peaceful.

She felt no fear, seated there alone, amongst the dead. She was Death, the Destroyer. Nothing and no one could pose a threat. The biggest threat there was her.

Ciri pressed her fingers against the stone of the Rats' barrow.

"I love you, Mistle," she said. "I'll stay with you till dawn."

And she sat still and silent in the boneyard, a ghostly sentinel, until the sun finally rose to exorcise her.

[sunmoonandeddie]

saturdays

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3,467

summary: Bucky Barnes has a new routine.

warnings: Some swearing

a/n:  This was my March 2020 one shot for my Patreon that they received early access to.  Let me know what y’all think!

Bucky Barnes has a new routine.

Sundays are for sleeping in before eventually making his way to Brooklyn, where he picks up three bouquets and an egg, bacon, and cheese breakfast sandwich from Sal’s bodega before going to the cemetery.  He sits against his sister’s tombstone—his parents’ to his right—and eats his late breakfast.  He sits and talks for a few hours before leaving the flowers on their graves.  He always has to have peonies, since those were Becca’s favorites.

Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays are for training.  He wakes up at five in the morning to go running with Sam, something he thought would end when Steve went back to be with Peggy Carter.  But he wasn’t bitter.  No.

But which thing he wasn’t bitter about, he’d never tell.

Along with the run, he spends most of the day sparring and battling simulations in the gym.  He has short breaks for meals, but he pretty much is on go until after dinner, when he goes straight to bed.

But Fridays are his favorite.  Because he gets to sleep in until nine-thirty in the morning, which is a luxury he’s not used to.  Then Sam and him grab a late breakfast together before Bucky goes into the city for his therapy session.

And Bucky likes his therapist!  Which he was really, really surprised about!  But Marlene is good.  Marlene is good because she doesn’t placate him.  She calls him out on his shit, and pushes him forward.  Because if it had been up to him, he would’ve stopped seeing her after their third meeting, when she had him drawing with fucking crayons that snapped in his hand way too easily.  But it’s been over a year since he started seeing her, and even though he still has his bad days, his bad days now would’ve been his best days before.

“So, you think you’re finally ready to go through Rebecca’s things?” Marlene asks, looking at him with a peaceful expression.

“I don’t think so, I am,” he says firmly, feeling a rush of triumph as a smile spreads across her lips.  “It’s time, you know?”

She nods in understanding, humming.  “Do you have someone going with you?”

Usually, Sam would go with him for things like this, and just in general.  They were attached at the hip, especially after the whole Steve leaving thing.

Yeah, they were both hit pretty hard with that.

“Yes, but I…”  He sighs, rubbing his hands on his jeans.  “I think this is something I need to do alone.  At least, the going through her stuff part…  But he is going with me to move the stuff to the Tower.”

“Good, good,” she says, her brows slightly furrowed.  “And how are you feeling today about Steve leaving?”

Bucky lets out a huff of air, taking a moment to think about it.  “To be completely honest with you…  I’m kind of over it today.  I have other things to do and yeah, I would’ve liked him to be here for it, but that’s not how it is.  And him leaving is more about him than it is about me.”  He shrugs, his lips pressed into a thin line.  “Just because he decided to go back doesn’t mean he wanted to leave me.”

Marlene sets her clipboard to the side, a warm smile on her face.  “Well, Bucky, I think we’ll end today on that thought.”  She stands up, offering her hand for him to shake as she does everyday.  “You’ve done well today.  You should be proud of yourself.”

He leaves with a wave and a “See you next week!” as he always does.

He hadn’t known about the storage unit full of his sister’s stuff until about eight months ago, when he asked Maria Hill if there was anything left of hers.  He knew that SHIELD had been the ones to take control of her assets when she had no children, since she was the sister of a Howling Commando and the best friend of Captain America.

Becca had died in December of 2013.  He’d missed her by less than six months.

It was heartbreaking when he first found out, and still is, if he was being honest.  But at least he has her stuff to go through, even though he has no idea what all is going to be in the storage unit.  Stevie hadn’t had anything other than what the Smithsonian had snatched up.

The car ride to the storage facility is quiet, Sam at the wheel.  Bucky still hasn’t gotten his license, since he doesn’t see a point.  Why should he when there’s the subway and Uber and even just good old fashioned walking?  “You’ve gotta save the Earth, Sam,” he says when he really feels like irritating the other man.

“You sure you’re ready for this, man?” Sam asks as they stand in front of storage unit 429.

“Yeah,” Buck says, punching in the key code and lifting up the door.  “Yeah, I’m ready.”  He flips the light switch on the wall, and is shocked by just how much stuff there is.  There’s boxes upon boxes upon boxes.

Sam’s hands go to his hips as he looks at it, whistling.  “Alright.  Let’s get it loaded.”

It takes several hours and three trips to get everything from the storage unit to the Tower, and by the end of it, the both of them just collapse on the couch with a couple of beers and a pizza to share between them.

But Saturday morning comes bright and early, and even though it’s his only day out of the week where he has absolutely nothing to do, Bucky knows he has to start going through her things.

The first four boxes are just clothes.  Clothes upon clothes upon clothes.  He finds a baby blue dress that she used to wear for church, starched to perfection, and he holds it to his chest for a long time.  He cries then.

And he knows that the fact that she’s hoarded so many clothes has a lot to do from growing up during the Depression.  He still finds himself falling into old habits of checking the price of food, despite the fact that he never has to worry about money again with his Avengers salary and the backpay from being a POW.

He finds his parents’ wedding rings, and the string of pearls his ma wore for special occasions.

And then he finds an old shoe box, and when he opens it up, he finds letters.  Letters upon letters upon letters.  They’re in bundles, tied together with fraying ribbon.  The paper is yellowed and soft from being folded and unfolded so many times, and he can see the looping black letters that covered the pages.

He takes the ones that look the oldest and unties them, he takes the top one from the stack and sets the rest to the side, before carefully unfolding it.

“Ruthie,” he says quietly as he reads the name at the bottom, not even bothering to read it yet.  “Ruthie…”  His eyes pop open as he suddenly remembers, remembers receiving letters everyday from a girl in the Bronx.  They were never romantic, but it was nice being able to write to someone and not having to hide how bad it was, like he had to with his ma and Becca.  She even sent her picture once, so he could know who he was writing to.  “Ruthie!”

He spends the rest of the day reading the letters, and passes out sometime around four in the morning with his face on a letter.  He takes the letters with him to his family’s graves the next day, reading to them after he replaces the flowers.

It takes him two more days to finish reading all the letters, in between breaks while training and staying up until he absolutely can’t.

He cries a lot while he reads it.  He’s not afraid to admit that.  But it’s nice to remember that he had a friend to listen to him during one of the worst times of his life.

Bucky’s almost afraid to look her up, to find out if she was still alive, and if he could go see her, to thank her.  They wrote back and forth until the day he fell off the train, and he knows that had to be pretty jarring for her.

But then Sam finds out about the letters—it would be hard for him not to, considering that he was walking around with his nose in the letters for days—and it’s all over.

Turns out, she’s alive.  She’s alive, and she’s still in Queens.

He goes the next Saturday, taking his bike all the way to the other borough.  He looks a little intimidating and extremely different from how he looked back then, but he hopes she recognizes him.  He really, really hopes she recognizes him, because otherwise this’ll be real awkward.

He stands in front of the door for a long time, taking his hands in and out of his pockets about eight times before he finally reaches up and knocks.

And then the door opens, and there’s Ruthie.

Well, not Ruthie, though at first glance, you’re the perfect picture of her.  You’ve got her hair and her eyes, and the curve of her lips.  But the nose is different.

“Can I help you?” You ask, raising your eyebrows at him.  You’re wiping your hand on a hand towel, peering at him like you recognize him from somewhere but you don’t know where.

“Hi, uh,” he says slowly.  His throat is suddenly so dry that he can barely talk.  “I’m Bucky.  Bucky Barnes.  I was pen pals with—”

He’s cut off by Ruthie herself appearing in the doorway.  She’s much older—she is ninety-nine, after all—but it’s definitely her.  “Did you say Bucky Barnes?”  The little old lady’s eyes widened as she saw him, her hand over her heart.  “Oh, my stars, it’s really you.  I heard about what happened to you, and I…”  She shakes her head, clicking her tongue.  “Why, it almost gave me a heart attack, you know.”

“Little Ruthie Pratt from Queens,” he says, reaching in his pocket and holding up the letters.  “I found these while, uh, going through my sister’s stuff.”

“I still have mine!” Ruthie says, pulling him inside.

It’s nice and homey and everything that Bucky had thought it would be.  The front foyer is covered in photos, and there’s quite a few of you.  You’re clearly one of Ruthie’s pride and joys, if the sheer amount of them has anything to do about it.

“I used to read these to my grandbaby here,” Ruthie says as she comes back with an old oak jewelry box in hand.  “Anytime she stayed the night—her parents worked a lot when she was growing up—she always asked me to read her one of my ‘Bucky letters.’”

“Grandmama,” you say, cheeks flushing as you avoid his eyes.

“It was so cute!  She used to recite them word for word along with me!” Ruthie teases as they go to the living room.

It’s quaint, with soft pastel colors dominating the room.  He sits on a floral sofa that’s got a circle with dark hair on it, the marking of a furry friend’s favorite spot.  He watches as you move to the kitchen, grabbing a pitcher of what looks like tea and a few glasses.

You sit beside her with the ease of knowing that you belong here, pouring yourself a glass.  “Grandmama, do you want some tea?”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes as she opens the box and looks for the oldest one.  “You keep that monstrosity away from me,” she says.  Seemingly remembering Bucky’s presence, she says, “My daughter’s husband is from Louisiana.  Ridiculous man got both her and my grandbaby addicted to that absolute sludge.”

The secret smile you give him as the two of you listen to her tirade about sweet tea makes him feel at ease, and sets the tone for the rest of the afternoon.

Things go on as normal, or as normal as they can.

And Marlene happens to think that all of this is absolutely fantastic for him.  She loves that he’s now spending time with Ruthie and you, reconnecting with his past while understanding that he doesn’t have to be the person he was in the letters.

He’s different.  He’s not the Bucky that Ruthie knew back then.

It’s an unusually warm day in November four months later when he takes you out for a coffee, just the two of you.  And it isn’t a date—really, it isn’t—but he finds himself wanting it to be about halfway through his second coffee.

And that’s why he starts talking about dating to Marlene, who had, quite frankly, been waiting for him to realize his feelings for a while.

“I think I’m in love with her,” he says as he storms into his therapy session, eyes wild and hair a disarray.  He’s clearly been worrying real hard about it.

Marlene looks up at him, peering over the silver rim of her glasses.  “Oh, really?” She says nonchalantly, as though she doesn’t have you in her notes about him.  “And why is that?”

Bucky can’t help the frown on his face as he realizes that she didn’t even ask who he was talking about, because she knew.  “I…  I don’t know,” he says, slumping into his usual chair.  “She makes me happy.  Happier than I’ve ever been.  And she always makes me laugh, even at the most inappropriate of times.”  His gaze softens the more he thinks about you.  “And she isn’t scared of me.  She doesn’t judge me.  She’s read about everything I did in the war, even before HYDRA, and she doesn’t care.”  His hands are sweating as he rubs them together.  “Actually, it’s not that she doesn’t care—she does care—but she cares because she… she loves me.”

You love him.  And sure, he knows that.  You’ve said that you love him multiple times, even if you only mean it as a friend way.

But the thought that he has someone who loves him that doesn’t have to is… groundbreaking.

“She loves me, and she wants me to be okay,” he says, looking up at Marlene then.

His therapist has a pleased look in her eyes, even if she won’t let it show with a smile.  “I think she’s good for you,” she says simply, her pen held loosely in her hand.  “Are you seeing her again soon?”

“I’m seeing her tomorrow night,” he says, his heart growing light.  “We’re grabbing a few drinks to celebrate her finally graduating from cosmetology school.”

It’s a big deal for you, completely something.  You’re smart, there’s no denying that, but when it comes to schooling…  You’d done well in high school, but college proved to be the bane of your existence.

You’d dropped out in the middle of your junior year, and that had been it.  You’d moved to Queens to live with Ruthie after, working various low level jobs and trying to find something that fit.

But you’d fit in at cosmetology school.  Hell, you excelled.  And you enjoyed it!  You enjoyed waking up in the morning and going to your classes!

You cried when you got your certificate, and it was now framed in Ruthie’s house until you start your first salon job in two weeks.

“Are you going to tell her about your feelings?” Marlene asks curiously.

Now that makes him pause.

“... Should I?” Bucky asks, feeling a wave of anxiety coming over him.  “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?  And she sees me as just a friend?”

“If she’s really your friend, she won’t abandon you just because you tell her you have romantic feelings for her.”

“You sure about that?”

Marlene fixes him with a look, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

He runs his tongue over his teeth.  “Fine.  You’re sure,” he says, slumping a little in his chair.  “Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

She snorts, making a note on her pad.  “I never said it was going to be easy, Bucky.  Doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

The next night, he spends an hour and a half trying to decide what to wear.  “It shouldn’t be this hard,” he grumbles as he switches shirts for the forty-ninth time.  “It’s just drinks.”

Sam, however, is having a great time watching his new best friend freak out over seeing a girl for the first time.  “I mean, she already agreed to going out with your ugly mug, man.  It’s not gonna matter what you wear.”

And in some way, that helps.  A little.

But he does have to threaten Sam with bodily harm if he spies on his date that’s not really a date.

He almost boxes him the ear when he insists for the fourth time that it’s a date.

He shows up at your door with a bouquet of flowers from Sal’s bodega, the buttons of his dark blue henley left open, exposing a smattering of chest hair.

When you open the door, the air is knocked from his lungs.  You look absolutely radiant.  The light from the sinking sun is giving you a halo-like glow, and he’s sure, not for the first time, that you’re an actual angel.

“Hi,” you say, a flush on your cheeks as you see the flowers.  “Are those…  Are those for me?”

He nods dumbly, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.  “Y-Yes,” he says, pushing them into your arms.  “As a congrats.  For, you know, graduating.  And stuff.”

“Thank you,” you say as you take them, handing them to Ruthie.

She’s standing just inside the door, a giddy look on her face as she holds the flowers, watching you take the motorcycle helmet from his hands.  “Have her back by twelve!”

“Grandmama!”

“Fine!  Twelve-thirty!”

You’re clearly embarrassed by her antics as he helps you on behind him, guiding your arms around his waist.

“You ready?” He asks, his voice breathy.

A shiver runs down your spine as you nod, wrapping your arms tighter around him as he starts the bike, taking off.

“She doesn’t actually mean that,” you say as he leads you into the tiny, out of the way bar.  You’re fixing your hair, trying your best to appear presentable.  “I’m grown, you know.  I don’t…  I don’t have a curfew.”

A slow smile spreads over his lips as he listens to you ramble.  “I know,” he says finally, figuring he should put you out of your misery.  “Ruthie does like to tease those she loves.”

The bar is quaint, clearly a local place that tourists haven’t invaded.  He leads you to a high table, calling out your order to the lone bartender.

“So, I—”

“I like you,” Bucky says, unintentionally cutting you off with a wince.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but I really, really like you, and I really, really want this to be a date, but if you don’t feel the same way then I completely understand and we can just forget that I ever said anything and everything can just go back to normal and that might be the best thing because, quite frankly, I haven’t dated since the forties and I have no idea how dating is supposed to work nowadays, but I’d really like to try it with you but only if you—”

His rambling is cut off as you place your hand on his, intertwining your fingers.  “Okay,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing ever.  “It’s a date.”

He stares at you for an embarrassingly long time, his mouth dry.  “Uh…  What?” He says quietly.  His heart is pounding at an unnaturally fast pace, and he honestly thinks he might be on the verge of a heart attack.

“I like you, too,” you say, smiling at the bartender as he brings you over your drinks.  You look so beautiful, your eyes the brightest thing in the dim lighting of the bar.  “So this is a date.”

“Okay,” he breathes out, a wave of relief washing over him.  “It’s a date.”

He’s a little starstruck as you continue on with what you were going to say before, a pink blush dusting his cheeks.  Your hand stays in his for the rest of the night, occasionally giving a little squeeze as though you’re reminding him that you’re still there and you’re not going to disappear.

And it feels good.

And okay, Marlene may have been right.

And yeah, Fridays might be good.  But as he sits there with you until the late hours of the night, he’s sure: Saturdays are his new favorite day.  Because Saturdays brought him a new beginning when he wasn’t expecting it.

[olivish]

All: 🎶🎶 Happy Birthday, dear Mr. WilfJOSEPHrd, Happy birthday to you! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!

Wilford: Well done, crew! Especially Audrey for that magnificent entrance out of the cake, and Melanie for her quick thinking with the fire extinguisher.

Audrey: I thought I was clear, the candles weren’t supposed to be lit while I was in there.

Melanie: Oops.

Wilford: Now for the best part, the presents! What do we have here? Rather small gift. And not very heavy. Let’s see… it’s… it’s green. But it’s not money. How odd.

Melanie: It’s a sweater.

Wilford: But I don’t sweat. Melanie, you know my glands are incapable of secreting any liquid whatsoever, due to a rare congenital condition passed down from my great, great grandmama Lady Josephine Wharton Whelbey Whilhelm Wilford the Third, may the lady rest in peace.

Melanie: You don’t need to sweat to wear a sweater. It’s for when it’s chilly and you want a more casual look.

Wilford: Casual wear? You mean bathrobes?

Melanie: No. More formal than bathrobes.

Wilford: Ah! So it’s to wear with a brocade suit and ruffle shirt?

Melanie: No. Let me show you. Here, you see? You take your suit jacket off, and the tie, and you remove the ruffle shirt. There you go.

Wilford: If you’re angling for a promotion, you should start with the trousers.

Melanie: Very funny. Now put your arms through the holes- that’s right- and button it up in front. Straighten the collar… there you go! Now, you’re casual.

Wilford: Well? What does everyone think? Casual Wilford. No! Even better: Just Joe.

Wilford poses with his sweater and his cigar. Audrey, Ben, Ruth, Kevin, Javi and Alex stare at him for a long moment before bursting into collective laughter. Wilford looks perfectly normal and it’s perfectly ridiculous. Melanie tries to get them to stop laughing but it’s no use.

Wilford: You witch! It’s a trap!

Melanie: No I swear, Joseph, I think you look nice!

Alex: He looks like uncle Ben when he visits on the weekend.

Wilford: Off with the vile rag! You’re fired! Everyone is bloody fired!

Alex: You can’t fire me I’m five.

Wilford: You’re fired proactively!

[sugar-and-pearls]

I have come to the conclusion that during the time when Shiganshina fell and before Eren joined the military I would make money for us via being the Village Witch.

After coming to this titian filled world I never do regained my power fully so I’m stuck on a fraction of the power I should poses- luckily a fraction is all you need for spell work. I'd have Eren and his friends deliver the stuff while I'm making potion, poisons, charms and casting enchantments for money. Each package covered in brown paper and tied in crimson dyed string. 

Of course being the Village Witch means that everyone comes to see you for you gifts, from the highest of the high to the lowest of the low. Though only the brave ones (or is it the stupid ones?) ever admit it freely.

From creating beauty spell paste from rose petals and green beetle wings to be washed into the hair of some nobleman, fertility spell make from the lily petals  and Dandelion seeds for new and blushing brides, to weaving an elderberry-purple dyed pouch with dried lavender stems and shards of Onyx to scouts when they come back from the outside with haunted dreams and banishing hexes of rose thorns and salt for wives with bruises face.

 All ask for something to be delivery to their door step. All with grasping hands and clinging to their new treasure and lose coin to the children in turn. 

But ever so few come to my red door to ask for what they want. Coming only at dusk when the evening shade of the street hides their faces from the neighbours sight. These people, few and far in-between, more often than not come for one thing; Curses. 

I don’t do them very often, and when I do I send Eren away to his room but he sneaks out to see how I cast it. Hiding behind the stairs as he watches, fascinated as the shade of my shadows change behind me. As it shift to more monstrous form. As the candles go out one by one, darkest pilling into the room like wild beasts wailing and howling as they surround the last candle, and in-between the fog of the curse and words spilling out of my mouth pooled blood- I catch him watching and Eren knows, in the way children often do that he will not be able to slip away from this. 

Curses are easy I say to him later on as the customer leaves. Midnight already rolling in as we whisper in the kitchen, a warm drink and a candle shared between us as he asks me how to do them

(for as much money as we make there is still a food shortage and lack of resources in Wall Rose. Made only worse as winter seeps ever closer) 

They are make from raw emotion and magic, anyone can do it- its just that I have a special way with them and not for the first time do I wonder if Eren truly understands that I am not human the way he is. As if the eyes that shifted from golden to brown and the ever so slight tip of my ears did not give that away? But, for peace of our home the question dies a simple death on my tongue and burrows away back to rest heavily on my chest as I send him back to bed.

A year before he joins the military I start teaching him how to weave a spell, in an last ditch attempt to distract him from titans and to maybe keep him safe. Small stuff in the beginning like my Grandmama had taught me before. How to blow on the wick to light a candle, which ingredients to pair with which to create a spell, and other minor things. Surprisingly metal magic seems to come to him naturally, iron forming into which ever shape he wishes it to take easily enough that I can convince the wife of a blacksmith ( a regular customer who often asks for herbal mixtures for her headaches) to take Eren on as her husbands apprentice. Money comes in more regularly then, people pay many a pretty coin for a ring made by him, his deft hands engraving intricate designs of sigils and charms he’s traced a thousand times alone from my book.

(in many years to come, when Eren is older and in love with a Marley girl and all his thoughts are filled with the idea of asking for her hand, does he go back to the forges and start to mend a ring that puts others to shame. With every single bit of love, longing and joy that she has brought into his life magnified tenfold as it is delicately carved into the metal - but that is another story, and will perhaps be told at another time)

It brings in much needed money into the house and after the first week the months worth of rings are sold out. 

In the end it doesn’t stop Eren (why did I think it would?) but it does help him in his early days- make him aware of the electricity of magic in the air (how ever little there is in this world) though it does make people think of him as being superstitious for knocking on wood, or weird for wearing a small pouch around neck with a tiny iron troll cross stitched into it ( my hands felt the burns of it for weeks after as I worked with rosy coloured burned fingertips) and if they ever ask about it? He just smiles widely before telling all about his sister who lives in house with a red door, carries an umbrella with her everywhere and has kept stray black cats for as long as he can remember. 

When he is on trial I get the news from the mother of a garrison member as the madness of a previously titan infested Trost settles down. 

Eren is chained to the floor with a midget stomping on his head when I kick in the door, crashing in like a hurricane, boots clashing sharply on the stone floor, sparks fly with each step I take towards the judge. The whispering of people filling the room as they talk about "the Witch of Wall Rose". Looking every bit the part, all scary and gothic with red velvet and white lace and black clothing. 

It helps that outcasts like together, and if someone like to whisper in my ears about the rumours they hear, or the things they saw when they worked for the Judge that I could use at a later date, well who am I to stop them?

The day Eren leaves for the wall there is a new necklace around his neck (for the one he lost in Trost). Plaited cord make from the leather of an eel, a vial of Dove feathers and a oak acorn, with a blue wax seal for protection is tucked into his shirt as he leaves for the walls. A kiss too - planted on both checks and forehead with warnings to come back safe whispered between them. 

And as I stand in the crowd, waving him away as they cheer, I can only hope that the charms are strong enough to keep my little shit of a brother alive. Lord only knows how it would break my heart if it didn’t 

(in case any of you were wondering -yes, this is how I am turning Attack on titan into practical magic)

Also shout out and thank you to @jaymihawk​ for her cameo appearance here

[theonesthatiworship]

Musings

You can find the ao3 version of this fanfic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33606406 

A/N: Hey guys! I know I don't have an excuse for being gone so long, but I hope you can understand. I'm working on the second chapter of the Champion Reading I, which should be coming out soon. But for now, here's this! Sorry if the writing is too formal for canon or if OOCness is happening, this was a creative writing assignment for ELA, but I (of course) turned it into a fanfic. The guy Harry talks about in this diary is supposed to be Ron, but if you want it to be someone else, it totally can be. Also, the poems in the middle are haikus that I also wrote for class. I hope you guys like them, because I worked really hard on them :)

Disclaimer: The poems are all originally created by me, and belong to me. Please don't take credit for them, or use them elsewhere. Or if you do, please at least credit me as the original author.

Trigger Warning: minor internalized homophobia at the end

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Journal of Harry J. Potter

Please return to owner if lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

September 3, 1993,

I admire many things very deeply, though it might not seem so at first glance. My love can be as deep as my hatred. I find joy in soft, sweet melodies, as long as the musician is competent, as it isn’t so in today’s day and age. Colourful, three-dimensional works with much depth and layer are most pleasing to my eye, and are what I prefer to draw myself.

When I endeavour myself to this craft, I leave my finished works to dry along my bedside nightstand, along with the rest of my treasured memorabilia. The rest of the boys in my dorm know not to disturb me during the time that I draw. I know almost nothing about astrology, I can admit, but the stars and the planets fascinate me. Especially their movements and almost otherworldly beauty. I very much like to draw and paint about this subject.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November 3, 1994,

Anguish in your flight

Ink blotting stains your letters

At last, blissful peace

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 5, 1995

Yesterday has been too strange. I don’t find myself thinking often about him, but sometimes it seems as if he goes out of his way to distract me. I was standing near a window while the other boys at the gathering were laughing amongst themselves. I don’t have much of anything to say to people at social events, so I usually just remain silent.

My mind could only traverse back to our past conversations, to the sound of his laughter, and the almost odd sight of his pale complexion against my dark one. My heart flutters a bit, and I do not understand why. Once I get too deep in thought, he gently seizes my wrist and brings me into the circle with the others, and forces me to speak with them.

I cannot comprehend why he can’t just leave me be, but perhaps it has something to do with the strange feelings festering within the corners of our hearts, if he indeed does share them.

I suppose only time can tell with this one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

February 14, 1995,

Winter nights bring cold

Warmth deep in your mocha eyes

Deep cold melts away

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

July 6, 1995,

Some people say I am a bit too contemplative for their liking, and I suppose it is true. I find too many things saddening in this life. I cannot help it. One day I was taking a stroll along the park, when I found a child laughing with his mother. I felt sick with myself for doing so, but I felt a rage rise within me at the innocent sight.

What was it, that this child had done in his life, that did not grant me the same luxury? Fate, I suppose, chance. ‘Tis foolish. What is wrong with me, I ask, that makes me feel such a terrible emotion over something so bright and lovely in this world?

Perhaps it is me that is wrong and twisted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

July 31, 1995,

Jerusalem bells

Praise be the divine angels

Please, save this tired soul

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

August 5, 1995,

The summer sun is much too hot for my tastes. It is quite bothersome. Especially when I am trying to go for my daily stroll. I don’t exercise much, but I try to go on walks every day, to keep up my good figure. The weather was terribly humid, and all throughout the journey, I could feel myself sweating. It was very distasteful, and a feeling that I entirely loathe. I took a thorough shower once I arrived home.

To make matters worse, Aunt Petunia scolded me for leaving my dirty clothes on the laundry floor. I wished, not for the first and certainly not the last time, that it was school once more, so I could at last be away from home.

Yes, I truly hate summertime, with every fibre of my being.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

August 13, 1995,

Dear old grandmama

Your limp, gray hair is too tired

This burden of life

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

August 30, 1995,

Today was surprisingly pleasant, especially for summertime. I had just finished freshening myself up for the day, when I noticed a lemon-scented note waiting for me on my dresser, with a single red rose on top of it. I was very pleased with my discovery. Roses are my favourite of all flowers, and the sweet smell was most welcome!

I opened the note, to find that it had been written by him. There was that strange fluttering in my heart again, that I didn’t like to ruminate on too deeply. After reading the beautiful note, in elegant print, I held it close to my heart and looked up at the ceiling in thought. I remained that way ‘till breakfast-time, as I pondered.

Perhaps summertime wasn’t all too horrid.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 31, 1995,

My dear love, my life!

Beautiful angel of mine

Must you hurt me so?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 7, 1996,

The boys at my school are so juvenile! You would think they were still toddlers, with their lack of maturity. All they do is speak of girls, crack stupid jokes, pull pranks, and offend others. I am especially grateful now that I am above such things. I think it would be most loathsome to be of such a temperament. I almost pity my cousin, but he is too much of a nuisance to fully gain my sympathy.

Then again, I suppose I can attribute my sensibility to my queer ways. Were I a normal man, I do not doubt that I would not be nearly self-aware enough to come to such logical conclusions. But I suppose they are not completely worthless.

The other day, a boy asked me to come with him to the Fairfield Festival. I thought of him, and declined. Accepting would seem like a betrayal to his affections, as complicated as they may be.

Hopefully one day, I find a woman good enough to rouse my spirits as he does.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

May 1, 1997,

Fiery are the flames

That douse the candle of life

O Lord, have mercy

[casualcatte]

[RP Journal] Reach for the Light: Five

Dearest Mama and Papa,

It’s been some time since I’ve written, but I certainly hope that you’re settling in well in Ishgard and that your new wyrmling apprentices aren’t being a handful. I know Papa has much to teach in terms of the smithing trade, so it’s something of an honor to see his techniques immortalized by dragonkind, to be kept through the ages in their long memories.

The Seventh Chantry has been actively recruiting of late; we’ve managed to add the aforementioned Magnus Horne and Riley Parker to our ranks, along with the sweet-natured Sakura Ryuzaki.  I think they’ll all be fine additions to our ranks.  Having spoken with Sakura myself, she takes the situation in the Chantry in stride far better than I might have hoped, but then all of the people I have thus informed have been rather accepting of it all.  Oh, how I wish I could tell you both the full truth of things, but rest assured that I don’t not only for your safety but for your peace of mind. I can only hope that such gatekeeping of information makes me more of a daughter to be proud of in your eyes than the opposite.

(Courtesy cut for length)

Mama has always said that matters of the heart could be complicated, even messy at times, but what is there to do when the heart that is so complex is not your own?  Every time I think I get to a good place, where I think I’ve finally found a trusted friend, someone I can just be myself with -- I find that the only person I can really do that with is Archambaut Vremaix.  As much as I’d like to be close to Zerey Zeyad and Valeria Camena, I am looked upon as a leader and as a comrade, first and foremost.  I find I maintain a certain amount of -- distance from them and my recent conversations with Valeria have proven to me exactly why.  As a leader, I cannot allow my feelings to be manipulated or abused; to allow those same feelings to cloud my judgment.

My friendships must, clearly, come from outside the Chantry but even then I seem to make a mess of things. Syrio Nessaire has been a wonderful companion and someone I’ve enjoyed spending so much time with.  Were I a girl ten years younger and my heart not already belong to Archambaut, I might have been smitten with this handsome-faced, dashing young swordsman -- but neither of those things are true and I have been honest with him in both regards.  Perhaps, still, like the others I am too… relaxed around him, too at ease.  I must keep him at arm’s length, like everyone else. I do not look to hurt him and nor do I look to give him hope where I know there is none.  He is both young and resilient, he will find a woman his age and worthy of his heart.  I simply need to give him the space to do so.

In other news, I may have surreptitiously launched an unwitting acting career.  I met the playwright and director, Ciel Morvoisieux at the Shroudrose Teahouse Happy Hour this week.  I was given the role of a Fae Temptress in his impromptu play and he spoke verily of how inspired he was by my performance, calling it ‘angelic.’  I never would have thought it possible that I could have a life on-stage.  Wouldn’t grandmama be proud?  Still, I don’t know how much time I’ll have for it with my work with the Chantry.  To say nothing of the absolute ridicule I’d suffer at their hands if they knew.  Zerey would likely not even feel my performances worth his hard-earned gil. I suppose what they don’t know won’t hurt them, though.  I almost look forward to encountering this playwright again.  It was a genuinely splendid time. 

While at the Teahouse, I had cause to meet a pair of Ishgardian botanists as well.  Nasrinne Filois and Pascalle Dubois were both very pleasant conversationalists and welcome company as we awaited the stage performances. It continues to amuse me how many Ishgardians seem drawn to me; is it my coloration, reminding them of the snows of their homeland?  Or is it something in my demeanor and carriage?  Or perhaps they just like a pretty face.  Whatever the reason, I find more often than not that my elezen acquaintances are Ishgardian.  It’s a peculiarity that I shall always find endlessly amusing.

I suppose this is enough for now.  Know, always, that I am well and taken care of.  Archambaut sees to that -- and he sends his love as much as I send mine.

Always Yours,

[stsathyre]

The thing about death is, right? . . .

I talked with my father today for about an hour and a half. It's the longest we've ever spent on the phone. When we're together in person we can talk for hours, but not on the phone.

Uncle Jimmy died in October due to non-COVID related shit. My dad was really involved in keeping that man together, 'cause, see, Uncle Jimmy was an alcoholic.

He wasn't good at keeping a job.

He wasn't good at not pissing off his wife to the point where she'd put his ass out into the cold, Colorado winter. My dad would have to spend all of his money putting Uncle in a motel so he didn't freeze to death.

Uncle Jimmy would go and sit in the park with a tallboy and never tell anyone he was out there. He never bought clothes, including winter wear. Everything he owned someone else had given to him.

And he would sit there. Not feeling the cold because he was drunk.

So, my father had a fear that one day, he would forget to check on Uncle Jimmy and he would die on that park bench, in the cold.

My dad is the eldist of 9 children. And has been responsible for them starting at the age of 6 when grandmama told him to bury his stillborn sister under the porch.

Country life in the Jim Crow South as a Black mad didn't do my father any favors.

He hasn't had a moment's peace between being a veteran of foreign war, and the husband to my mentally ill mother and two other mentally ill women after her. . .

So, he calls me today to talk about the weather. We're supposed to get somewhere between 13 to 44 inches of snow this weekend.

And I don't know how we got there, but he said,

"I took a breath of fresh air. I will never let anyoone else take up the space in my life your uncle took up. I have earned that time and energy back."

And he felt a little guilty about it.

So, we talk a little more about the weather and the rest of the family. My aunt sent him some stale pecans in the mail that she picked herself after paying $15 for shipping, because that makes sense.

And I don't know how we got there, but I said,

"I can't tell people about how relieved I am that Mom is dead."

He said it was okay. It's okay to be relieved.

. . .

We automatically, as a society, cannonize the dead as saints regardless of how difficult they made our lives while living. People will shame you --not for being glad that they're dead, but for feeling a sense of freedom.

At the risk of everyone being pissed off at me I'm going to say this:

Some people are burdens and it's okay for you to feel better when they are no longer part of your life. They are burdens for a multitude of reasons, all of which you cannot control. It's okay to be rid of that burden and feel better.

And it's an unspoken thing, of course. You don't tell the people who are sick that they are a burden while you grind for them, worry about them, stress over them, cry and bleed for them.

How dare you think about yourself while taking care of someone else who you technically shouldn't even be resonsible for? How dare you be aware of how this situation is affecting you and how dare you not feel guilty for those awful thoughts?

Nah, son. Fuck you. i have the right to be self-aware.

. . .

When my mother died, someone told me she was a good woman and it took everything in my power not to punch them in the fucking trachea.

I'm glad she's dead. I'm GLAD! I love her. She's my mother. But for fuck's sake, ding dong, that bitch is dead! Hallelujah!

It's okay. It's okay.

[hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon]

I feel like the SPN fandom as a whole, especially the fantastic people who make vids, songfics and aesthetics, are missing out on the near-perfection that is The Gaslight Anthem. GA is a rock band from New Jersey, and basically all their songs have this vibe of “I’m a little sad, could kill you, miss when we were younger, and I want to be loud”. I’m also of the belief that a decent amount of their songs fit SPN perfectly.

Examples(I also highly recommend listening to all of these, they’re great):

American Slang(Highly appropriate in my opinion):

“And they cut me to ribbons and taught me to drive, I got my name tattooed inside of my arm. And I called for my father but my father had died! While you told us fortunes, in American Slang”

“And here’s where we died that time last year, and where the angels and devils meet, and you can dance with the Queen if you need, and she will always keep her cards, close to her heart.”

“....and I called for my father but my father had died! And we called for our mothers but our mothers had died, and you told us fortunes in American Slang”  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oAqbnTKQBIY&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI

Boxer:

“You got your pride and your prose, tucked just like a tommy gun somewhere in the smoke just in case you need it son, I heard it’s been a ride rougher than the last one, what’d you use to say, oh the harder they come”

“You took it all gracefully on the chin, knowing that the beatings had to someday end, we found the bandages inside the band, and the stitches on the radio, and there was something that was holding you down, and there were whispers that were driving you crazy and now you hunt the heart of this town, remember when I knew a boxer baby”

“And your tattooed knuckles oh how they grind down, try to be a man tough just like your father, try to settle down, more like a calm down remember them songs and the reasons we were singing for”

“And he, he says he just doesn’t miss her and he, hey says it’s somewhere in his framework, but I have heard you never really lose it do ya, do ya?”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DYMeWEGTOxA&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=7

Bring It On:

“...Blue eyes and spitfire, I saw you walking back and forth, about another boy, thinking that you may wanna leave, so give me the fevers that just won’t break, and give me the children you don’t wanna raise, and tell me about the Cool, he sings to you those songs, if it’s better than my love, bring it on”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-ZN7NyPfb4&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=3

We Did It When We Were Young:

“There are no reasons to believe, I buried my faith in another plot,Where your heart and your claws will not find, And I don't feel you or recall, I put your bones out in the yard, For someone else to be called and caught by” “And I cannot hold a candle for every pretty gun,We were strangers many hours and I missed you for so long, When we were liars, lovers in combat, Faded like your name on those jeans that I burned” “But I am older now, And we did it when we were young, I am older now, And we did it when we were young”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vw8WPJHajEY&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=10

Old Haunts:

“And all along you knew my story, didn't you? And all night long I carried yours, Your blood was mixed with wine and robbery, baby, And left us always wanting more” “So don't sing me your songs about the good times, Those days are gone and you should just let them go, And god help the man who says "If you'd have known me when..." Old haunts are for forgotten ghosts” “Cherry Bomb, your love is surgery, Removing what you don't regard, And every breath felt like a funeral, baby, While you were packing up your car” “And with the window down, I hear you're tired now, You borrowed everything and wore all your old welcomes out, Well, shame on you, my love, you sold your youth away, Memories for sinking ships that never would be saved”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eoDKQT7vXNA&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=8

The Spirit of Jazz:

“The Cool is dead, baby, go on to sleep, Rest your weary head and love a better me, And in the morning we'll start over again,That's how they do it up on the screen” “Was I good to you, the wife of my youth? Not another soul could love you like my rotten bones do, So I will wait on the edges in between, These New York streets where you and I would meet” “For twenty-nine years we loved that line, And I would take it easy if I had your mind, But I'm a cannonball to a house on fire, And you're slow like Motown soul” “So what now, lover with your long black hair?, If I cut you open, baby, I can repair, Bandage your wounds with the salt on my tongue, And I'm the only one around here”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9KOUAmZ12w&list=OLAK5uy_np5CJdYInsAeogm56OsGNqLq0j1eBBzaI&index=9

Wherefore Art Thou Elvis?(Tell me that this isn’t the Sam Winchester song, I dare you):

“I cut my teeth on the stone of a teenage romance, I was the salt of the earth, I was hard, The last of the independents” “And in the breath from my chest I was blowing kerosene, My lips and fingertips were stone, I wore my heart on my jeans, I sang the blues like the dogs left too long in the street, I still sing the blues with the dogs” “And I got half a mind to let it all burn up in this fire, I've had burning through my veins since I first learned to cry, I'd watch this whole night come down and never miss her again,I never felt right and never fit in walkin' in my own skin” “Now I got scars like the number of stars, My mind's full of vipers, I got the dust of the desert in my bones, Comin' through the amplifiers, And in the minor chord fall and the fourth and the fifth, It's a broken Hallelujah and a pain in my fist, I wash my hands like the man with the blood on his teeth, Over and over without relief” “Walkin' in my old man shoes, with my scientist heart, I got a fever and a beaker and a shot in the dark, I need a Cadillac ride, I need a soft summer night, Say a prayer for my soul, Señorita”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPdCP5f_gmk

High Lonesome:

“And Maria came from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand, I always kinda sorta wished I looked like Elvis, And in my head there's all these classic cars and outlaw cowboy bands, I always kinda sorta wished I was someone else” “There was "Southern Accents" on the radio as I drove home, And at night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet, It's a pretty good song, baby you know the rest Baby, you know the rest”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UErXgvNV3lw

’59 Sound:

“Well I wonder which song they're gonna play when we go, I hope it's something quiet and minor and peaceful and slow, When we float out into the ether into the everlasting arms, I hope we don't hear Marley's chains we forged in life, 'Cause the chains I've been hearin' now for most of my life” “Did you hear the '59 sound, Coming through on Grandmama's radio? Did you hear the rattlin' chains, In the hospital walls? Did you hear the old gospel choir When they came to carry you over?Did you hear your favorite song, One last time?”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zw3w1iKiq8M

Mulholland Drive:

“Did you sleep last night and do you remember dreams? Do I ever cross your mind and do you ever think of me? When you think about your life are there things you would reverse? I still remember holding you, just out of sight of her, In the deep, dark parking lot pressed up against my car, With your hands around my neck I felt the pounding of your heart, And the summer night was giving in to the lure of Autumn’s sway, I can’t seem to forget that night or how I heard you say, ohh and I’d just die if you ever took your love away”

“And I can still recall the hour when you first let down your walls, I thought I might've died right there floating up above it all, But it scared you love, to need someone, so you killed it all instead”

“And did you miss me when I'm gone? And the simple things we used to rely on? Who came to wipe your tears away? Who came to bring back your dignity baby? And who came to drive you around this town, Like I used to drive you all around with the radio on”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eR4-F-P-Y6Q

Film Noir:

“I'm all washed out by the side of the road, Broken bones Matilda left a note and a rose, Sayin', "Baby honey child, I've loved you so long, But you deserve much better than me."” “So I'm just burnin' all around all the miles in the road, And I'm never goin' back and I'm never goin' home, I've been gone too long, I've been less right than wrong, I lost so much blood in the fallin' out” “And I lit a fire that wouldn't go out, Until it consumed the walls and roof of this house, Until all I remember was burnin' away, And all I remember, you burned it away” “See, for ten long years I've been hustlin' around, Tryin' to wash the sins and the sweat from my brow, Just tryin' to find a better life for me and my own, Just some rest for these tired workin' fingers” “But nobody never gonna tell you the way, You gotta figure it out boys and suffer the rain, And the fools in the night and the heat of the day, When all you ever really wanted was for someone to understand”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8KS9Cz1HgVs

She Loves You(this just gives me lowkey Destiel vibes):

“And if all was well, And your heart could find the words, Would we be for better baby, Would we be for worse, And if there was a way, To navigate your seas, If tonight my true love (Dared belong to me)”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHYY-_3Ft84

Boomboxes and Dictionaries:

“I took a drive today, I thought about you, I thought about a friend who passed And how much we just went through” “I saw the sun shine off the hood of a Cadillac, I thought about some things I said, And some I would take back, I thought about how fortunate I feel to be alive” “And if you're scared of the future tonight, We'll just take it each hour one at a time, It's a pretty good night for a drive, So dry up those eyes, dry up those eyes” “Because the radio will still play loud, Songs that we heard as our guards came down, Like in the summertime when we first met, I'll never forget, and don't you forget, These nights are still ours” “We should remember to slow down more often, And maybe we will, Now here's a lot of good things coming our way right now, A lot of bad has passed, But we survived the breakdowns, All is forgiven, water under bridges now”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9zYLE6Em7U

Drive:

“In my head I am already gone, Side roads boarded up, decisions decided on, But in my nights there are restless hours, When 3 AM comes down and nothing else comes up “And the only thing we know, Is it's getting dark and we'd better go, And the only thing we see, Are the despairs of the day, And if you're too tired, Go to sleep my brothers, I, And if you're too tired, Go to sleep my brothers, I'm all right to drive” “And in my heart I'm the weary kind, I'm much tired to cry, Though it's sad enough for tears, It's been try, fail, try for years, And when the next year comes along, I don't know if I'll be home, I don't know if we'll survive”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClWHlXWSG9M

Biloxi Parrish(This is totally a Cas song):

“I've been fumbling with your heart strings, And that's good enough for me, And if I've rained on one of your hours, Then I know I must been working,Try it on for size my darling, See what a man you can make of me, I will eventually haunt you, And you'll eventually be my queen” “And I'll be with you through,The dark so that you do not, Go through the dark alone, Or on your own” “I've been down Biloxi Parish, And that's all the same for me, I found that nothing truly matters That you cannot find for free, I love you more than can I tell you, When you pass through from this world, I hope you ask to take me with you, Or that I won't have to wait too long, But until then I'll be with you through the dark, Yes, until then I'll be with you through the dark” “And who else can say that about you, baby, Who else can say that about you, now, And who else can take all your blood and your curses, Nobody I seen you hanging around" “And all of our heroes were failures or ghosts, Burned out in brilliant explosions alone, And all of the blood and the sweat that they gave, Well, we took it all and we threw it away”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2RSKSYIXKY

Here Comes My Man:

“And how much time do you think that we have? If I wanted to, I could start over again, Let the good night decide who she wants me to find, And I'll never let you drop another tear in my eye, Singing oh sha-la-la, oh sha-la-la, Listen honey here comes my man”

“So I packed up my things and I faced up my doubts, You know I think I will grow my hair back out, Nevermind what you think, Nevermind what you like, I'll take it out to the streets for somebody else to admire”

“Maybe time will tell you, Why I got so much hell to sell you, Please, please understand me, Oh you can't just dance around me, Maybe your work will love you, When I'm just not there to hold you, Maybe your pride can be your companion, Oh but I just won't be there to stand for it, Not one more minute will I stand for it”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBkfHv6kc5o

Blue Jeans and White T-Shirts:

“We are the boys from Little Eden, We are the heart of Saturday night, We drink from the fountains off the fireworks, Sweat and bone for a better life”

“Still we sing with our heroes, 33 rounds per minute, We're never going home until the sun says we're finished, I'll love you forever if I ever love at all, Wild hearts, blue jeans, & white t-shirts” “Some things baby never told you, Some things papa done ain't right, Spent a lifetime just to get over, You always said my mama tried”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3sQsWuDHrw

[mindwideopen]

Well, Bert, and Bert ma-ma (accent on the second ma) are thankful. They appreciate, that they weren’t tossed out after Halloween was over, like most other gourds are. They are still loved, and appreciated. And they are happy.

I am too. I have a ton in my life to be appreciative for and of and ending a sentence in a preposition is fine, cause I appreciate that I’m ok, and not an English major, so I can cut myself some slack if I choose to. Being kind to yourself, is a way to show appreciation to you. And also, not calling out all of your faults is another way to show yourself you care. I will work on that.

Love is the most important thing we have in this world, and sharing your love with others, and yourself is extremely gratifying, yes, but imperative for peace both in your 3D life, and your thoughts, which is the 5d experience. Thinking love, creates peace. The pilgrims are people that created their world internally first, and then it was brought forth by their actions and change, outwardly. The Indigenous people, the same. Fear and love, show up for all of us in our 3D lives. It’s how we experience living. So the thoughts feed the actions, and the actions feed our beliefs, and the cycle continues. But here’s a cool caveat: if we change our perceptions about any given subject, our feelings will change right along with them. It’s a practice, and being thankful and appreciating life is one way to change your perceptions.

Focusing on love, makes it difficult for you to see anything else but love around you. And yes, paranoias can overshadow the love, along with anger, hate, and a whole other host of negative emotions. But the person holding it all inside, is the person that chooses to reactivate it, with their thoughts, their actions, their beliefs, and their deeds. And they are also the person that experiences the negativity, because of their focus on it.

Grateful is cool, but I learned from listening to a seminar by Abraham Hicks (not Lincoln, but his energy is there too) that grateful has a bit of resistance implied with its definition. Being “grateful” implies that you are maybe not worthy of the love given. And that’s not the case, because just by being born, you are here, and therefore worthy to be loved. So, by being appreciative of your life, and what you have because you are human and deserve it, that is experiencing love. Because you choose it with your focus on the appreciation. Whether we all decide to act on it on the regular, that’s our own choice constantly.

Love just is. I say it all the time, and if anyone reads what I write on the regular, you may get tired of me just rephrasing the same message in different ways over and over again. But to me, the fact remains that love is a choice we chose or don’t, over and over again in our lives. When we chose it, we’re happier, when we don’t, we’re miserable. So as hard as it is to swallow the happiness sometimes when we’re sad, it’s a self loving act, that’s good for everyone everywhere.

Love doesn’t care ow much money you have, or gave, or received, or what you paid for a sundress you’ll wear one time, and never again, cause people have already seen you in it. Some people know what I mean. I’m saying love is free, and available to all of us. Love doesn’t cost $750 on sale, from $1,245, for a ridiculous designer sundress thats just a flimsy piece of fabric, almost like a tarp, with a rope to hold it up, so the actual execution probably didn’t even take that long to mass produce, so their profit because it’s designer is deemed cool, and worn by a beautiful model in a magazine and online on the runways or not because it’s boho so doesn’t exactly jive with the norm of high couture fashion in the “lifestyle” it portrays, but is still being sold by big business which is the opposite of the bohemian lifestyle also, but fine cause we’re all allowed to do what we like, and what we choose to do cause it’s America, was probably 6,000%, when I could pay $10 for an even cooler bride of Frankenstein sundress, and figure out a way to save the rest, and/or if I had $1,245 to give some of it to people who really could use it, instead of having it hang in my closet. Just a thought. But that thought, is ass. Cause it doesn’t make me feel good to focus on people like me but not, that do that on the regular or don’t. (Sigh)

My point is this: choose loving thoughts, not thoughts that make you mad and frustrated. We are all humans, and all have things to be thankful for. Let’s all use our thoughts to create the world where everyone can benefit and be appreciated. Where the love is pouring out of a bountiful cornucopia for everyone to partake in. The love is there, and it’s free, and it’s for the taking. Choose that with me. I appreciate you all, and yes, I yell, but I love you all. And much like my grandmama, I yell because I care, and that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It means that I’m focusing now, on us as a whole, and not just me, and the sundress I didn’t buy. ❤️🙈😉

Happy thanksgiving to you all!

With Much love and appreciation,

Kari Keillor

PS you can repurpose love, and reinvest in love, and love never goes out of style nor does it have a shelf life, or an expiration date. Love lasts as long as you need it too, so use that! It’s good to cook with, and to wear, and to smell like (please do) and to listen to, and to see! But most importantly, to feel. ❤️🦃

[breaniebree]

Talking about my love for my OC with @xxqueenofdragonsxx​.  This is my Zahira as best as I can make her, though someone awesome may be drawing me some amazing fan art of her so fingers crossed. 

ZAHIRA ZELENA ZACARIAS (ZEE):

Magizoologist, works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for the Ministry of Magic.

Born 9th April, 1964 to parents Michael Ivanovich (Misha) Zacarias and Magnolia Jackson Zacarias.  Misha, a Muggleborn Russian Auror who is following the trail of a dark wizard and finds himself in Paris where he meets the American witch Magnolia Jackson.  They fall in love and get married and Magnolia moves to Moscow to be with him and then when Zee is six, her mother is killed.  

I think that it was a gruesome death, a curse that tortured her for days before she finally succumbed to her death.  They were living in Russia at the time and Zee was with her Baba and Deda, as she was only six, and her mother had gone into town to do some shopping.  The dark wizard was stalking her and cursed her.  She was left alone in an alley to die and wasn’t found for almost six hours, by then, the curse had taken over too much of her and any attempt at saving her life was impossible.  She’d lost her mind and Zee was never able to say goodbye.  Magnolia didn’t even recognize Misha when he found her which was part of why it hurt Misha so much to lose her in the end.

Misha meets Sorcha Brown when Zee is eight, a freelance journalist from Scotland. Zee grew up travelling between Scotland and Moscow and she always loved animals.  She spent her summers visiting her American grandparents on their ranch in Toccoa, Georgia where her grandmother owns a 50s diner called Flo’s and her grandfather is chief of police.  Her stepmother is the mother she grew up with.  Mama, seeing Zee’s love for animals always allowed her to bring home strays.  Her father continued to work in Russia, travelling back and forth via international portkey every day when they spent time in Scotland.  And when it came time for her to go to school, they decided to send her to the wizarding school in Russia — the Koldovstoretz School of Magic because it had such an amazing Care of Magical Creatures program.  She speaks fluent French, Russian, and Mermish because of her upbringing and her career and a little bit of Greek.

She has 4 tattoos:

Gold and green tribal elephant on right side of ribs

Red and gold dragon across spine

Black niffler on back of her neck

Zee tattoo over scar - deep green vines with bright blue orchids scattered from the top of her left hip down the side of her thigh, wrapping around her knee, Lady Godiva hidden in the vines covering her scar lying on a bed of blue orchids ending at her ankle.  I AM WOMAN written on one side, HEAR ME ROAR, written on the other.

Zee found him napping on the sofa and she smiled at the sight of him, bending to kiss his forehead.  Her curls tickled his face, a small smile on his lips.  Not wanting to disturb him, she hurried upstairs to pack the rest of her bag.  She changed into a short halter dress over her new bikini and was admiring her calf in the mirror when he came in.

His eyes met hers in the mirror and the look in them sent desire raking through her.

“When did you get home?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes ago?  You looked so peaceful having your nap.”

“I was resting my eyes,” he said, making her grin.

“Right.”

Sirius moved towards her, his eyes trailing down her body.  “You look fucking gorgeous.”  His gaze stopped on her leg, a brow rising.  “You got a new tat?”

Zee held onto his arm as he picked up her leg to examine the new tattoo.  She had gotten Lady Godiva.  She’d done her panther’s sleek form in a dark black outline but other than her golden eyes, she’d coloured the panther in with flowered camouflage.  Purple perennials and pink tulips, red roses and blue lilacs that brightened her leg and covered every inch of the ugly burn scar to the back of her knee.  Deep green vines and leaves surrounded the outline of the panther, framing the words written down either side of the panther in cursive: I Am Woman and on the other side it continued with: Hear Me Roar.

“Fuck, that’s sexy,” Sirius murmured, his fingertips tracing the words. 

“Yeah?”  Zee said.  “I didn’t want to look at my burn anymore so I wanted to cover it with something beautiful.”

“And the Reddy lyrics?”

She grinned.  “Points to you.”

Sirius let go of her leg and bent his head to kiss her.  “I love it.  But you were sexy with the scar too.”

Zee slipped her arms around his neck.  “And that, Mr Black, is one of the many reasons why I love you.”

Sirius slid his hands up her back into her hair.  “Let’s go shag on the beach.”

She laughed as he let her go and picked up their bags.  “Sounds perfect.”

As he walked out the door, she couldn’t help but think that she had never loved anyone more than the man before her.  She didn’t know what the future held for her, but she did know that her future was nothing without Sirius Black and Harry Potter. (Excerpt from A Second Chance, chapter 213)

Zee’s wand was made by Gregorvich and it is chestnut as the wood meshes with her love of animals, I think it’s short like her, only 15 cm  in length and her core is from a coral reef.  Her wand core gives the owner patience, someone with a coral reef core knows how to bring things to fruition, provide protection for all, as well as generate longevity.  They have a knack for deflecting disaster, whatever form it takes.  They are also loving, nurturing, and healing; are a source of enduring friendship and support and often the glue that holds the ship together.  I thought it sounded very much like Zee.

She stands no taller than 156 cm (roughly 5′1 and 3/4) and often wears 4 inch heels as if she was born in them, preferably her heeled cowboy boots.  She has long dark brown hair with golden caramel highlights mixed through it.  Her grandmother on her mum’s side was African-American so her skin is like a caramel toffee.  She loves bright red lipstick and big earrings.  She wears a white gold and turquoise turtle belly button ring and usually has smaller hoops or studs in her ears above the big hoops.  As shown above and mentioned before, she is very curvy, hourglass and I picture her body type like Jaydah Doll, but her face is the gorgeous model at the top (I saw her and thought Zee).

Her pet is a panther named Lady Godiva.  She rescued her from Muggles who were hunting her and her pack in Kenya.  Her parents were killed and she was the only cub that she could find so she nurtured her and kept her safe.  Why Godiva?

“I always admired her bravery; standing up for what she wanted and doing the only thing that she could do at the time to make her stand.  No one would listen to her and she had no power and no ability to use weapons.  She wasn’t a witch with powers to sway them so she set out on a horse, completely nude, and she got the attention she wanted.  She made her mark.  I found Lady Godiva in Kenya, hiding from the Muggles who had shot and killed her family, when I rescued her and confronted the Muggles, she jumped from my arms and stood in front of me, growling at them, almost daring them to fight her to get to me.  I thought that she was making her stand, a cub with no power of her own, but she was trying.  So I named her Godiva.” (Excerpt from A Second Chance, chapter 65)

Her grandfather on her dad’s side was a Muggle and veteran of the Second World War.  He drove a 1937 BSA M20 and it’s hers now.  She loves motorcycles and getting her hands dirty.  She’s an incredible cook.  She likes to read mystery, horror, and romance novels.  She travels for her job and has been all over the world, but has recently been enjoying her time working in the menagerie within the Ministry of Magic and helping to organize it.

As to the Koldovstoretz School of Magic, I like to think it’s hidden somewhere deep in Russia and that it looks like the ruins Balga Castle to prevent anyone from finding it, but when you get through the warding it opens up and looks the Vologda Kremlin and Saint Sophia Cathedral, just gorgeous Russian architecture -- but not as large as Hogwarts’ castle.  It says that they played a version of Quidditch there where they flew on uprooted trees instead of broomsticks -- which is another reason why I think Zee was never big into playing the sport herself.  Also I imagine her as short and curvy, which means she may not have great balance on a broom, and she loves riding the motorbike and likes the Muggle machine more than a broomstick if she has to choose.

As to her family tree:

The Jacksons:

Colten (Muggle) and Florence Jackson

Daughter Magnolia Jackson Zacarias (deceased) married to Michael (Misha) Zacarias with one daughterZahira Zelena Zacarias

The Zacarias’:

Ivan and Anya Zacarias (Muggles – Ivan was the soldier in WWII with the motorbike that he gave to Zee)

1. Michael (Misha) Ivanovich Zacarias m. Magnolia Jackson Zacarias (d) m. Sorcha Brown Zacarias

(a) Zahira Zelena Zacarias eng. Sirius Orion Black

(i) Harry James Potter

(ii) Twin 1 and Twin 2 Black (due January 1997)

2. Olga Ivanova Zacarias Petrov m. Dimtri Petrov

(a) Mikhail Petrov m. Ana Ivanov

(i) Yuri Petrov (11)

(b) Mila Petrov Sokolov m. Nicholas Sokolov

(i) Nastasia Sokolov (9)

(ii) Dinara Sokolov (6)

3. Sasha Zacarias Blok m. Yerik Blok

(a) Tanya Blok Fedorov m. Alek Fedorov

(i) Eva and Irina (twin girls identical) (2)

(b) Tatiana Blok eng. Iosif Kuznetsov

The Browns:

Callum and Fiona Brown

Brian Brown m. Jocasta Fitzgibbons

(a) Dougal Brown m. Ellen Smith

(i) Jenny Brown (24)

(ii) Ian Brown (22)

Sorcha Brown m. Misha Zacarias

(a) Zahira Zacarias

Names for Family Members:

Ivan & Anya = Baba and Deda

Tetya = auntie

Dyadya = uncle

Misha & Sorcha = Papa and Grandmama

Colt & Flo = Grandpa and Grandma

Callum & Fiona = Gran and Grandda

Basically, I love her and I’m so glad that other people have come to love her as much as me.

Zeerius is my canon.

@velvethopewrites​ thank you for loving her enough to put her in your Muggle AU.

[aswithasunbeam]

Rated: General Audiences

Summary: Eliza Hamilton's great-grandson brings her back to the house she'd once shared with her husband, eager to hear the story of the first Inauguration Day.

May 1854

“Allow me, Mother Hamilton,” Eliza’s daughter-in-law, Johnny’s dear Maria, encouraged, holding her elbow out for Eliza as they made their way up the stoop of the ancient Wall Street residence.

“I’m not so feeble as that, my dear,” Eliza refused, using the railing to pull herself up the last few steps. How many times had she raced up these steps, carrying baskets and children, hurrying here and there on errands of all kinds? She’d not stumble now, when age was her only burden.  

“The house is empty,” Eliza’s great-grandson, another Alexander Hamilton in a long line, was explaining as he unlocked the front door. “The owners said they didn’t mind a bit. In fact, I think they were rather excited themselves when I told them why we were coming.”

The reason for this visit to the past was rather less exciting for her, she thought, but she held her tongue. She had a duty to tell the stories of the country’s history to the best of her ability so long as breath filled her lungs. To think, all those throngs of people who had gathered along Wall and Broadway to catch a glimpse of the revered General Washington as he was sworn in as the nation’s first president, and somehow she was the only one left alive who could tell the tale.

“A bit dusty,” Alex commented as he stepped into the foyer. “Is it bringing back any memories for you, Grandmama Hamilton?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, eyes skating across the empty foyer.

Eliza closed her eyes and could almost hear the excited buzz filling the street behind her. People had gathered outside so early that morning that Washington’s coach could hardly make it to their house. Sporadic huzzahs had broken out and carried down the street in either direction, the thrill of the historic moment alive in the air.

The sound had carried up, as well, through the windows to the second floor. All the children had been bundles of energy, she remembered, the thrill of the moment affecting them as much as anyone on the street below. Philip particularly had been so excited by the general to-do, she practically had to pull him off the window ledge as he’d leaned out to watch for the President’s coach.

Only Alexander had slept through the hubbub that morning. She could still see his eyes moving beneath their lids in a dream, his hand reposing on the pillow by his face, sunlight streaming through the curtains to dapple the quilt and the floorboards. So peaceful. So beautiful. Baby Jamie had been heavy in her arms as she’d watched her husband sleep from the doorway to their bedroom, his milky breath and wispy hair tickling her nose.

“Was Washington here that morning?” her grandson asked.  

The ghost of childish echoed in the empty space around her.

Washington had arrived earlier than expected, and the children had beaten her and Alexander down to the door. Angelica had looked up at the imposing commander with astonishment as she’d announced, “You’re tall.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Washington had agreed, a little smile playing on his lips.

He’d stood just where Eliza was standing now.

“Can I see your sword?” Pip had asked, his little hands already reaching out to grab at the sword hanging from Washington’s hip. “Did you use it in battle? Did you kill anyone with it?”

“Philip!” Alexander had jumped to pull his son away to a more respectable distance.

“That’s General Washington,” her dear little Alex had announced to her, pointing up at Washington as he spoke. “He’s in our stories.”

“Yes, he is,” she’d agreed, trying to encourage the three-year-old back into some semblance of a greeting line.

“Stories?” Washington repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“You may have made an appearance in some of their bedtime stories,” Alexander had admitted, a hint of color in his cheeks. “They’re about me, of course. You just happened to be there.”

“Of course,” Washington had agreed.

“Does that mean the talking mice are real, too?” Alex had asked innocently.

She’d tried to stifle a laugh. “No, sweetheart. Just General Washington. Now, hush.”

She could almost feel his sweaty palm in hers.

Maria and Alex were watching her closely when her wandering mind returned to the present. They were waiting for her to tell them her recollections. She sighed.

The most vivid memories, the dearest, were not ones that would interest her great-grandson. Her silly children, Alexander’s relaxed face as he slept, the way Washington’s eyes had lit up when he was teasing her husband. Those intimate moments, she keeps to herself.

“General Washington did pay us a visit that morning before carrying on to Federal Hall. So much excitement that day, you could hardly move on the street. He invited your great-grandfather to join him at St. Paul’s on Fulton Street after the inauguration.”

Alex looked about the foyer, as though trying to catch a glimpse of Washington’s ghost in the room. “Did you go with him up to Federal Hall? Or did grandfather?”

“No. No, we had company. We watched from the upstairs window.”

Alexander had bowed deeply to Washington as he’d departed, promising to see him later at the church, and afterwards for the general festivities as well.

“Who came over?” Alex pressed.

“Mrs. Knox. My sister, Angelica. She was home from London visiting. Some of your grandfather’s friends.” None of these names were illustrious enough to keep ahold of his attention.

“Should we go up?” Alex was already halfway to the stairway as he suggested it.

Maria stayed just behind her, a tacit offer of assistance should she need it to climb yet another set of stairs. The staircase was as narrow and creaky as it had been in her memory. Trying to maneuver a laundry basket had always been a trick, especially with Pip’s little toy soldiers littered all over the steps. She found herself stepping carefully, as though one of them might still be lying in wait all these decades later.

Upon entering the family floor, she felt her breath catch at the sight of the empty nursery. Her gaze tracked to the master bedroom, the route she’d stumbled down so many nights when she’d nursed Alex and Jamie. The floorboards creaked under her feet just the same as they used to, a familiar lullaby.

Her grandson was looking back to her again. “Grandmama? Which room?”

She pointed to what had been the family room, with the wide windows facing Wall Street to allow for a perfect view down to where Federal Hall had once stood. Alex and Maria both moved in that direction. Though she made to follow, she stopped shy of the entry, a sound floating down the hall from the master bedroom stealing her attention.

Humming. Soft, beautiful humming. A jaunty tune she barely recognized, but from a voice that was forever seared upon her heart.

She stepped carefully towards the bedroom, pushing the door fully open. Their bed stood in the center of the room, the lovely floral hangings from her mother pushed back to the posts. The bed itself was unmade, the soft sheets messily flung aside and the pillows all askew.  

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, creating hazy patterns of light on the furniture. The curtains fluttered in the fragrant spring breeze. She could hear the muted buzz of excited onlookers gathering on the street below, breathlessly awaiting the inauguration of their first President.

A bowl of soapy water sat on her vanity, and a lightweight banyan was folded over the back of the chair. Still following the sound of cheery humming, she poked her head into the dressing room. Alexander was wrapping his cravat around his turned-up collar, his waistcoat loose. His eyes met hers in the mirror, and she saw his whole face crinkle with a smile at the sight of her.

“Finally coming to wake me?” he asked. “About time. At this rate, I would have still been abed when our guests arrived.”

“I wanted to let you sleep.” She recalled clearly keeping an eye on the clock, timing out how long he’d need to ready that morning, trying to let him get as much rest as possible.

“Are the little ones excited? Sounds like quite the crowd has gathered outside already.”

“So excited,” she confirmed. “Pip nearly jumped out the window he was so eager to join the festivities.”

He laughed that low, easy, beloved laugh of his.

Fixing his ruffled cuffs in place, he swung on the dark blue coat he’d had made specially for the occasion, his shoulders rolling as he adjusted to the feel of the new garment. When the buttons were done, he turned and held his arms out for her inspection. “How do I look?”

“Very handsome.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

He stepped forward and tipped his face down over hers to catch her lips. The smell of his soap filled her nose, spiced and sweet, so distinctly him. She’d tried so hard to hold on to that smell, preserving his handkerchiefs, his pillowcase, even washing with his soap once, just to smell him on her skin. Nothing was ever the same.

She drank in his face, glowing in the filtered light from the bedroom.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, the words she’d spoken that day coming easily.  

He’d looked genuinely astonished. “Of me? Whatever for?”  

“The Constitution never would have passed without you. All that hard work you did, writing all those essays, giving all those speeches. This is your day as much yours as anyone’s.”

“If you say so, my love,” he’d demurred. The slight sheen to his eyes had attested to his appreciation, however.

“I do.” She laid her palms against his chest, warm and solid beneath her hands. He felt so real, standing here before her.

A soft look came over his face as he gazed down at her. He wrapped a curl that had fallen loose from her widow’s cap around his finger and tugged at it gently. “I miss you so much, Betsey.”

She swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat.

“Mother Hamilton?”

Maria’s voice startled her badly.

She turned around in the empty dressing room and found her daughter-in-law watching her from the door.

“Were you talking to someone?”

Eliza looked out at the empty, dusty room. Her arms were still held out to the empty air, and slowly they fell to her sides. “No, dear.”

Maria studied her for a moment. “Are you all right?”  

“Fine. Just…remembering.”

“It must be overwhelming, being back here after all these years.”

“No, not at all,” Eliza said, forcing a smile.

Alex looked in at them from the hallway. “Shall we continue on to Federal Hall, and then on to St. Paul’s? I’d like to visit all the places you went that day.”

“If you like, darling,” Eliza agreed. That was why they were there, after all, to recreate the day and pass along the memories to the younger generations.

“It’s helping your memory, isn’t it? Visiting these places?”

She looked back into the dressing room, that spiced scent lingering in the air. “It’s helping,” she agreed. Perhaps too much. Her hand went to the pouch around her neck, hidden beneath the layers of her widow’s weeds. As much as her husband was always with her, she felt him here in this room far more keenly, like a messenger calling her home.

“I knew it would.” Then Alex was charging off downstairs again, so eager to piece together a story for his own ends.

“Oh, that boy,” Maria sighed, following her grandson’s path from the room.

Eliza closed her eyes again, savoring the moment of peaceful quiet in her old home.

“Soon, my love,” she whispered into the empty air. “Soon.”

[bigowlenergy]

doors

Next chapter of How to Raise the Dead

X

Jack gets back late from the grocery store. 8 pm. He usually goes at 7 am on Saturday, but. Well.

Danny is asleep in the living room like Jack left him, their latest quilt bunched up around his small form. No backing. Hasn’t even been pressed yet. Fresh and new and covered in tiny strings.

It’s been a while since they worked on a project together.

Granny squares of cartoon ghosts with happy faces ring a large, detailed paper piecing of the Fenton Portal. It’s done all up in floral pastels. True soft quilt colors. Jack’s grown to prefer bright neons and the signature Fenton green, but an old fashioned quilt is good, too. It near matches the much smaller one framed on the wall. Danny’s first quilt, though of course Jack did most of it at the time. The picture beside it is Danny holding up the finished project, smiling big, missing some milk teeth. About third grade, if Jack remembers right. Or was that the year he skipped ahead? Well, whatever it was, it was Danny’s First Quilt Year.

And this one, now, with the door to the land of the dead lovingly rendered as the centerpiece, will not be the last.

-

3 AM. The Fenton Phones buzz with a silent alarm. Maddie sleeps through it, Jack wakes up. Lays there for a while. Listens to the shower run, the lack of footsteps in the hall upstairs. Danny’d disappeared around 11 pm. Vanished from his room in the usual way.

Jack eventually falls back to sleep, relieved his boy is home. For the night, at least.

He wakes at 5, as usual, then comes down to find Danny sitting on the davenport, wrapped in one of the new fabric bolts like a blanket and very much asleep. His hair is the special kind of mess that tossing and turning with wet hair makes. The bags beneath his eyes are so deep they look painted on. True bruises. Jack sets a slippered foot on the wood floor under the stairs and Danny jolts awake. Instant reaction. Too tired to know what to do with it. Squints at Jack in the early morning dark and interrupts himself with a huge yawn. Damn does he have some chompers.

“How ‘bout some coffee, son?” Jack offers.

Danny slurs out a positive, then snuggles back down. Jack gets a single cup brewing and watches the sun rise with his son.

They’re working on tracing pattern pieces when the girls come down the stairs. Both dressed for the day, Maddie about two hours early. Oh, Jazz’s tour is today. That’s right. Jack’s been distracted.

“Are you coming, Dad? Danny?” Jazz’s tone shifts slightly as she leans around to catch Danny laying on the carpet, half asleep and up to his elbows in wrinkled pattern paper.

“Danny, are you alright, honey?” Maddie asks, looking less drastically tired, but equally glassy eyed and unhappy with the hour. Like mother like son.

“Oh, you know how quilting goes, Mads!” Jack intervenes. “We were up late last night, early morning, too. I’ll stay and keep him company. Unless you need me to be there, Jazz?”

Maddie blinks once, slowly, looking intently at Jack for a moment before yawning and heading to find her purse. Jazz looks away from her open appraisal of Danny. Jack doesn’t want to turn and look, make them suspicious or anything, so he’s left wondering what she’s looking for. If Danny’s giving her some kind of code, begging for her to stay, to take him with, not to leave him home alone with Jack. Whatever she sees must be positive. Or maybe unconscious. She doesn’t take her eyes off Jack when she says, all innocence and honesty,

“No, it’s alright, Dad. It’s just one tour. I’m staying to talk to the career councilor afterwards, anyway. No reason to make you all wait.”

“Alrighty then, Jazzy. Let me know how it goes. See you later, dear.” He kisses his tired wife goodbye. Passes a note into her pocket. Waves them both out the door for their own early morning.

Normally, he’d go to the supermarket at this time, but Danny’s dead on his - absolutely exhausted, and Jack would rather keep him home safe for a change. He deserves it.

The front door clicks shut, and it echoes. Jack lets out a heavy breath.

“Want some breakfast, Danno?” He asks, turning to find Danny blinking heavily, eyes scrunching like it hurts. But he’s sitting up, mostly, and clutching the cup of decaf Jack slipped some ectoplasm in like he’s forgotten about it.

Jack kneels down beside him and sets a hand on his shoulder, gently straightening him up.

“Come ‘ere,” He offers his arm, taking the cup in his other hand. Danny flops on to his shoulder immediately. Mumbles, “I’m not a baby,” but yawns again and doesn’t even try to stand on his own. Jack lifts him easily. Calling Danny 90 pounds would be generous. Jack might not be into weight training any more, but he’ll always be strong enough to support his kids. It’s been a while since he’s gotten to cart either of them around. It’s nice. He hadn’t realized he missed it.

He puts the cup on the kitchen table and sets Danny in his seat.

“Alright, what’ll it be, bud?”

“Pancakes,” Danny mumbles, blowing on the cold coffee. Looks a little more present now.

Jack readies the ingredients and gets Danny stirring. Pulls the old pan out from the pantry. Pauses. Maybe they shouldn’t use this anymore. It was a gift from Vlad, freshman year, half gag gift, half honest peace offering to end the Prank War. A novelty Halloween pan with two large, pancake sized sheet ghosts. It’s a bit dented and well loved from the years, but it’s a good pan. Jack’d loved the thing, and did what any good best friend would do and bought Vlad the hard stuff he liked, but couldn’t really afford, as thanks. He only got to drink half of it.

Vlad’s his best friend. But. No more missed connections. No more distance. No more silence between loved ones when one is hurting. No more carefully closed doors. He sets the pan on the stove to heat.

After breakfast, they sit together in the living room and finish cutting out the quilt pieces. Danny’d always liked that part the best; tracing from the straightedge and making everything square up. It’s quiet, but peaceful. They work together just as well as they did - what, last year? Has it really only been that long since Danny had last joined him in the early morning? Has Jack gotten that lax, as a parent, to not notice? Attributing all the odd little changes Danny’s gone through to puberty and growing up and new school all sounded so sensible at the time. They still do. Of course they do. Who in their right mind would ever put money on what Jack’s betting on?

But Jack’s got eyes for a reason, his grandmama used to say. So he’d been using them. Took her good words and true voice, but set the rifle back on the shelf to cool. Not everything breeds fear. Not anymore. Not when Jack’s studied ectoplasm for long enough to understand that the instinctual fear ghosts bring out in humans is nothing more than smoke and mirrors, nothing that they can help doing. Danny isn’t a menace on purpose, not in this at least. Jack sets some quiet music up to cancel out the white noise and does his best not to let Danny in his peripherals.

Honestly, it’s getting easier and easier. Looks like there’s an acclimation period followed by a threshold shifting. If Jack just keeps aware around his son, he’ll stop being afraid altogether. He’s glad.

By the time dinner rolls around, poor Danny looks fit to collapse. He’d stubbornly powered through, pretending he’d slept last night and didn’t need to head up for a rest. Now he’s holding the edge of the quilt while Jack handstitches in a few details. Jack didn’t trust him with a needle. Is glad of it when he reaches over and gently pushes Danny back and he goes down like a sack of rocks. Stays down. Passed out instantly. Jack snips the last thread and lays the quilt top over him, smoothing his wild hair gently.

Tacks a note to the table right in front of his face and heads down to the store. He’ll probably sleep through it.

-

He does. Jack makes up something quick for himself and sets three portions in the fridge. His girls’ll be home late, like he asked. He probably should have talked with Maddie first, but the opportunity came too quick. He’s sure she’ll understand. Maybe she even got something out of Jazz.

Nah, probably not. Jazz is one tough cookie. He’s rather proud.

Of both of them.

He turns the lock and gently lifts Danny from the davenport. Expects him to stay down, but he squirms and squints up at Jack.

“Hey, Danno.” He greets the face that’s too tired to be suspicious properly. “Was gonna take you to your room for the night. Is that good?” Jack pauses, considers his words, his hold, carefully, says, “Or do you wanna go downstairs?”

Danny’s eyes slip closed again, and his hand curls into the quilt. “Downstairs,” He mumbles.

Jack takes him down to the portal. Tugs the seat out from under the stairs and drags it closer to the vortex in the doorway. Gets Danny down for the night. He looks so relaxed. So green.

It’s still a strange thing, this boy of his. But just this one nice day, this little bit of trust Jack’s painstakingly wrangled from him, feels like a victory. Like a door that’s been firmly locked has been eased open a crack. There’s less between them. Less distance, even if only a little.

Jack kisses his son’s forehead and leaves him to sleep in the lab.