#she has a moth cloak from her mama

[mik-arts]

joined a second campaign, so introducing Brina, my shadow sorcerer who just got thrown into Barovia

[izusun]

Headcanon: Izuku is into DIY.

Hot Take: Izuku would create a long furby. He has a collection of various eldritch creepy long furbies. Katsuki absolutely refuses to go into his room because of them. He would've exploded them by now but that would make Izuku cry.

Other CursedTM Things that Izuku does that makes Katsuki die inside and that Katsuki tries to hide from the rest of Class 1-A:

He's a part of the Vulture Culture community and collects roadkill and dead animals to turn into bones.

He has a collection of shitty All Might hawaiian shirts.

He has a collection of stuffed animals. They all have names ripped from Lovecraft such as "Yawgsathoth" and "Mother of Pus"

He writes fanfiction of the heroes.

He has a giant worm on a string plush, and his room is also decorated with Worms on Strings (you have no idea how much Katsuki had to bribe him not to add worms on strings to his uniform blazer)

He does have a plague doctor mask and will regularly just go out in a cloak and his mask

He cosplays exclusively female heroes, and crossdresses the worst dresses

He basically does art makeup, on his face and the face of Katsuki

"Hey what are you reading?" "Oh, this book on how to cook frogs."

He will eat anything. Including stuff that is on the ground. He has an iron stomach.

The actual reason Izuku hangs up All Might everywhere (it used to be a mix of all heroes) is because once in middle school Katsuki accused him of being straight, so he put him up everywhere and continued the habit, Katsuki hates his room now

- Goblin Anon (otherwise known as Goblin anon projects everything she does or wants to do onto her fav)

HI GOBLIN!!! GENUINELY SCREAMED AT THIS AU BECAUSE WTF

even i would not want to enter the beloved’s (izuku’s) room because of his shit.

i’ve searched up long furbys and i am, simply put, traumatized. i had a collection of furbys when i was a kid but we had to give them away because there’s too much of them. but long furbys? i am very much scared.

there’d be a picture of a long furby under the cut, and i’m genuinely terrified of the fucker.

also, can i just say that izuku writing fanfictions is the least cursed thing that he does? because like, reading the rest is like looking at that picture where you can’t decipher a single thing because, again, wtf izuku.

but they’re also funnier? creepier? because i can genuinely see izuku doing those dhekdoowks

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this shit would probably be snaking around the frames of izuku’s door. or he probably has one at the corner of his wall, the one that meets with the ceiling, and when a visitor looks up, they’re greeted by the sight of this centipede looking furby that has additional four eyes that izuku lovingly and carefully sewn on. it’s so nightmarish :’)

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the vulture culture part started when they were young. his interest started when he saw a documentary on how to pin butterflies and he was like, “you know what? thats actually something i want to do!” but! BUT!! he cannot catch a butterfly, thus he settled for mounting dragonflies which he collected in the nearby stream (where katsuki fell).

fun fact about mounting dragonflies: they lose colours when they’re dead. you can use acetone to not only help preserve its colours, but also to stop its decay. they decay so quickly, it’s terrible.

anyways, izuku does not know that and instead followed a youtube video of how to mount dragonflies, using an old picture frame as the case.

inko comes home, sees his son doing his stuff and is just happy that izuku’s not rewatching that loud all might video. she helps him pin the other wings and they are fascinated at how pretty they look. well, the next day, the wings are now transparent and the belly side of the dragonflies are black. it also stinks so they had to throw the whole thing plus the case.

izuku’s fascination grows from there.

a failed experiment, after all, instigates the desire to right them.

so that’s where he starts: butterflies, moths, beetles, another dragonfly case.

katsuki is fascinated and disgusted because, “why would you want dead insects in your room, deku?”

the rest began when the bakugou’s and the midoriya’s have road trips. inko doesn’t have a car so the bakugou’s drive along with them, and it’s a good day. the kids are having fun and getting along, and the parents are chilling and enjoying their vacation. life is good.

then on their drive home, izuku, who is sitting sandwiched between katsuki and inko, lets out this blood-curdling scream. it wakes katsuki up and almost had masaru swerving the car out of the highway.

“maru-san (because my boy izuku cannot say masaru) can you please stop the car! i wanna get that!” he screams, pointing at something indecipherable by the side of the roads.

masaru does anyways because it’s so rare for izuku to request something, but also his heart’s still pumping so fast after izuku’s scream.

masaru wasn’t even done stopping the engine when the car doors are opening, and katsuki and izuku are tumbling out, hand-in-hand. masaru and inko follow them closely, while mitsuki stayed to watch over the car.

katsuki’s excited for an adventure, but then izuku just. stops them. in front of a skull.

masaru chokes from behind them and katsuki lets go of izuku’s hand so fast, running back to his dad because, again, “deku what the shit?”

izuku ignores him and gestures at the deer skull, one that has moss growing by the teeth and around the jaw, turning to inko to ask, “mama? can we bring that home?”

masaru feels very faint, but doesn’t say anything when inko easily agrees, laughing at her boy and patting his untameable hair as if your child asking you for a carcass’s skull is normal.

inko picks it up and they go back to the car. mitsuki does a double-take on what inko’s holding, but shushes up when she saw izuku bouncing happily. katsuki hesitantly sits beside izuku, but when izuku began yammering about all might, he forgets about the skull and nerds out with izuku.

inko explains to mitsuki and masaru about her son’s newfound interest, telling them that it’d go away in two years, don’t worry.

it didn’t. instead, his interest and his collection grew. so for his subsequent birthdays, along with hero merch, he has vulture culture collections gifted to him.

when he moved to the dorms, they’re more packaged than his hero merch and katsuki wants to get angry because he’s been looking for those limited hero merch and yet there they are, chilling beside izuku’s many many skulls and bones.

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IZUKU STARTED COLLECTING THE ALL MIGHT HAWAIIAN SHIRTS WHEN HE WAS TWELVE

he ransacked for the very first edition, often saving his allowance just so he can buy the retro versions of the all might hawaiian shirts. sometimes he’d barter, but that’s only when he’s really desperate for the shirts. usually he’d just be in an auction site and buy just those.

he’d take katsuki with him and katsuki is very careful in what to buy, often researching the things and having a very long pros and cons list to narrow down what he’d buy, then his best bud izuku just out there buying all might hawaiian shirts.

funniest thing too is that those are the first to go because they? don’t value much? and they’re ugly, tbh, and yet izuku’s slurping them all up.

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the first time class 1a were talking about plushies, izuku dropped the names and they’re confused because-

“bro did you name your plushies with lovecraft names?” OR “bro? do you perhaps have personalized lovecraft toys?”

it’s the earlier one but izuku would want to buy personalized lovecraft monster toys.

ok but? he names them as per the appropriate lovecraft characters? like:

a purple octopus plushie is called azathoth.

a green gecko plushie is called bokrug.

a fish plushie (literally nemo) is called dagon instead of nemo.

a pink jellyfish plushie is mother of pus.

he has other plushies that have normal names (well, as normal as naming a plushie “cheese grater”), but he has a collection of specific plushies that align with lovecraft beings.

he writes all might x reader fanfictions, i’m sorry ;v;

he only writes them because he doesn’t want other heroes with all might, but also the reader pairing gets more views than all might with other heroes.

katsuki caught him writing a slowburn, enemies to lovers all might x reader fanfic and proceeded to proofread it for him.

synopsis of the fanfiction: reader is a villain with a sound quirk (tailored to present mic’s quirk) and all might met them in a hero gala where the reader pretended to be a worker so that they could infiltrate the gala’s holder’s office for a specific banking access that is linked to the world’s bank. all might manages to sniff them out and proceeds to fight them, but when a beam is about to hit the reader, all might swoops in and saves them. cue the reader developing unwanted feelings for their greatest foe, all might.

aND THEN!!! all might knows the reader outside of their villain persona and is actually very much taken by them. so it’s a painful surprise that the reader is a villain. but he is willing to save them.

it is still incomplete despite having 102 chapters. by chapter 78, katsuki asked for payment because shit was too long and too angsty.

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HEISOSL IZUKU HAS A WORM ON A STRING DOOR CURTAIN

he genuinely likes them but creating the door curtain kind of extinguished that interest because that’s just too much worms and too much strings for a single curtain, and it was very much tiring.

he has a tiny one stitched on his blazer and inko heaved this really big sigh when she saw that her son’s crisp UA uniform got a worm by the chest pocket.

aizawa eyed it once and was so close to expelling izuku just because of that.

shouto, when they became friends, sends a box of them to izuku because he thought that those are izuku’s favourite. katsuki had not stopped cackling when he saw the huge box of them.

to punish katsuki, he made a furby with worm hair and left it by katsuki’s door. katsuki’s scream woke everyone up.

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the moment he walked out with a plague mask, tokoyami was exiting his dorm room too and they made a long eye contact.

tokoyami does not know if he is amazed by izuku’s plague mask or he is terrified because why does it look authentic.

for halloween, he was a plague doctor.

he stowed them away after saving eri.

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his first women hero cosplay was in third grade when they had a play about different heroes. the girl who was playing ragdoll got sick and everyone’s already strapped in as their hero and unwilling to change. izuku, himself, is present mic (katsuki’s all might).

the girls don’t want to give up their heroes and izuku, the bestest boy, goes and says he will become ragdoll.

their teacher agrees and helps him strap in as ragdoll and you know what, izuku loves it.

from then on, he tries to cosplay as much women heroes that he can afford. inko loves helping him and katsuki thinks he is adorable but! dont tell deku!!!

OK BUT he wore the dress that broke the internet once and katsuki almost exploded the dress off him. almost because izuku dodged and warned him that if he ever breaks that dress, katsuki will have to pay (either monetary or revenge, katsuki doesn’t know so he behaved).

FOR HALLOWEEN, HE WORE THIS AND KATSUKI HATES IT

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izuku painting star freckles on his face!!!! or heart freckles!!!! or flowers!!!!

izuku in fairy makeup, pleaseee!

he also loves giving katsuki his own freckles because something about blonde hair and red eyes with pale cheeks kissed by freckles is making izuku gay panic.

izuku putting concealer on his own freckles once and his classmates are looking at him weirdly, wondering why he looks off?

like he still looks amazing, but something’s missing. it’s fucking them up and katsuki isn’t helping them so they’re trying to piece what’s up.

it takes monoma sneering at izuku and asking where his eight freckles are that 1a realizes why he looks different.

ok but denki asking monoma why he knows how much freckles izuku has and monoma spluttering, bright red and embarrassed, until he just walks away.

(answer: he’s crushing on green bean).

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IZUKU HAVING A COLLECTION OF LIKE ARCHAIC? BREWING? STUFF? BOOKS.

i dont know how to explain it but my friend has this specific book about poisons, detailing recipes and ingredients.

it also talks about the use of frogs, lizards, snakes. the benefits of different flowers (ones with toxins) and how to use them during tea time.

it’s bizarre but the book looks pretty so i think izuku would have a handful of those in his room.

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izuku eating grass? flowers? trying dandelions and complaining that it’s furry

izuku wandering what a twig tastes like so he just sucks on it like a lollipop.

inko gave up on stopping him because her son would just eat anything but his broccolis, and she’s very much tired of thinking if izuku would have an upset stomach. he never had.

first time mitsuki saw izuku do that, she forced him to drink cola and eat candy to cleanse his palette.

katsuki goads him on eating more.

izuku’s favourite is chewing on maple leaves. he’s just a weird boy.

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OK BUT THE FINAL ONE ABOUT HIS ALL MIGHT POSTERS?? I HAVENT STOPPED LAUGHINGF

izuku wanting more all might figurines than posters. he only has some chemistry stuff (periodic table) on his wall, a little tapestry that matches inko’s, a canvas of monet’s water lilies (again, matching inko), and some cosmic facts that he bought online.

and yk katsuki sees those and thinks that it’s so weird that izuku has those posters but not all might?

his first thought was, “he doesn’t like all might as much as i do.”

the following one is, “he’s straight so he doesn’t want a guy’s face on his wall.”

katsuki’s mouth so happens to say the second one and the next week he visited izuku’s room again, each surface of the wall that is not taken by pinned insects and his frog-book stuff, plus his other existing non-hero posters, is covered in just all might posters.

he belatedly realizes that his own face is also on izuku’s wall, but that’s for later musings because for now he’s jealous that izuku managed to scourge the limited all might posters, but also is disgusted a bit because that’s too much all might.

katsuki walks out before his interest in all might plummets.

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ps to my beloved: ﹤୨♡୧﹥

GOBLIN I LOVE YOUR AUS ALL THE TIME AND IM SORRY FOR RESPONDING SO LATE! YOU ALWAYS MAKE ME SMILE AND I LOVE U!!!! you’re genuinely so precious pls dont stop your ramblings!!!!

[paizleyrayz]

SCORPIO WOMAN: OVERVIEW & PERSONALITY TRAITS

Scorpio is the eighth sign of the zodiac, and the Eighth House is all about sex, death, and the cycle of regeneration. With their penchant for all things spooky and magical, female Scorpios are natural Queens of the Underworld, and thus usually not ones to shy away from the more intense or heavy characteristics of life.

This sign gets a bad rap from most astrologers for being “too much,” overly dark, or even downright evil. This stems more from modern western culture’s inherent discomfort with discomfort with discussing the Pluto-ruled subjects of sex and death (typically not your general everyday dinner-table conversation). Reviled as a Scorpion woman can be, not many can deny her magnetic personality and the aura of mystery, magic, and sensuality that she wears around her like a cloak. This is not a woman who tolerates surface-level interactions easily. She prefers to give her attention to those willing to go deep with her. With a Scorpio’s electric gaze powerfully focused on you, it’s easy to feel like a bug pinned under glass, examined by a curious scientist determined to learn everything there is to know. 

One of the most sensitive signs in the zodiac, Scorpio women feel their emotions intensely, though they may not always express them overtly. A water-ruled sign, Scorpio is symbolized by the submerged depths, like the pure waters flowing through an underground cave. But you may not see the currents or waves rippling through her facial expressions – much of what a Scorpio woman feels, she won’t always express overtly. 

Scorpios rule over the occult sciences, and the true meaning of the word “occult” is “hidden” – hence, the Scorpionic tendency toward secrecy and inscrutability. Only the most determined (and respectful) will be granted permission to explore the secret caverns within the heart of a Scorpio woman.

Scorpio women are universally known as the sex goddesses of the zodiac, renowned for their passion, their strong libidos, and their exceptional prowess as lovers. Sex is extremely important to these women, and sharing a sexual connection with their deeply-bonded lover is a necessity for them to feel completely fulfilled in life. That being said, Scorpios don’t really love to sleep around, nor do they take sex casually. So until they find their soul match, a Scorpio can feel a little adrift without a partner to frolic and share intimacy with. Dating and lackadaisical flirting for fun’s sake or just as something to pass the time rarely appeals to focused, intense Scorpion women. They tend to have consuming romances that take up a lot of their time and emotional energy. Sexless unions or relationships of convenience will never work for this libidinous sign, nor will an excess of flash-in-the-pan one-night stands. In general, a Scorpio woman will hold out until she finds just what she’s looking for in a partner. Once she commits, she tends to mate for life.

With Scorpio’s widely known reputation for powerful jealous streaks, her possessive personality may also be a bit misunderstood. This kind of jealousy doesn’t stem from insecurity – in fact, most Scorpio women are extremely confident (particularly about the strength of their charms). But once this woman stakes her claim on you, she has a hard time letting go. She won’t take easily to relinquishing her mate into another’s arms without a battle.

Ever walk past those basement apartments in the city and wonder about who might dwell down there? It very well might be the lair of the Queen of the Underworld, lounging on a chaise and grinning up at the hustling and bustling feet of passersby with amusement. The word “lair” is a truly fitting way to describe this sign’s home. She makes her living space an insular, private domain where only her closest friends and lovers are invited. Decor-wise, Scorpio babes tend to adore textiles, draperies, and elaborate hanging lamps. Her living room might resemble an exotic bazaar, stuffed with the all the spoils of the souks that she’s visited on her travels. But everything here is arranged tastefully, and nothing is overdone or feels sloppy. Scorpios tend to be fairly tidy and can even tend toward the minimal, which makes their love for gloriously embellished details really pop rather than get lost in the visual shuffle. 

A Scorpio mom is a protective creature, strong and quiet, who usually has a powerful psychic link with her beloved children. She’s the envy of other mothers, as her kids can usually be disciplined with nothing more than an intense look from their Scorpio mama.

Scorpio women work hard and are exceedingly goal-focused. They set their sights on long-term objectives, and work steadily and quietly toward making their dreams realities. They often get pegged as loners in the workplace, and tend to intimidate their co-workers, often without meaning to. Scorpios don’t tend to enjoy being subordinate – they would much rather just be the boss, free to make their own decisions, especially around aesthetics and design.

Scorpio women usually have a very clear idea of how they think things should go, and will only share power or control with other signs whose vision they innately respect. They work well with other signs who are similarly quietly powerful, but generally have no time for bombast or showboating – especially if the person with lots of opinions makes no real effort to back any of their talk up with actual results. Scorpios have a serious reputation for getting inside people’s heads, and due to their love of psychology, can easily manipulate others to get what they want. This isn’t always used for sinister purposes – in fact, Scorpio women can often excel in sales positions, because they will use their intuitive traits to determine what their customers really want and how to make them feel most at ease. But should you ever stand in the way of something a Scorpio truly wants, prepare to get steadily worn down over time – because these women are completely relentless when it comes to achieving their personal missions.

Once they set an intention, they will do whatever it takes to reach that goal, regardless of the desires of others around them. These women do what they say they’re going to do and have a way of making it all look easy – always carrying themselves through even the most difficult and trying workdays with panache and grace.

When shopping for a Scorpio woman, remember always that though her tastes might be a bit unusual or spooky, she won’t appreciate anything tatty or cheap. You might choose for her something truly bizarre, like a beautiful skull or vintage taxidermy – though make sure it’s something she would actually display in her home. Framed butterflies or moths make a perfect gift for this sign that rules over the cycles of death and rebirth, transformation, and the metamorphosis of the soul, which butterflies symbolize. All the better if you can find a framed set that includes a scorpion, her symbol. Snakes and serpents are another Scorpio symbol, and also bring to mind death and rebirth with their shedding of skin.

While snakeskin printed items may not appeal, jewelry depicting snakes usually will – especially if extremely realistic, or ethnic/geometric. Exotic items from other countries, particularly textiles or costume elements, will usually delight your Scorpio woman. Think unusual hats, headdresses, caftans, or flowing robes. Perfumes and body oils in spicy, heavy scents, and resinous fragrances will often appeal, as well as hard-to-find herbs and spices for her cooking. Anything related to the occult, human psychology, diverse cultures, and sexuality will definitely interest her – especially vintage books on these subjects. Exquisite underthings and fancy lingerie will please your Scorpio woman, who may be dressed in relatively simple head-to-toe black (always a safe bet when purchasing outerwear for her), but choose bras, undies, and lacy bodysuits in shades like heliotrope, cerise, electric chartreuse, and vermilion.

―SCORPIO WOMAN: PERSONALITY TRAITS, LOVE & MORE

[cbraxs]

Warped [Time Warp Trio Fanfiction] - Chapter 9

Time stood still as Izzy stared at the ghost in front of her. A million thoughts and feelings rumbled around in her chest like a rock inside a tumble machine. The little girl—her, she realized— and her mother looked at Izzy obliviously. But there was a split-second of shock on her mom’s face as she glanced from Izzy to The Book.

Just as quickly, her mother composed herself and fixed Izzy with a polite smile. “Oh, hello. Didn’t mean to bother you. Enjoying your trip?”

“I, uh, no, I mean, y-you you...”

Nice, Izzy. Real nice.

Her mother didn’t notice Izzy’s lack of composure. “Do you mind taking a picture of me and my little girl? It’s her first time in Ptolemaic Egypt.”

Izzy noticed that her voice caught on her, as if she caught herself from saying something else.

She nodded mechanically and took the cheap disposable camera from her past self.

Izzy looked back at her mother, wondering if she recognized her. Izzy was certain that she heard her call her “mom”, but she stood there, regarding Izzy like a total stranger. Maybe her shock was from seeing another time warper here? Still, her mom looking at her like she didn’t know her made Izzy’s heart ache.

Her mom picked up Baby Izzy, who giggled as she was lifted into the air. Izzy aimed the camera at mother and daughter. Seeing them through the viewfinder should have lent a degree of separation from Izzy and the situation, but it just made it all the more surreal.

As Izzy snapped the picture, Baby Izzy pointed up at the sky in amazement. “Look, Mama!”

Izzy looked to see a ball of light streaking its way across the bright blue sky. Was it green? It disappeared in a flash before she could get a good look.

“A shooting star,” her mother said. “Make a wish, Isadora.”

Izzy had to remind herself that her mother wasn’t speaking to her. Well, not the her her in the present. Past tense her in the past. Jeez, this was confusion.

Baby Izzy clasped her hands and shut her eyes so tight her it made her nose wrinkle. Izzy wished she could remember what she wished for.

“Thank you,” her mother said, flashing her with a bright smile that made Izzy’s heart sink even further. “Enjoy the rest of your trip. C’mon, Malpua. Let’s go see the sphinx before we have to go back to Daddy.”

Baby Izzy waved goodbye as she walked off hand-in-hand with her mother. Watching them go, Izzy felt like someone had tied her stomach into a hundred knots. A dozen emotions gripped at her heart and clogged her throat: sadness, confusion, anger, guilt. Especially guilt. It felt like someone rammed an ice pick into her chest, and the cold was spreading throughout her being like cracks in a glass.

She’d been so focused on finding her dad, she’d never thought about saving Mom. Izzy had years to come to terms with her life without her mom, but now, after seeing her again after so long, the idea of going back and stopping that accident—

No. No, no, no, no, no. No. Thinking about that would drive Izzy nuts. Her dad’s warning about not changing the past came back to her. He was right. Right now, she had to put the thought of rescuing her mom to the side and focus on finding her dad. She had to. She had to.

Izzy went to pick The Book back up, but stopped when she realized that she still had the camera. She had to return it. If she didn’t, that cause problems with the spacetime continuum, right? And since she was returning the camera, maybe she could at least talk to her mom a little while longer? She had The Book, and instructions on how to get back home. It wasn’t like she was in any immediate danger.

She stared longingly at her mother’s retreating form, ignoring the voice inside her head that nagged her to back to her friends ASAP. She looked at The Book one last time before scooping it up and deciding to follow her mom.

~*~

Joe paced back and forth in Izzy’s living room and tried not to freak out (with mixed results).

Izzy could have been anywhere and anywhen, stuck someplace in time without anyone watching her back. Whenever Joe warped in the past, he was always with friends, Anna, or the girls. He always had someone to look out for him so even in the worst of times he had someone he could rely on. If things went south, both Izzy and The Book could be in danger.

“Think, guys, think. There’s gotta be something we can do to get her back.”

“There's not much we can do,” Sam said, slumping on the breakfast bar table. “Izzy has The Book, there’s no way we can help her, much less get to her.”

Fred turned to Sam. “Didn’t your grandpa Dima give you that pocket watch that Samantha has? Can’t we use that?”

Sam shook his head. “It just a normal pocket watch now. And it’s not like I would even know where to begin turning it into a time travel device.”

Not to mention even if Sam could do that, it wouldn’t help them find out where and when she went, but Joe was too worried to bother pointing that out.

“Well, what about your uncle?” Fred asked Joe. “He’s gotta be able to help us out.”

Joe stopped in his tracks and dug his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll try his home phone.”

He dialed and waited. Just as he thought, his uncle wasn’t home. He left a message on the answering machine and sat back down at the breakfast bar.

Joe clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to work out his nerves. He hated feeling powerless and unable to help his friends, but there was nothing the three of them could do. Without The Book, they had no way of contacting the girls for help. Without The Book, they were three helpless kids whose friend went missing. All he could do is hope Izzy made it back home with her and The Book intact.

“She’s gonna be fine,” Joe said, mostly to himself. “She can handle herself.”

~*~

Izzy tried not to feel like a creepy voyeur as she watched her Mom and Baby self from behind the Sphinx’s paw (the camera in her hand didn’t help matters).

Baby Izzy marveled at the Great Sphinx of Giza as her mom told how it was built. Present Izzy didn’t remember much about this little trip, so she got to see The Sphinx for the first time.

The monument still had his nose and his braided beard intact, and even with the paint mostly faded, there were still remnants bright red, yellow, and blue pigment. Izzy was used to seeing it in textbooks and on TV as crumbly, unpainted bedrock, that seeing it unweathered was jarring, like coming home after a trip to see that your room was cleaned.

Even so, her attention wasn’t really focussed on the Sphinx. It was on her mother.

No one would ever mistake Izzy for her mother. Mom was a stunning beauty. Her features were sharper, her skin a lighter olive color than Izzy’s medium brown. They both shared brown hair, but her mother’s was warmer and richer, like dark chocolate.

One of the byproducts of being biracial was getting to look like both of your parent and neither of them at the same time. She wasn’t as dark as her dad (who was black) and she wasn’t as light as her mother (who was of Indian and Chinese descent). Don’t even ask her where her green eyes came from.

She remembered how kids in elementary school would make fun of her: calling her ugly or adopted or whatever. She’d disregarded those childish taunts years ago and never took them seriously. Well, she tried not to take them seriously. Seeing how little she resembled her mother, even after all these years, it made Izzy feel… not bad, necessarily, just odd. She wondered if that made coming to terms with her mother’s death easier on her dad.

She shook these thoughts out of her head and tried to focus. For years, she thought about speaking to her mom one last time; all the things she wanted to say, the questions she had. But at that moment, she was frozen by the panicky swarm of moths frenzying in her chest.

Izzy took a deep breath. It shouldn’t be that hard. All she had to do was walk up to her and say, “Hi, I’m Izzy, your daughter from the future where you’ve been dead for several years, oh, and by the way, dad’s been gone for weeks, but don’t ask me where he went. I’ve got no idea going on, please help me, how are you?”

… okay…  so this was going to be way harder than she’d previously thought.

She sunk to the ground, her back resting against the Sphinx’s paw. What was she even doing? Meeting dead relatives must be against some sort of time law or something, right? And even if it wasn’t, being here could nothave been good for her emotional health. Seeing her mom alive tore opened old scars. She should’ve warped home when she had the chance.

Izzy was considering leaving the camera on the Sphinx’s paw for her mom to find when suddenly, there was a whirring noise followed by a flash of golden light on the other side of the Sphinx.

Her mother gasped. She said, her voice low and guarded, “What are you doing here?”

“Really, Dulari?” said another voice— a man. “Is that any way to greet an old friend? I remember you being so much more polite.”

Izzy frowned. She was certain she’d never heard the other voice before. Still, there was something nagging her in the back of her mind, telling her this voice was familiar. It was in the way he talked, how he pronounced his words. Dread bubbled in the pit of her stomach.

She risked a look over the Sphinx’s paw to see the man who’d suddenly appeared, and nearly screamed.

“You haven’t answered my question, Jack,” Izzy’s mother said. “What are you doing out of jail?”

Izzy dropped back behind the Sphinx's paw, clutching The Book to her chest. This was not good, this was not good at all. She’d recognized Mad Jack instantly. He was older than when she saw him at the museum, but it was no doubt the same man, with the same unruly hair, and dark eyes, but instead of a janitor uniform, he wore a black cloak over a suit. He carried a tall silver cane topped with a glowing green hourglass.

Did he see her? She waited to be called out and exposed, but Mad Jack kept talking as if he hadn’t noticed her.

“As it happens,” she heard Mad Jack say, “I am on parole for good behavior.”

A derisive laugh from her mom. “Funny.”

“It’s the honest truth. I am a changed man.”

Slowly, Izzy chanced to peak over again. Her mom had placed herself between Baby Izzy and Mad Jack, a polite but insincere smile stretched across her face. It was clear she was putting on a cordial act for Baby Izzy, trying not to scare her.

Baby Izzy looked confusedly between her mother and Mad Jack. She tugged on her mother’s sleeve. “W-what’s wrong, Mommy?”

Mom’s eyes immediately softened at her daughter. She tentatively glanced at Mad Jack before smiling and crouching to Baby Izzy’s eye level. “It’s nothing, Malpua. Why don’t you go play by the Sphinx’s tail. Build me a pretty sand castle.”

Her hands glowed green with the aura of magic. When it died, she was holding a shovel and pail. Without hesitation, Baby Izzy grabbed them and skipped away.

Mad Jack watched her happily dig into the sand, leering in disgust as if she was a walking wad of gum. “What is that?”

He said “that” like one might say cockroach or math homework.

Her mom stood, her glare back tenfold. “That is my daughter, Jack.”

“Your...” he looked from mother and daughter in disbelief before his face settled back on disgust. “It doesn’t look a thing like you.”

Rage flashed in Mom’s eyes. Izzy was shocked; she’d never seen her mother so angry before.

Her mom sighed and crossed her arms. “‘A changed man’, huh? You see why I find that so hard to believe?”

“Is this about what happened to that foolish brother of mine?”

“After what you did to Joe, you have the nerve to insult—”

Mad Jack huffed indignantly like a spoiled child. “Oh, for the last time, I did not kill my brother! He got himself killed.”

“Protecting The Book  from you!”

“Precisely! If that useless fool would’ve done what he was told, he’d be alive and The Book wouldn’t be missing.”

Izzy’s mind reeled. That was a lot to take in at once. They were obviously talking about Joe’s uncle. They referred to him as being dead, but he couldn’t have been. Joe talked about his uncle all the in the present tense and never once mentioned him being deceased, but they clearly believed he was. Not only that, but The Book was apparently missing, too.

She didn’t understand what was going on, or what to make of this, or why her mom was still giving Mad Jack the time of day, but her mother had a handle on the situation. She seemed more annoyed than fearful by Mad Jack’s sudden appearance.

Izzy needed to leave. The faster she warped home, the safer she’d be.

But she couldn’t bring herself to move. She knew this is the day. The memory was still hazy, but she recognized this as the day her mother warned her about Mad Jack. She still had so many questions, none of which would be answers if she warped now. She had to know what happened, why Mad Jack was here, and what he wanted from her mom.

So she stayed put, crouched behind the Sphinx. As Izzy eavesdropped, she silently flipped to the transporter page. In case things went south she would need a quick escape.

Her mother sighed again, bringing Izzy out of her thoughts. “We’re going in circles, Jack. Tell me what do you want. I know you’re not here for a friendly visit.”

Mad Jack stood straight and adjusted himself. “Very well. I’ll get right to the point. I need your help.”

Her mom cocked a brow. “With what exactly?”

“With The Book  missing, there is a power vacuum in the universe that needs to be filled. I propose we should the ones to fill it.”

“You mean—”

“We make a new Book .”

Make a new Book ? Was that even possible? Izzy guessed it had to be, otherwise The Book  wouldn’t exist in the first place, but something told her that the amount of magic needed to make something so powerful wasn’t as easy Mad Jack made it seem.

Magic operated on equal exchange. In order to do anything, you needed to sacrifice something in return, be it ingredients or energy. Doing something like levitating a basketball required next to no energy since carrying a basket ball was something she could do with no effort, but complicated spells always tended to make Izzy tired and hungry. She couldn’t fathom the amount of energy it would take to create something like The Book. It wasn’t just a time machine, it was all of time and space contained in a single book. The amount of magic needed to create something like that must be absolutely astronomical.

“We’ll need additional help,” Mad Jack went on. “I believe da Vinci may be the only man in history up to the task.”

“Da Vinci?’ Mom asked incredulously. “And how do you plan to get to him? Em timeblocked you from the entire Renaissance.”

A dismissive wave of his hand. “Timeblocks? Bah! You know as well as I that those are, at best, a Band-Aid solution against any skilled warper. All I need is to try warping to every available day until I find the gap to exploit.”

“The definition of insanity…” her mom muttered and rubbed her temples. “So let me get this straight: after all the times you’ve lied, cheated, and manipulated me and, well, everyone you’ve ever met, you want me to forget all that? Leave my family and my life behind to gallivant across time with you for your evil little project? You want me to siphon a deadly amount of energy so you get to be the king of everyone and everything forever and ever? Is that about right, Jack?”

Mad Jack’s eye twitched, but he exhaled and tried to act calm. “I promise you won’t have to make that sacrifice, Dulari. I believe I’ve found away to get the energy we need without any death—”

“No, no, no. Stop. Just stop. Even if I believed you, I wouldn’t help you.”

“Dulari—”

Mad Jack went to grab her by the shoulder, but her mom seized his hand before she could.

She glowered at Mad Jack, the hand holding his wrist shaking. “You. Don’t. Touch. Me. Ever. Ever.” She threw his hand down.

Mad Jack rubbed his wrist, but otherwise looked unperturbed by her actions. He stared at her, unimpressed. “Answer me this one thing. This little domestic life of yours,” a sideways glance at Baby Izzy, “is it enough for you?”

“I’m not even going to entertain–”

“You were—are— Dulari the Daring, Warp Witch extraordinaire. I saw you go toe-to-toe with Black Beard himself. You once single-handedly liberated smuggled artifacts of Thonis from Bonefat’s crew and landed a Lockheed Vega on an island in the Bermuda triangle in the middle of a hurricane.

“Now what are you up to? Making lunches and changing diapers? Surely you must miss the adventure? That is what I’m offering you: the life of adventure you worked so hard to get. The life of adventure I know you crave.”

Her mother looked at him, her expression unreadable. Izzy feared for a moment her Mom might be swayed by Mad Jack speech.

But then she laughed harshly without any joy. “You’re forgetting something, Jack.” She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You were the reason I was on the Queen Ann’s Revenge. I was stopping you from stealing documents that would lead to events that would spiral out of control and cause the Civil War to last three times as long.”

Mad Jack frowned. He looked like he wanted to counter her point, but her mom went on.

May I also remind you that you,” she jabbed her finger into his chest, “were also a part of Bonefat’s little scumbag crew. And I never got to thank you for that trip to Bermuda Triangle. It was you who banished me there when I wouldn’t kowtow to you anymore! Those weren’t great accomplishments and feats, that was me making up for—”

She took a shaky breath before continuing. “You cannot manipulate me like this anymore. If you think offering me the chance to go back to being your little portable battery who gets to clean up after you is going to make me want to abandon my family, you’re crazier than I thought.”

Anger flared in Mad Jack’s eyes. He gripped his cane so tight his knuckles turned pale. “You haven’t seen crazy.”

The hourglass on his cane glowed blindingly bright, and Izzy’s heart went into overdrive. She recognized the energy emanating from the cane. The Book  still in hand and without thinking, she leapt over the Sphinx’s paw and ran at him. “Stop!”

She was ready to shove him, push him away, do anything to protect her mom from that psycho’s attack. There was a buzzing in her ears. Green lightning sparked from beside her and struck Mad Jack square in the chest. He sailed through the air and crash-landed a couple yards away, dirt flying in every direction.

Izzy barely noticed how heavy she was breathing as stared she at Mad Jack’s body embedded two feet into the ground. What was that? She brought a hand to her ears, fingers brushing against her earrings. A familiar warmth tingled at her fingertips. Magic.

Mom stared at her in utter shock. Her face jumped from surprised to panic as she looked from her to Baby Izzy to Mad Jack stirring, about to getting up.

Her mother fixed her with a stern look. “You need to leave right now.”

“B-but I—” Izzy stammered.

“Now!”

Her mom’s sharp look soften to a sweet smile as she addressed Baby Izzy, “Stay back, Malpua.”

She yanked off the necklace she wore. The gold grew and morphed, resembling the handle of a brief case. From the glowing green jewel, a curved blade shaped like a butcher’s knife formed, growing bright green with magic.

Izzy faltered, but did as she was told. She ripped through the pages to find the transporter page again. But as she found it, a million volts of electricity shot up her spine sending spasms upon painful spasms throughout her body. Her scream echoed in her ears. Her muscles locked up, and she collapsed into the sand, The Book  falling out of her hands.

Izzy’s heart stopped as Mad Jack stalked over to her, domineering, a nasty sneer on his face. There was a crazed look his eyes. His cane glowed violently hot. “How do you have that? Give it to me!” “No!” Her mother flew at Mad Jack, dagger drawn. Mad Jack brought his cane up in time to deflect the blade, but the force of her mother’s blow was enough to push the two of them back and outside of Izzy’s field of vision.

Izzy’s muscles jumped and twitched as she struggled to move. A million fire ants marched along her skin, sending jolts of lightning through her spine. The sound of combat mixed with bursts of magic raging on behind her was drowned out by the blood roaring in her ears.

It took her a moment to register the sobbing next to her. She managed to turn her head to see Baby Izzy in her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her tiny hands fisted Izzy’s shirt, trying to get her to up.

“P-please!” Baby Izzy begged. “Help Mama!”

It’s strange to watch yourself cry, Izzy thought, even if it was a much younger version of yourself. Her body was still shaking from Mad Jack’s spell, but she pushed on and, with effort, managed to stand on shaky legs and grab The Book.

“Hide behind the Sphinx,” Izzy told her past self, “and don’t come out unless that man is gone, okay?”

She tried to force a confident smile like her mom, but it probably looked more like she was having an awkward stroke. Nevertheless, Baby Izzy nodded and ran behind the statue.

Izzy turned her attention back to the battle. Mad Jack and her mother fought, sword against dagger. Mom slashed at Mad Jack with the ferocity of a tiger, rolling out of the way when he brought the blade of the sword—his cane in another setting— down on her and dodging energy blasts like they were dodge balls.

What Mad Jack lacked in speed he made up for in power. The heat of his sword vitrified parts of the sand he hit whenever he missed her mom with his blade.

She realized how stupid it was of her to stay instead of leaving immediately. What was she even thinking? She couldn’t help her mom. She couldn't even fight on their level. And she didn’t know any spells that could help in combat (even if there was a basketball around, it wouldn’t do much to help). She was utterly powerless.

Or was she?

She touched her still warm earrings with a hand. She was still confused about them, but an idea— a reckless, stupid idea— began to form. Was this even a good idea?

Her mother’s pained cry shattered her thoughts. She collapsed in a heap on the ground, unmoving.

Izzy no longer had time to consider whether it was a good idea or not. She tightened her grip on The Book and rushed at Mad Jack. She was twenty feet away, ten...

Mad Jack reared on her. “Not so fast!”

He shot a spell at her and she froze. Pins pricked at her skin, a green aura dancing around her.

Mad Jack stalked towards Izzy, staring at her quizzically, like she was a magic eye picture he couldn’t quite make out. He stopped himself from getting too close and snarled at her.

“You’re that girl from the museum. Aren’t you?”

Izzy didn’t answer, not that she would if she could. Her jaw felt like it was bolted shut with industrial screw. She narrowed her eyes and tightened her grip on The Book  with her limited mobility.

Mad Jack made a flippant wave of his hand. “No matter. You have something that belongs to me!”

To Izzy’s surprise, Jack relinquished the spell on her. Izzy’s knees wobbled as she regained control of her body.

“I am going to give you one chance,” Mad Jack said. “Hand over The Book, no funny business, no tricks, or—” He aimed the cane at her chest. “—I’ll hit you with a spell that’ll have you spending the rest of eternity as a million molecules scattered across time and space!”

A lump formed in Izzy’s throat. There was no doubt in her mind he would with no hesitation.

At the same time, she couldn’t hand over The Book to him. She thought about what her mother said about Mad Jack stealing documents that would prolong the Civil War, and she shuddered. She couldn’t imagine the amount damage Mad Jack could do to history if he got his hands on The Book.

Her eyes flickered from the cane threatening to end her, to Mad Jack’s irritated face, to The Book in her arms, and she knew what she had to.

“I-I’m not going to throw it to you,” Izzy said, hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. “I’ll set it down and back away. P-please don’t hurt me.”

“I won’t,” Mad Jack said. “So long as you do what you are told like a good little warp runt.”

Izzy glowered at him, but she did as she was told. She bent to place The Book  on the ground...

...then sprung forward, barreling straight at Mad Jack, Book still in hand. Magic sparked from her earrings. Mad Jack unleashed a bolt of energy at her. The Book  absorbed the brunt of the attack, but it was still enough to send her flying.

She landed hard on her back, plumes dust settling around her. The Book glitched and jump in her arms. Her head spun as she struggled to her feet and spat out sand.

Unfortunately, Mad Jack was still up. Smoke curled from his cloak. His monocle was popped, and his eyes dark with rage. “You better hope that stunt of yours didn’t damage The Book you little brat!—”

Mad Jack paused. A green light surrounded his body. Her mom stepped out from behind him, her arm outstretched to maintain the spell. Beads of sweat dripped down her face. Her hair was disheveled and there were scratches all over her face and arms, but Izzy was relieved to see she was okay.

With her free hand, her mom pulled out a silver pocket watch. She pressed the face of the watch, and a beam of yellow light shot at him, shrinking his form to the size of a baseball before floating away into the sky and disappearing in a pop!

Once he’d vanished, her mom sighed and slumped over, clutching her shoulder and grimacing. There was a smoldering hole where her clothes had burned away.

“Mama!”

Baby Izzy ran from behind the Sphinx towards her mother. Mom stopped holding her shoulder and hid her pained face behind a strained but serene smile. Her short blade turned back into a necklace, and she put it back on before kneeling to hug Baby Izzy.

Izzy watched in silence as Baby Izzy trembled and babbled incoherently to her mom, who in turned smoothed her hair and murmured comfortingly to her daughter.

Finally, the two pulled apart. Izzy’s mom wiped her baby’s tears and spoke softly: “Listen to me, Isadora. Don’t trust the madman with the monocle. He is dangerous, Malpua. You see him, you run. Anywhere. Any when. And you don’t ever, ever let him get you. Ever.”

Baby Izzy nodded, tears still spilling from her eyes. The image of them blurred, and Izzy realized her eyes were watering. She wiped her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat, but there was a still a heaviness in her chest.

“I hope you know how to use that thing.”

Izzy nearly dropped The Book. She was so wrapped up in her jumbled thoughts, she barely noticed her mom was standing in front of her, carrying Baby Izzy on her hip.

“I, uh, well… kinda?”

“Kinda, huh?” She laughed. “Kinda is good enough. You need to go before he comes back. I’m not sure how you have it, but you need to keep The Book safe. What you have in your hands is the most powerful and potentially destructive item in the entire universe. It is incredibly important that it never falls into the hands of the monsters who would abuse it.”

And with that, she pulled up her pocket watch again, ready to warp away.

“Wait!” Izzy cried.

Her mom froze and looked at her, surprised. Izzy didn’t know what came over her. She’d already overstayed her welcome, and she didn’t want to run into Mad Jack again. But… there was something she needed to know.

Izzy rubbed her arm, feeling self-conscious. “Do you… do you know who I am?”

Her mom’s stunned face melted into a warm smile. With her free hand cupped Izzy’s cheek, and Izzy nearly burst into tears. She brought her hands to rest on her mother’s. So many things she wanted to tell her rushed to her lips all at once, leaving her tongue-tied.

Before she could put together a coherent thought, a yellow portal unraveled besides them. Izzy heartbeat hitched, afraid it was Mad Jack coming back for them. Her entire body hummed like every atom in her was vibrating. But it wasn’t fear doing that to her. It was magic.

Suddenly, a similar yellow energy enclosed around her. Before she was whisked away back to her time, she caught a glimpse of the man that warped there.

It wasn’t Mad Jack.

~*~

“I don’t think Izzy will appreciate you digging a trench in her house.”

Joe rolled his eyes at Fred’s remark but sat back at his stool. Waiting around and doing nothing made minutes feel like hours.

Sam cleaned his glasses for the umpteenth time. “There’s no point in stressing ourselves out. Worrying isn’t going to bring her back sooner.”

Just then, glowing yellow portal spiraled to life next to them, revealing Izzy. She staggered on her legs and collapsed on her knees.

Sam blinked. “I stand corrected.”

Joe jumped, Sam and Fred right behind him, and help her stand. “Izzy! Are you okay?”

“Where did you go?” Sam asked next.

“And why are you covered in sand?” Fred asked.

Izzy took a ragged breath, shutting down the rest of their questions. On top of being covered in dirt, she was covered in cuts. One of her pigtails was undone. There was a haunted look in her watery eyes, like whatever happened on her warp must have freaked her out.

“Sorry, sorry,” Joe said, backing off. “We shouldn’t have all jumped on you like that.”

Izzy swallowed. “It’s okay, guys. I...” She handed The Book  back to Joe. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to steal your Book.”

Joe frowned. She was worried about that? Of course The Book was important, but so was her safety. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Joe was relieved to see her smile, a true smile that eased away the pained lines etched on her face.

Behind him, Sam cleared his throat. “I think he means that we’re just glad you’re okay.”

Joe scratched the back of his head. “Right. That’s what I said.”

Fred snorted. “Anyway, you wanna explain what the heck happened? Looks like you got a story.”

Izzy laughed, but it sounded hollow and bitter. She dusted off some sand on her shirt. Tears swelled in her eyes but didn’t fall. “Yeah, that’s… that’s one way to say it, I guess.”

Joe placed a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to tell us if it’s too much.”

“No, I do, really I... I   need a moment. Are there any Brownies of Coping left?”

Surprisingly, Fred hadn’t scarfed all the brownies down yet. They all sat around the breakfast bar as Izzy began to tell everything that happened to her from the beginning.

~*~

Anthony J. Shabazz sat at Mabel’s diner— a rest stop at the end of time– and tried not to reignite. Smoke billowed from his clothes and skin, and he was sure embers stilled smoldered in his hair. His latest brush with death in a gladiator stadium left him particularly famished and, thankfully, Mabel’s served their famous waffles all the time.

The diner wasn’t too crowded. There were a couple of warpers in booths, all wearing attire from ancient to modern to futuristic. Some he recognized, like Napoleon and Amelia Earhart, but most were strangers. Stars and galaxies glimmered outside, but his attention was on the notes and clues he’s gathered on Mad Jack so far.

The timeblocks placed on Jack over the years made it harder to track him, but Anthony had hoped certain precautionary measures he placed on himself would keep Mad Jack from being able to sense him. But with all the time-hopping Jack did, Anthony felt like he might as well have slapped blaring sirens and flashing lights to his head before he went after Jack.

From medieval England, to Feudal Japan, to ancient Rome, to even the nineteen-thirties, Mad Jack would pop in and steal something of magical value and leave just as quickly. Outside of using the Lapis Manalis to taunt him a few weeks ago with that storm (he knew he shouldn’t have told Jack thunderstorms made him sneezy), he hadn’t used or traded or bartered with any of them. Anthony would have dismissed this as typical Mad Jack shenanigans: stealing stuff just because he could and he wanted to. But there was something about all of this Anthony was struggling to stitch together.

“You look like you’ve been through Hell, Shabazz.”

Anthony blinked and looked to see an old friend. A fair-skinned woman in a pantsuit and colorful headscarf stood in next of him. She licked her fingers and put out a flame still smoldering in his hair.

“Thanks, Mihrimah,” Anthony said with a wry smile.

She slid into the booth across from him and sat, back erect and hands clasped. Even in a diner, she exuded an unmistakable regal air around her. “What happened?”

“Rome happened to me.”

Mihrimah cringed. “What is this, the fifth—no sixth— time this happened? You know you have the worst luck in Rome.”

Anthony shrugged and took a swig of his coffee. “Are you stalking me, Em?”

She gave him a look. “Clearly someone needs to keep tabs on you. Just because you don’t work with me anymore doesn’t mean I won't check up on you. How’s the hunt going?”

Anthony groaned and ran a hand over his face.

“I’m guessing not well?”

Anthony massaged his brow. “I traced and retraced Mad Jack’s steps a hundred time over, but I don’t see what his endgoal is. I don’t get how this relates to Isadora.”

Mihrimah leaned forward and cupped his hand. “I can assign my agents to this case. You can go home and be with your daughter. You don’t have to be the one to do this.”

That was so tempting. He thought about turning this case over to Mihrimah and her agents at least a dozen times a week. Every day he thought about Isadora, how lonely she must be; how confused she must be. Even though he was doing this all for her sake, it made him feel guilty to leave his daughter behind again as he searched for answers.

Then he thought about Mad Jack, and that strengthened his resolve.

“Isadora is my child,” Anthony said, his eyes trained on his coffee. “My only living family. I can’t standby and let others handle this. He went after my wife before. There is no way on earth I’ll let Mad Jack lay a hand on my daughter. He needs to be stopped once and for all. I’ve got to do this.”

Mihrimah nodded and didn’t try to argue, instead fixing him with a grim look. Anthony knew her long enough to know that look meant she was hiding something from him, but he also knew her well enough to know that whatever she was hiding, she wasn’t about to share. He’d have an easier job prying secrets from a cuttlefish.

“Alright,” Mihrimah said finally. “But I worry about her safety.”

He took another sip of his coffee then said, “As long as she has those earrings and does what she was told, Isadora will be completely safe. And as long as she doesn’t try to contact me, she’ll—”

An electric jolt shot through Anthony’s spine to his head, shocking his brain like a cattle prod. He muffled a pained groan, clenching his coffee mug hard enough to nearly shatter the ceramic.

Oh no.

Mihrimah frowned. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“T-the coffee,” Anthony lied. He dabbed spilled coffee off of his notes with a napkin. “It was too hot. Burned my tongue.”

He hoped Mihrimah hadn’t noticed him gritting his teeth.

Just then, the robo-waitress came by to top off his coffee, saving him from being asked any more questions. She offered Mihrimah a cup, but she waved it away, a small look of distaste on her face.

“I never did care for this place,”  Mihrimah said. “The food is delicious, but the prices are extortion.”

Anthony nodded, half-listening. He tried to ignore his throbbing head.

Mihrimah frowned, her dark, harlequin eyes studying him intensely. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

He tried to blink away the pulsing behind his eyes and forced a smile. “It was only a light scalding. I’ve endured hotter circumstances than that.”

Her expression was hard to decipher. Mihrimah had an infamous cock-and-bull detector. Fortunately, an alarm on her work phone went off. She pulled out her phone and frowned at the screen.

“Duty calls. I’ve got to run.” She clicked a button. It morphed into a black pocket watch decorated with intricate designs etched along the front and sides. The face hummed with a purple light. “Be careful out there, alright?”

“You worry too much, Em. I’ll be fine.”

She smiled softly before disappearing in a purple glow.

As soon as she was gone, Anthony’s shoulders sagged and he let out a groan of pain he was holding back. He knew trusting Joe was iffy. Not that his old friend was untrustworthy, but he had a tendency to be pretty flighty. Still, how could he have even let her try to warp, especially to him? Didn’t Joe understand the risk? At least now he knew that spell he placed on himself worked correctly.

As the pain subsided, the robo-waitress rolled by and placed the check on the table. “Whenever you’re ready, hun.”

“Please, allow me.”

Anthony looked in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. A dark-skinned man in a fez and a white tunic stood by his table. His outfit wasn’t the most surprising thing about him; most patrons at the diner wore bizarre clothes. The oddest thing about him was the wide grin on his face that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

The robo-waitress shrugged and rolled away. “Makes no difference to me.”

Anthony studied the strange new man. “Thank you, sir. But do I, uh—”

“Forgive me, I haven’t properly introduced myself. I am Hammonri, at your service.

The man sat across from him, and Anthony realized his eyes weren't just cold and distant. They were glazed over and blank, with nothing behind them, as if the man was sleepwalking. It sent shivers down Anthony’s spine.

“Well, thank you, Hammonri,” Anthony said. “That was quite kind of you.”

“No need to thank me. I am simply doing my master’s will. He sent me to, uh, personally deliver an invitation.”

He handed Anthony a mask. It was a domino mask, gold and green and angular. At the top of the mask was a blazing sun with a face carved on it.

Anthony frowned and turned the mask over in his hands. “And who exactly is your master?”

That unsettling grin grew wider. “Why, it’s an old friend.”

[cloudwomensquarterly]

Zoriada and Marisol from SanTana’s Fairy Tales Written By Sarah Raphael Garcia

The following story appears in SanTana's Fairy Tales and is reprinted with permission from Raspa Magazine.

Zoriada and Marisol

     I am an enchanted woman named Zoraida.

     But of course you already know my name. You knew me when I was alive.

     In this life, I reign from far, far above the castles and queens. I travel by whispers, wishes upon the North Star and hushed weeps. Just like you called upon me in midst of bloody murmurs, wishing for death to ease the pain. Some call me death, others the Godmother of life.

     In my last life I too thought it was my fate to die as a woman on a night like tonight. But death came just too soon, leaving me trapped between other’s lives and my own.

     I was an unfamiliar name in a city filled with dreamers. I was strong like the palm trees swaying in the Santa Ana winds and lyrical as the parrots living under the green, mama bird-like wings of the Pacific Coast palm trees. My legs, long and silky, danced to their own melody without any awkward stumbling or mispronounced schemes.

     Fortunes—I had none.

     My purse was of more value than the coins clinking in its deep corners and melancholy was my lover leading me into the bitter sea. Still, I lugged my stitched heart in weary arms— leaving it exposed to everyone I passed on the dark, twisted streets.

     I was inspiring, so you kept saying when you spoke of me. But now, I appear in reflections, cupped hands and wishes.

     For as long as I could remember, I wanted to twirl my long hair between china-red fingertips and blush when I cupped my breasts in front of the standing mirror. I wanted a man to caress my curves, from my hips to my puckered lips. But to most, my type of love was forbidden—cursed by society like the familiar tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.

     Love—I thought I would find it.

     But when my limp body was found, winded and pale as the ocean’s spume, it cast a shadow over those close to my heart, leaving only the jagged sounds of shattered dreams and a person by another name—the name I was given at birth, not the real me.

     Before I tell you what is to become of you, please keep breathing. As painful as it might be, I plead for you to keep breathing—at the end I will ask for your wish, I promise you that.

     When I was at my last breath, I regretted believing someone would actually love me and wished for death. You think you prefer not feeling anything but the truth is your despair has summoned my presence—because we are the same. Like you, I too was first called a boy at birth. A boy who stared at other boys and envied the red ribbons the girls wore in their long wavy hair. It was a girl who helped me see who I really was.

     “I like your eyelashes. You would make a pretty girl.” She was ten like me, and wore an eyelet dress with matching socks.

     “But I’m a boy.” I was dressed in jeans and plain t-shirt my mother picked out for me.

     “Those boys are mean to you. Do you want to pretend to be a girl and play with me?” I still remember her, she was the first to accept me.

     Before I could fully see beyond my own skin and feel the moths flutter wildly in my heart.

     But really it could have been anyone thereafter: my mother, my only sister, my first lover—all paid me a compliment about my soft skin, perfect lips and almond shaped eyes. It wasn’t until many years later my hair became my true beauty.

     Back then my name was Gabriel. My mother said she chose my name because I was her little angel. I wonder what all their birth names were before I helped them die. I learned to never ask. The names they give us do not affect who really are.

     Here, let move your hair out of your eyes. Your curls are such a pretty shade of caramel, perfect with your brown skin. It saddens me to see it fading. Doesn’t the lavender oil feel good on your temples? I used to rub it on myself after a “bad” day. I should’ve taught you more when I was alive.

     My mother taught me about the healing powers of the oils as a boy. I think my mother knew then it would be the only thing she could pass on to me to heal myself. Lavender is for balancing, soothing, normalizing, calming, relaxing, and healing. Ginger for warming, strengthening, anchoring. And oregano oil is invigorating, purifying and uplifting. But my favorite of all is jasmine—it induces calmness, relaxation, sensuality, and romance. My mother often reminded me of the healing pur- poses of all the oils, even when I jerked away angrily at fifteen because I told her she should’ve taught me to fight instead.

     I added some jasmine on your wrists. You will be able to smell it later, should you choose to live.

     I remember the first time I was beaten by the neighborhood boys. They never liked me. They called me names my mother would never approve of, “Joto,” “Faggot,” and “Maricón.” I never told my mother why they chased me down the alley. I just told her they were boys from another neighborhood. That’s when my mother started chanting all the remedies. Often, on the day after applying oils on my face and limbs, my mother gave me a cup of ginger and arnica tea with breakfast. She also gave me a lemon lightly covered with honey, in case the tea left a bad taste in my mouth. Lemon is uplifting, refreshing, cheering. I say honey is just as sweet as a rose at your nose tip and solely to indulge. My mother would say it was anti-inflammatory, to help with the bruises. Should you decide to get up, I left some honey and lemon on your table, all you have to do is boil water. I do hope you choose to get up but I will understand if you don’t.

     At nineteen, I ran into my mother’s house blubbering tears. When she asked what happened. I spat the words out as if she had always known. I didn’t try to ease her into my real identity or even try to confront her with it. She saw me in pain and did what came natural to her.

     “Mijo, who hurt you? Come here, come here, let your mama hold you.”

     “Mama, it hurts so much.”

     “Where mijo, show me where. I will get my oils.”        “No, don’t go. Mama, he used me, he used me. He told me he loved me. And I just gave myself to him.”            Instantly, my mother dropped her arms. I looked at her and called for her, “Mama?” She just stared at me without any words. I knew then it would be hard for her to understand. I knew then everything would be harder and I would have to learn to heal myself. And although my mother never asked me to leave her home, I felt it was necessary, out of respect. On my last day, she burnt sage around my body before I walked out the door. But I couldn’t continue with the silence, it was like sucking on a lemon with cracked lips.

     I’m sure you have a similar story. We all do. I don’t ever assume mine is the worst. At the time I thought it was best we didn’t share our pasts, but now I wish I could’ve told you more when I was alive. We all feel pain differently, some of us know how to heal ourselves, others don’t know anything else but pain.

     Look how they left you, how did you even make it into the apartment? And your beautiful dress, did they really have to rip it in three places? You are such a beautiful woman, skin softer than all I have ever felt.

     I see the sewing machine in the corner, a new fabric hanging from the needle. You know, that’s how I managed to pay for my own change.

     I see myself now reduced to a skeleton in a hand stitched cloak. I have shed all the layers of flesh, skin and gender. You’ll look like this when you’re dead too. How trivial our differences become, between lives. In my last life, I did succeed in becoming a woman, the only part of me you knew. We are a lot alike. We both hungered to be accepted, I succumbed to the death of it. You want to stop the pain; I now regret wishing it away.

     But I didn’t know I was coming to heal you.

     I only realized you were calling for death when I entered this apartment.

     When I first moved out of my mother’s home I found myself wandering through days in no particular direction. I lived in this same small apartment, making the living room my stage, such as you did too. The man who took me in was not a lover. Sometimes he would say he found me in his own reflection, like a walking mirror reassuring his presence; other times, he’d say I found him, like an abandoned newborn fawn wobbles towards a horse for comfort. Once he claimed he saved me, without saying from what. But now I know, his guidance prolonged my life to be what I am now.

     I remember very little of the first year out of my mother’s home. But I do recall the sun rising after I left the apartment, sometimes several hours later. I knew I was on a path, something better than before, and possibly a change, though I can’t remember ever contemplating these things on my way to the warehouse where I worked as a packmule. The man said there would be times when the sunrise would make me smile. Yet, since the day I met him I only showed him the face of an orphaned child. He was rarely home when I returned after night fell. But with time, things did change. My hair grew longer and longer. I kept it just passed my shoulders. On the days I remained home from work the man taught me to sew. While the man dressed himself before leaving for the night, he spent the time lecturing me about drag etiquette and giving a hands-on lesson on how to convert woman’s clothing to compliment our bodies.

     “Remember, inhale while you zip-up. Exhale when you tousle your hair. Scream when you need to, because we all need to scream when we do.

     “Pat your lips before walking out the door. And shower yourself in the scent you wish to perspire.

     “If anyone, and I mean anyone honey—man or woman— even looks at you with disgust, just blow them a kiss as you pass them by. Be who you are, walk tall and mighty like a queen.”

     He also gave me my first dress. He said he hoped it brought the same memories as it did him. I can’t say it ever did.

     The only clothes I had from the time before my change were the threads my mother provided, the plain white t-shirts she afforded with the labors of her healing. Instead of throwing them out, I used them for lining, to keep the one who taught me to heal close to me. I knew in her own way she showed me love.

     The man was my strength, as I hoped to be yours. The man told me he had to let me walk on my own. He gave me his room, with a closet full of beautiful dresses, and colorful accessories. Caddy corner from the sewing machine sat a vanity mirror covered with make-up tips and inspirational quotes— words I heard him tell me time and time again but I was too tired to make them my own.

     About a month after the man left, I began to use his things, tailored each piece to cling to my waist. It was in his absence that he taught me how to be a woman. I hoped to pass on my things to someone one day too.

     It is odd how you called to me when I first crossed your path. You were the first to compliment my hair, “I like your hair, reminds my of an onyx stone. Is it real?” I laughed, put my arms around you, teased you about your little boy clothes and brought you home the same night. You were my lost child of the night. But of course you probably do not remember your first year either. Or maybe you remember everything, and I’m just a foolish lost soul.

     I bet you thought you would never know what happened to me or why I left. I didn’t mean to leave you like this. It was an honor to see you bloom. Unlike me, you listened to my words and teachings like a starving child licking your lips over breadcrumbs. I never gifted you a first dress because you made it when I was gone—in one day. You wore it before your hair grew out and your curves filled it in. You were the fawn born a doe. I never say I found you because I know you saved me from me. You gave me the courage to face my change and to own my new name.

Zoraida. Marisol.      Like sisters. I was more like jasmine; you are more like ginger. We both healed each other.      Yet, it was I who fell for the wolf disguised in sheep’s coat. My prince promised me an untold fairytale. I wanted to keep him all for myself. I never shared his name or the details of our prelude. I left before you came home. I left wearing a new dress, carrying my finest purse and wearing matching shoes. I hoped to be swept off my feet and carried away in his arms. He did just that.

     My prince let me enjoy our shared meal and drink one glass of red wine. He offered me a ride home. The stars were out and my shoes were not made to walk the streets. How could I deny?

     I prepared myself for the good night kiss. Pushed my hair behind each ear, dabbed my lips lightly on a tissue to avoid leaving him marked. I would thank my prince shyly while looking up to his eyes.

     But before I could tell him where to turn, my prince drove in a different direction. When I joked about getting lost, he said he had been watching me from long ago.

     “I saw you first at a bus stop. You applied red lipstick on your lips.” He said the words while his black eyes turned to see me.

     “Oh, it must have been a day I was running late.” I responded and giggled while looking away.

     “I watched how your hair grew, before it even passed your ears.” This time, he spoke in almost a whisper, staring straight ahead.

     “Oh, what do you mean? It has been this length for months.” My voice cracked and my body tensed up.

     “I’ve been watching you, pretending, pretending, that’s all you do!” His voice changed its tune, his brutish words echoed as if they bounced off each window in the car.

     The car came to a stop and it wasn’t at my home. I immediately went for the door. When I moved away from him, I felt a roughness around my neck. My hands didn’t have the strength to reach the door or window. I tried to scream but the noose got tighter and tighter. My fingers burned from clasping the rope, trying to keep inhaling. I got very tired and let my eyes shut. When I awoke, I was tied at my ankles and wrists, laid in a small space. I was in the trunk of his car. I tasted metallic on the tip of my tongue and was undressed. Pain, pain, every- where—like ten beatings in one day. I could only close my eyes to dream of something better. I awoke to my prince opening the trunk to beat me more. He didn’t speak, nor could I with the gag in my mouth. I could only wish, wish I would have never believed another could love me. I never awoke again.

     A young woman found my body, behind a dumpster.  I watched her walk out from the nearby building as I floated above my naked self. My scars under my breasts were practically invisible and the ones between my legs were beginning to fade. I covered myself in lavender and tea tree oil every day—it was my daily ritual. The relief brought me happiness. I knew how to heal myself but I couldn’t undo what my prince had done.

     I passed the first months after death watching you. I hovered over you when you walked alone at night. I rubbed oils on you during your sleep. I wanted to heal the pain my absence caused. But when I read over your shoulder that they excluded my name, the name I chose for the real me, I wished I could live again. They erased me, replaced me with the helpless boy my mother raised. They convicted my prince for killing a man, even though I grew up to be a woman.      It was anger that forced me to listen. I heard the cries from others like me. Some cried to die, others prayed to live. I couldn’t allow for them be alone in such desperation. I left your side to be with them. I applied oils and spoke comforting words as they whispered their wishes. Each time I arrived at a newly bruised body, I feared it might be you.

     Today, my worst fear came true. But now I can truly be the wiser woman you need me to be. You have a choice Marisol, you can choose to die today or to live past tomorrow, live to speak aloud our names. Give them a reason to speak yours in the present, let mine be a legend. You must choose between life and death. Only you can choose.

     Tell me my dear sister, tell me what you desire, I will help with the pain. Inhale the sage I burn for you now, it will cleanse you of any doubts and give you strength to speak. Is it life or death you seek?

     I will make whichever wish you choose come true.

Sarah Rafael García is a writer, arts educator and conceptual artist. Since publishing Las Niñas (Floricanto Press 2008), she founded Barrio Writers, LibroMobile and Crear Studio. In 2015, she completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing with an emphasis in Fiction and cognate in Media Studies. In 2016, Sarah Rafael was awarded in part by The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, through an Artist-in-Residence initiative at CSUF Grand Central Art Center, to develop the multi-media project titled SanTana’s Fairy Tales (Raspa Magazine 2017). In 2018, she held an artist residency at The Guesthouse, Cork, Ireland and was honored as an Emerging Artist at the 19th Annual Orange County Arts Awards. Most recently, Sarah Rafael García was selected as a 2019 University of Houston Kathrine G. McGovern College of the Arts and Project Row Houses Fellow. She currently splits her time between stacking books at her tiny bookstore in Santa Ana, California and developing her forthcoming sci-fi literary project in Houston, Texas. To read more about the SanTana Fairy Tale collection, see this excellent review at De Colores: The Raza Experience in Books for Children and please look for the book and purchase it online.

[tigriswolf]

Wolf (revised)

Based on Little Red Ridinghood; also based on a poem I wrote years ago.  Written for my poetry class, but not going to be turned in. 

her footsteps fade into the snow. threads of a crimson

                                           cloak flutter in the icy breeze, threads with no cape to

 be seen. here a faded hair, there a faded hair, and look!  

                                      there a bloodstain. she wore that cloak to hide her drab

 moth-wings, to shield herself from the world and its pain—

                                      and look. there, do you see? mama sewed that cape and

 mama carried her to term and mama now weeps in

                                            papa’s arms, because the wolf, as always, has won.

  the wolf licked his lips and his fangs glistened in the moonlight.

                                    the wolf laughed and dug a hole for her fragile little bones.

[thomasbolt]

A Cold Autumn

By Ivan Bunin 

Translated by David Richards

In June of that year he was staying with us on the estate. He'd always been considered one of us, as his late father had been a friend and neighbor of my father's. On the fifteenth of June Franz Ferdinand was killed in Sarajevo. On the morning of the sixteenth the newspapers were delivered from the post office. Father emerged from his study carrying a Moscow evening paper and entered the dining-room, where he, Mama and I were still sitting at the table, and said:    'Well, my friends, it's war! The Austrian Crown Prince has been killed in Sarajevo. It's war!'    On St Peter's Day a crowd of visitors gathered at the house -- it was father's name-day -- and over dinner our engagement was announced. But on the nineteenth of July Germany declared war on Russia.    In September he came to us for just twenty-four hours, to say goodbye before going off to the front. (Everyone at that time thought that the war would soon be over, and our wedding had been postponed till the spring.) So this was our last evening together. After supper the servants brought in the samovar as usual and as he glanced at the windows which were steamed up from its heat, father said:    'What an astonishingly early and cold autumn!'    We sat quietly that evening, only occasionally exchanging the odd insignificant word, hiding our innermost thoughts and feelings with exaggerated calm. It was with the same affected simplicity that father had made his remark about the autumn. I went up the door into the balcony and wiped the glass with a cloth: out in the garden the pure icy stars were sparkling with a sharp brilliance against the black sky. Father was smoking, leaning back on his armchair and absently gazing at the hot lamp suspended over the table; by its light Mama, in her spectacles, was carefully sewing a little silk bag -- we knew what it was for -- and the scene was both touching and chilling.    Father asked:    'So, you still want to set off in the morning rather than after lunch?'    'Yes, if I may, in the morning,' he answered. 'It's very sad, but I still haven't managed to see to everything at home.'    Father let out a slight sigh:    'Well, as you wish, dear boy. Only in that case it's time Mama and I went to bed; we certainly don't want to miss seeing you off tomorrow…'    Mama stood up and made the sign of the cross over her son to be; he bent down and kissed her hand, and then father's. Left alone, we lingered in the dining-room; I decided to set out a game of patience, while he paced from one corner of the room to another. Then suddenly he asked:    'Shall we go for a little walk?'    My heart was growing heavier and heavier, and I answered indifferently:    'All right.'    As he put on his coat in the entrance hall he was still deep in thought, and then with a sweet smile he suddenly recited some lines from Fet:

   'What a cold autumn!    Put on your bonnet and shawl…'

   'I don't have a bonnet,' I said. 'But how does it go on?'    'I don't remember. Something like:

   'Look -- through the darkening pine trees    A fire is arising…'

   'What fire?'    'The rising moon, of course. There's a certain autumnal, rustic charm to those lines: "Put on your bonnet and shawl." That's our grandfathers' and grandmothers' time…Oh, my God, my God!'    'What is it?'    'Nothing, dearest love. But I do feel sad. Sad, but contented. I love you very, very much…'    We put out coats on, went through the dining room out onto the balcony and then down into the garden. At first it was so dark I held onto his sleeve. Then the black boughs which were sprinkled with metallically brilliant stars began to stand out against the lightening sky. Stopping for a moment, he turned to face the house:    'Look how the windows are shining in a special autumn way. I shall remember this evening as long as I live.'    I looked at the windows, as he embraced me in my Swiss cloak. I brushed my mohair scarf away from my face and tilted my head back slightly so he could kiss me. When he'd kissed me he looked into my face.    'How your eyes sparkle,' he said. 'Aren't you cold? The air's quite wintry. If I'm killed, you won't forget me straightaway?'    I found myself thinking: 'Suppose he really is killed? Surely there won't come a time when I'll forget him -- though in the end we do forget everything…'    And frightened by my own thought, I answered hurriedly:    'Don't talk like that. I wouldn't survive your death.'    After a short pause he pronounced slowly:    'Anyway, if I am killed, I'll wait for you over there. You live, be happy for a while in the world, and then come to me.'    I burst into tears…    In the morning he set off. Round his neck Mama hung that fateful little bag she'd been sewing the previous evening -- it contained a small golden icon which had been carried to war by both her father and her grandfather -- and we made the sign of the cross over him with nervously jerky despair. Watching him go, we stood on the porch in that state of stupefaction always experienced when saying farewell to someone before a long separation, and all we felt was the astonishing incongruity between ourselves and the joyful, sunny morning around us with its with its hoar-frost sparkling on the grass. We stood there for awhile and then went back into the house. I walked through the rooms with my hands behind my back, not knowing what to do with myself, whether I should sob or sing at the top of my voice…    He was killed -- what a strange word! -- a month later, in Galicia. And since then a whole thirty years have passed. And I've experienced so much through those years which seem so long when you consider them carefully and go over in your memory all that magical, incomprehensible thing called the past which neither the heart nor the mind can grasp. In the spring of 1918, by which time my father and mother were both dead, I was living in Moscow, in the cellar of a house belonging to a woman trading on the Smolensk market who regularly mocked me with her 'Well, your excellency, how are your circumstances?' I engaged in trade myself and, like many others at that time, I sold to soldiers in Caucasian fur caps and unbuttoned greatcoats some of the things I still had -- a ring, a little cross, a moth-eaten fur collar -- and then one day while trading on the corner of the Arbat and the Smolensk market I met a man with a rare beautiful soul, an elderly retired soldier; we soon got married and in April I went off with him to Yekaterinodar. It took almost two weeks to get there with him and his nephew, a boy of seventeen who was trying to make his way to the Volunteers -- I disguised as a peasant-woman in bast shoes, he in a worn Cossack coat and with a newly-grown black and silver beard -- and then we spent over two years on the Don and in the Kuban. In the winter, during the hurricane, we set sail from Novorssiysk for Turkey with a huge crowd of other refugees, and on the way, at sea, my husband died of typhus. After that, of all my nearest and dearest only three remained in the whole world -- my husband's nephew, the latter's wife and their little girl, a child of seven months. But soon after this the nephew sailed off with his wife for the Crimea to join up with Wrangel, leaving the child on my hands. There they too disappeared without trace. And then I lived for a long time in Constantinople, earning a living for myself and the child by back-breaking manual labor. Then, like so many others, I wandered the world with her -- Bulgaria, Serbia, Bohemia, Belgium, Paris, Nice… The little girl grew up long ago; she stayed in Paris and became a model Frenchwoman, very pretty and completely indifferent to me; she used to work in a confectioner's near the Madeleine, using her manicured hands with their silver fingernails to wrap up boxes in satin paper and gold string; and I lived, and am still living in Nice on what God provides… I saw Nice for the first time in 1912 -- and could never have imagined in those happy days what the city would one day become for me!    So I did survive his death, even though I once impetuously said I wouldn't. But when I recall everything I've experienced since that time, I always ask myself: 'What, when all this is said and done, has there been in my life?' And I answer: 'Only that cold autumn evening.' Did it ever exist? Yes, it did. And that is all there has been in my life. All the rest has been a useless dream. But I believe, I do ardently believe that somewhere over there he is waiting for me -- with the same love and the same youthfulness as on that evening. 'You live, be happy for a while in the world, and then come to me…' I have lived, I have been happy for a while, and now, quite soon, I'll come.

   3 May 1944

[humanegardener]

As a human in the modern world, I’m experiencing a bit of habitat envy. I crave more chances to sleep longer, pick my own fruit, and curl up with loved ones under a tree. If the universe determined our fates based on personalities and preferences, I’d likely be assigned to sloth-hood: slow-moving, plant-eating, tree-dwelling. The bumblebee lifestyle would be a good fit, too, allowing me to visit flowers all day and cozy up with family at night.

But I’m not complaining. This year has yielded extraordinary opportunities to spread the word about the importance of caring for wild plants and animals in our backyards. If it’s meant less time in my own garden, I don’t regret it. And I’ve learned to live vicariously through the creatures taking shelter there. Even brief strolls through our little oasis have brought countless insights into their often hidden world. Follow along as I recap 11 unforgettable moments in our 2017 humane garden.

1. The Eclipse Wasp

When her iridescent blue wings close, she is twilight. When they open, she’s as brilliant as the sun. How fitting, then, that I first discovered this otherworldly wasp in my garden just as the solar eclipse was starting on the afternoon of August 21. The sight of such a brilliant animal just feet from the ground was even more spectacular than anything I could have spied in the sky. Known scientifically as Trogus pennator, she appeared to have no common name, so I dubbed her the eclipse wasp. Harmless to us, she has an unusual nesting site: the caterpillars of swallowtail butterflies. She injects a single egg into each caterpillar she finds; when the egg hatches, the wasp larva feeds on and eventually kills her host. To those who find this gutting of butterfly babies distasteful, I suggest remembering that birds devour caterpillars, too, and we don’t hold their predatory ways against them.

2. The Devoted and Drenched Dad

A summer downpour didn’t stop this papa cardinal, spotted one day through a screen door to our deck, from feeding his hungry family. Wondering about the identity of the unlucky soul about to end up in a baby bird’s belly, I checked my copy of Caterpillars of Eastern North America and discovered his name: Abbott’s sphinx moth caterpillar. Though I’d never seen one before, I guessed that we had plenty, as this species’ host plants—grape and Virginia creeper—proliferate in our gardens. Most chicks need an abundance of caterpillars in their diets, so these volunteer vines provide a plethora of baby food to young bird families.

3. The Superman Ant on a Mission

http://www.humanegardener.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/IMG_7829.m4v

Taking a quick break from writing to refresh the birdbaths one day, I happened upon a familiar-looking butterfly skating oddly across our patio. Closer inspection revealed an ant carrying the wing of a silver-spotted skipper. How that butterfly met her demise, I’m not sure, but the scavenging ants made sure she did not die in vain.

4. The Hitchhikers

At first glance, this might look like the opossum of the insect world, a devoted mama carrying young ones on her back. That’s what my husband, Will, and I assumed when we came upon this scene under our ash tree last spring. But the diminutive hitchhikers are no mini-mes. They’re a completely different species. Called fire-colored beetles, they are attracted to cantharidin, a caustic chemical exuded by the larger blister beetle to deter predators. The tiny passengers may lick, chew or nip to extract the coveted potion, which some beetle species pass along to females while mating to confer protection to their offspring, according to the book Beetles of Eastern North America.

5. The Special Delivery

Whenever Will says, “Nancy, come here and look at something, and come quietly,” I know I’m in for a treat. This time it was a special delivery in the patio garden right outside our basement door. All our outdoor plans ceased that late spring week; we barely set foot into the backyard for fear of disturbing this newborn fawn. Except to stand, stretch and turn around, she didn’t move much either. We knew her mother must be close by, calling her baby to nurse but otherwise keeping her distance to avoid attracting predators. We saw no signs of distress—no crying, no flies, no indication of discomfort or confusion. Still, I couldn’t help but worry. Just as I started to wonder aloud if we should be concerned about her well-being, we woke up one morning to find our baby had left as quietly as she’d arrived. She was strong enough now to join her mother, who would find new spots to hide her precious cargo each day and plenty of food for her family in our deer-friendly garden.

6. The Buzz That Fell on Half-Deaf Ears

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Being half-deaf all my life, I’ve missed a lot. Punchlines elude me amid roaring laughter, and having them repeated to me is of no use when I’ve already missed half the joke. But maybe this forced tuning-out of human noise has given me more sensitivity to nature’s music, including the dramatic soundtrack of bumblebee buzz pollination. Turn up the volume on the video, and between the lower drone of wing flapping, you’ll hear it, too: the distinctive high pitch of the bee’s flight muscles vibrating at a rapid clip to shake the pollen out of the anthers of this wild senna. It’s an amazing trick that some flowers—including those of tomatoes, blueberries and other human food crops—require for pollination. Only some bees can perform it, though, and the honeybee, a domesticated animal originally introduced from Europe, isn’t among them. We’d be awfully hungry without our buzz-pollinating wild friends—yet another reason to skip the hives in favor of nurturing habitat for the native bees already in our midst.

7. The Bird Who Thought Our Yard Was a Forest

When this scarlet tanager joined our happy hour one evening in the height of summer, I knew it was a rare event. Little did I know how rare until I posted the photo and received responses from avid birders saying they had yet to spot one on their treks through the woods. Described by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology as “frustratingly hard to find” because of their preference for high canopies of “large, undisturbed tracts of forest,” scarlet tanagers seem unlikely candidates for suburban backyard stopovers. This one kept us company for at least 20 minutes while feasting on the ripening fruit of staghorn sumac trees.

8. The Ant Hill That Wasn’t an Ant Hill

I’d read about it, written about it, and seen it from a distance in the past. But until this summer, I’d never actually gotten close enough to photograph a ground-nesting bee emerging from her hole, gathering pollen, and returning to her nest repeatedly. That seems strange in retrospect, since these soil dwellers are everywhere, comprising about 70 percent of our 4,000 or so native bee species in North America. They’re generally small and solitary, so it takes patience and a zoom lens to stake out such minifauna. One helpful clue to their whereabouts is the presence of mounds that look like anthills. Though they work alone, many bees create these nests near each other; I found mine along the edge of a mowed path that runs through our meadow down to the compost pile.

9. The Frog Who Thought He Was in a Jungle

As their name implies, tree frogs like to hang out high in the canopy. And sure enough, their vocalizations led my binocular-aided eyes to one atop a sassafras tree this summer. But sometimes the diminutive frogs descend to much lower altitudes during breeding season, seeming to take a particular liking to our potted rubber trees. In mid-May, just hours after I’d moved a few from their winter home in the basement to their summer spot on the patio, this little guy made himself right at home atop one of the sturdy leaves. Thin-skinned amphibians are especially vulnerable to the onslaught of chemicals and power equipment in a typical home landscape, so I feel especially protective of each one I find.

10. The Hamburglar Bun Gourmand

Our birdbaths serve many purposes: quenching animals’ thirst, helping birds clean their feathers, and—apparently—giving crow connoisseurs a place to prepare their meals. This hamburger bun of unknown origins got a thorough soaking last March before the bird took off with the dripping mass gripped firmly in his beak. Was he cleaning off the human refuse before deigning to eat it himself? Was he softening it up to make it more palatable? Theories abound, but this is a common behavior among our highly intelligent feathered friends. I’m just happy I got to see it, even if through a fuzzy window screen.

11. The Plant That Inspired Our Neighbor to Go Wild

How many species can one plant support? At some point we stopped counting, but our neighbor walked by when we were still trying. “What is this plant called?” she asked. “Can you give me some seeds?” I was surprised by the sudden interest. She’d never wanted tall plants but didn’t seem to care that this boneset towered above her. She’d  never wanted prolific spreaders but could clearly see this self-starter had sprouted from a crack in our driveway. What sold my friend on Eupatorium serotinum? It certainly wasn’t me. Nothing I can say comes close to the sales pitch made by the bees, butterflies, mating wasps, bee flies, and moths crowding every bloom each summer. The moment confirmed my belief that wildlife of all kinds are the best ambassadors for the native plants that sustain them. We just need to have the courage to let them shine in our gardens for all the world to see.

Featured images, top: Tachinid flies also use caterpillars as a nesting site; when eggs hatch, the fly larvae feed on the caterpillars. Despite all this predation on baby butterflies and moths, we have dozens of winged beauties making it to adulthood in our garden, including the mourning cloak who emerged from winter dormancy in early March. (All photos by Nancy Lawson and Will Heinz)

Top 2017 Discoveries in Our Humane Garden As a human in the modern world, I'm experiencing a bit of habitat envy. I crave more chances to sleep longer, pick my own fruit, and curl up with loved ones under a tree.