#shit eating grin bracken

[montyistrapped]

shit eating grin bracken my Beloved

[sealed-valkyria]

do you think Beeter Would get along with shit Eating grin Bracken

Beeter's afraid.

[duchess-of-oldtown]

House of the Dragon, Season 2, Episode 3 thoughts

Just clarifying, these are my own thoughts, you don't like them, don't bother telling me so. Also, I'm not a book purist, I like adaptions taking putting their own spin on things - if it makes sense to do so. So, here were my thoughts. Obvs, this post is dark and full of spoilers.

I like the Bracken-Blackwood thing. I like the injection of a little bit of history but also like pettiness.

Jace, get out of your mother's ear. Can you even tell which one is Arryk or Erryk?

Rhaenys giving us slay as usual. Eve Best really gets the greatest lines.

I really like Criston Cole's squire. I don't know, he reminds me of Pod.

Criston pulling that managers face right there. We've all been on both sides of that.

Ironrod, they could never make me hate you. Master of Shade

Tyland stop bullying the Grand Master.

Harrenhal is giving all these guys a hard on. It's not even that nice a castle (before yall come for me, I know it's importance)

Aemond teasing Aegon at the Council, that younger sibling grin

Mysaria's gown looks so comfy. Her scenes are alright, better than before

Rhaenyra vs Mysaria has to get away from the whole Daemon thing. That vibe is still there and it gives me two exes sniping at one another.

I get Rhaena's annoyance but it's also an opportunity.

The Harrenhal scenes were perfect. The ambience, the setting it's all *chef kiss*.

I hate the whole Prince Consort vs King thing. For one, it's completely against etiquette and the rules but also in the book, Daemon never needed to be King, he was supporting his Queen.

There's Alys.

Daemon "I'm claiming harrenhal". Yes, girl we see

Simon I give you this castle, also dinner is on the table, it's not great but it's good" Strong, you were the best thing in this episide. " Also, this exchange feels written by George RR Martin.

Grover Tully is getting it tonight

Daemon defending an ill lord paramount's abilities, he's thinking of Viserys

Gwayne Hightower, you're giving me Harry Hardying had a baby with Alfie Allen vibes

Cole's hair... I don't know how to feel.

Alicole doing the whole courtly love shit, as if Cole wasn't on his knees that morning. She pegs him, Your Honour

I need whiter Kingsguard Cloaks.

If they fucking mansplain, ridicule or correct Rhaenyra one more time, I fucking Harrenhal them. Who the fuck are these men?

Rhaenys, eating as usual, mic drop

Rhaenys and Corlys, I know they're setting us up for what happens, but *mournful screaming*. She's standing on a little crate 😭 Corlys beefing with baby Joffrey. Corlys grabbing his lady's hips while talking about heirs is my new roman empire

Let me see Stormcloud and Tyraxes

I wanted a little more conflict with Baela and Rhaena. But Baela assuring her is top tier.

Joffrey with his mummy 😭😭😭 Jace too. It's the last time Rhaenyra will see Viserys.

Helaena's speech, I think I know what's about to happen there. The families of the rat catchers + that riot. Also Helaena isn't forgiving Alicent for Cole, she's forgiving her for the war

Aegon looks so lil in his armour.

DID THEY SAY THE ARMOUR WAS VALYRIAN STEEL? MOTHERFUCKERS

Kingslanders partying as only Kingslanders can

Ulf the White's scenes are good but Baelon the Brave? You want me to believe that Baelon the Brave cheated on Alyssa?

I did not need to see Aemond's dick. Aemond you should be out committing atrocities not getting it wet

FUCK HIM UP MOONDANCER, FUCK HIM UP

Also Baela the trees are flammable.

Daemon take Dark Sister out of there it's too damp for her

YOUNG RHAENYRA - this is how guest stars should appear, with no warning and with the actors swearing they aren't ever coming back.

Also, Alys is American?

Rhaenyra slaying in her Septa Unella cos play. I wonder whether that's the same wimple

I loved the Rhaenyra and Alicent exchange but it was still such a dumb idea. This exchange is heartbreaking, there are parts that feel sitcomy and I love it.

Rhaenyra's lil face when she thought Viserys changed his mind

Alicent's lil... "oh Aegon the Conqueror... '

Over all 9/10

[aewriting]

This is an angsty little fic I just wrote this evening.  It's based on my recent viewing of RNM episode 2x01, a DM exchange with @angsty-aliens about that "I don't want to play your guitar" line, and some past "accidental sex worker Michael" head canons from @ninswhimsy and @lambourngb

Be warned - Michael is NOT in a good place in this, and it shows, especially in his interaction with Alex.

Warning for sex work.

Here it is on AO3, if you prefer.

***

“Michael?”

He’s drunk.  He’s so drunk – on alcohol, acetone.  He makes himself straighten up, really look at her. 

Diana? Dana? No. “Deena, hi.” He tries to stay steady, smile.  No, don’t smile… it’s a funeral, after all. “Been a while.”

“Sure has.”  She eyes him, up and down.  Not subtle. “You look good.”

He doesn’t. He knows that.  He’s… he’s a fucking mess right now.  But Deena was always more interested in touching than looking.

“I didn’t realize you knew Noah Bracken,” she says, slight frown on her face.

“Yep,” he says tightly.  “Him and Isobel.”

He sees how it lands – the way Deena’s eyebrows raise, the way she quickly covers up a half-smirk. “I see,” she says, and Michael has to stop an eyeroll.  Doesn’t correct her, though, doesn’t explain.  It’s been a long time since he’s given a damn about his bad reputation, after all.

Deena’s eyes, still wide, flick to Isobel, in that skintight black dress of hers.  “Well,” she says, clearing her throat, her gaze sliding over Michael again.  “My husband’s on business in Canada right now.”

Oh Jesus.

“And you were always so… handy. Might have a few jobs for you.”

And now it’s Michael’s turn to look her over. Deena runs with the Ann Evans brunch crew. Red hair, good figure – clearly takes care of herself. If she’s had work, it’s subtle. Discreet. She really hasn’t changed that much since he last saw her, years ago…

First time had been an accident. It was that awful winter right after graduation, before he’d started out at Foster’s Ranch. Before the Airstream. And he honestly didn’t mean for it to happen, but he’d been…

He’d been desperate. He can see that now.

He’d tried to go about things honestly, at first. Tried. He was cold, hungry, and he wasn’t about to try to hit Isobel and Max up again, lost as they were in their own problems. So after one particularly bad storm, he scraped together all his money, went to the hardware store, and bought a shovel. Drove to one of the nice neighborhoods. Started going door to door.

Most people didn’t answer. It was the middle of the day, so they were probably at work, and no doubt some people just ignored him. Like, he probably looked shady. But he got a couple bites. At least the physical activity kept him warm, and he made a few bucks.

That’s how it had started, with Deena. She looked him over. Asked him his age. Seemed pleased when he’d said 19. “You look older,” she commented. He got to work on her driveway and sidewalk. Saw her peeking through the curtains. Looking at him. He assumed that she was checking in on his work, his progress.

He was been wrong.

He finished up and knocked on the door. Deena smiled at him. “You poor thing,” she cooed, looking him over. “Looks so cold out there. Want something warm to drink?”

And Michael was cold. Sore and tired. And here was this lady actually, actually fucking treating him nicely? “Sure,” he said, using the big smile.

She smiled back. “Tea, coffee, hot chocolate?”

Oh god, hot chocolate sounded fucking awesome. That’s exactly what he ended up telling her, too, before realizing he’d said “fuck,” but she just laughed. Busied herself in the kitchen with the milk, the mix. “Take off your coat, stay a while.”

Nice, was Michael’s first thought. What does she want, was his second.

She made small talk, at first. Then started rubbing his shoulders. And that, that’s when Michael realized what was going on. And… and it wasn’t like it was off-putting. No. Deena was fucking hot. Her house was warm. He bet she’d let him shower, even.

One thing led to another. And when it was over, after he’d showered (with her), she gave him a lingering kiss and pressed a very generous “tip” into his hand.

“There’s a little extra there. For you,” she said with a wink. “You did such a good job out there,” she added. “You better come back next time it snows.”

So he did.

And a few times for raking leaves, the next fall.

Then another winter.

She wasn’t… wasn’t the only one who’d ever paid him, but she was... the least accidental. After that first time, anyway. And it’s not like he ever asked her to. She, she always volunteered it. At the end. Part of his tip. He didn’t, didn’t expect it, necessarily. Wouldn’t have pressed it, if she hadn’t kept it up. But it also wasn't like he was gonna turn it down, either.  Right?  Like, who would?

And really, wasn’t everything a goddamn transaction, anyway? People weren’t just nice to a kid like Michael, and they weren’t nice to an adult like him, either. They had an agenda.

Everybody… everybody has a fucking agenda.

Michael lets his gaze linger on Deena again, standing in front of him in her flattering, stylish black dress. Probably cost more than the monthly payment on his Airstream. “You still over on Hollybrook?”

Deena makes a face. “No, no… I’ve upgraded. Over in Montebello Heights now.”

Michael nods. “How long’s your husband in Canada?”

She bites her lip a little. “Weeks.”

Fuck it. Why not? “Then I’m sure you could use a man around the house. Take care of some things.”

She grins.

***

“I don’t want to hear a damn word about, about Project Shepherd.  Or Caulfield, or my…” He shakes his head.  “None of it, okay, Manes? I told you that.”

Alex sighs.  “You did.  Yeah, you did. Sorry.” He glances around the makeshift lab, looks quickly away from Max’s naked form, suspended in the pod.  “I’ll just, just update Liz and Kyle with it.”  He goes to leave.  Stops.  “How… how long you been in here?”

Michael shrugs. “Long enough.”

“You should get something to eat. Crashdown?”

Michael fixes him with a level gaze. He does need to eat.  “Sure, Manes.”

They drive separately, thank god.  Michael wishes they could eat separately, too, but he’s not that big of an asshole.  Today, anyway.

Liz is working, and she raises an eyebrow at Michael, which he returns with a shrug.  They get settled in a booth.  Liz isn’t the one that waits on them.  Michael gets his usual, a burger.  Watches as Alex gets the enchiladas, eats them with gusto.  Times like this, Michael can almost forget.  Forget that he wants the distance, the end to this damnable push-pull they’ve been doing for years.

“Arturo’s are the best,” Alex is saying.

“If you say so,” Michael says shortly, and he sees Alex’s face fall, just a little.  Part of him’s glad to still have that power. Part of him hates it.

Their server brings the bill, and Michael grabs for it. Alex frowns.

“Guerin,” he says, a warning in his tone.

“What?” Michael grits out.  “Don’t need your charity, Manes.”

Alex closes his eyes, briefly.  “I… I know that.  This wasn’t…” He shakes his head a little.  “Wasn’t charity.”

“Then you won’t mind me paying.”

But Alex, he just can’t leave it alone.  “Isobel, she says that you haven’t been taking as much work, at Sanders’.”

“Since when is Isobel telling you about my – “

“And, and I see the way you are,” Alex barrels on.  “You, you don’t seem good, Michael.”

And the audacity, the sheer nerve of Alex right now, Michael thinks.  Cause when, when in their whole damn history has he ever seemed good? And why can’t Alex just see, just fucking listen and leave Michael the fuck alone? If he hasn’t realized after all these years just how fucked the two of them are, together, what’s it gonna take?

And then he has an idea.

He squares his shoulders, makes a show of pulling out his wallet, thumbing through the bills. “Don’t need to worry about me, Alex. I’ve picked up some work.” He gives a tight little smile. “Night shifts.”

Alex looks at him, surprised.  “Oh,” he says, attention drawn to the money Michael is casually flashing.

“Yeah,” Michael says, drawing out the word. He can tell Alex is torn between asking more and just letting it be.  So Michael pushes.  Again. “An old employer. She’s generous.”

And that does it.  “What, what are you doing, exactly?” Alex says, brow starting to furrow.

Michael just shrugs, gives him a smirk.  “Something I’m good at.  According to you, at least.  And others.”

And at that, Alex’s face goes slack.  “Oh my god.”

Michael shrugs.  “Gonna do it anyway, might as well get paid.”

Alex’s eyes are darting around the Crashdown. He leans forward. There’s anger now, not just the shock.  “Holy shit, Michael.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but just curses instead.  “God damn it.”

Michael scoffs a little. “Well look at you, high and mighty.  All offended.  Not like you’ve never done it.”

Alex’s eyes widen.  “What?” His mouth is open. “I’ve never, never –“

Michael laughs, a harsh, biting sound.  “You’ve done it with me, Alex.”

“That’s bullshit – “

“Gave me a place to stay and a guitar.  Then tried to kiss me.”

Alex’s mouth is pinched, tight.  “No.  No. Do not do this.  That is not what that was – “

“Wasn’t it?” Michael asks, scrunching up his face in faux confusion.  “Cause I don’t think you would’ve been so inviting if you hadn’t wanted my dick.”

“Stop it,” Alex hisses.

“Not like I didn’t want yours, too.” Michael shrugs. “Everything has a price, right?”

Alex looks sick.  “Guerin, please.  You don’t have to – “

“Course I don’t.  Not now.  Didn’t always have that luxury, though,” he says, voice hard. He takes out a few bills, slaps them on the table showily.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, Captain.”

He’s out the door fast, and he knows he shouldn’t turn back, shouldn’t try to catch a glimpse of Alex through the window, but he can’t help it.  He’s still sitting, stunned-looking, in the booth.

Michael swallows hard.  Turns and walks away. Maybe this time, it’ll stick.

[lettuceknighted]

wild boars are not to be messed with

Decent chance some of y’all might’ve seen this already but I figured I’d officially post it especially considering how productive I’ve been lately. 

[CW: animal death, field amputation, swearing?] 

--

Clang.

A yell pierced the quiet of the forest morning, full of surprise and pain, mingling with the loud clash of metal on limb on metal. A family of birds above startled, their calls echoing throughout the bracken and slow-lifting fog. Devi dropped to one knee. Already dew formed patterns of wet on her pants, but that wasn’t why she grimaced.

“Stupid fucking traps,” she growled out loud. She should have worn her fucking greaves but there wouldn’t have been a need for them at the moment, they could chafe or break. Light mail was the only piece of armor she wore now, and that wouldn't have done shit to prevent this. The creatures of this forest were big, strange, and dangerous. It was only fair the traps here would be just as vicious. What kind of idiot hunter would be trying to catch shit out here anyway? Air hissed between Devi’s teeth as she eased herself towards a nearby rock to sit down and see just how bad it was. Her pack dropped to the moss creeping up the side of the stone. Unless they thought some dumbass dragon was just gonna waltz right into… well… fuck. Sighing, she peeled back the leg of her pants. Iron teeth sunk into the skin of her calf, preventing her from making any attempt to slip out. She tugged at it anyway, frustrated. “God fffffucking dammit, fuck. Shit.” 

When she’d set off on the quick scouting mission she’d expected to maybe have to fight off a dragon or two, imagined returning home with the head or scales, a trophy to hang in the shack she never actually stayed in if they wouldn’t let her keep it in her cabin at the castle. The trophies taken from the pits disgusted her, there wasn’t any real glory in offing something injured and tied down. Slaying a dragon on the field? That was the shit. This was not the shit. This fucking sucked.

Captain Devi, stopped fucking short by a fucking hunting trap. She’d seen a few like this around the farmlands she grew up in, it was probably secured in the ground somewhere nearby judging by the annoying rattling of the chain every time she moved. That wasn’t going to be easily dug up. It wasn’t like it was fucking made to catch beasts way too many times her size or anything. She’d just have to wait for some hunter to come by, get their attention, and continue on with the quest once she was freed cause she wasn’t a fucking wuss.

It felt as if hours passed, though the sun hadn’t actually moved much. Any trace of fog had dissipated and the occasional small animal scampered through the bushes. Small stones littered the roots of a tree, flung out of anger and pain, and then out of sheer boredom. Devi--

Devi froze.

She could hear something moving in the distance, something that definitely wasn't a rabbit or squirrel. One hand found the pommel of her sword without even thinking about it. Shifting into a more prepared position hurt, but Devi set her jaw and focused on listening. She could hear it breathing, great heavy puffs of air spanned out in clusters. It almost sounded like it was… tracking… something.

Realization hit her and her gaze followed the short trail of red leading to the rock she was sitting on.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit. Devi slid her sword from the scabbard, nothing that big in these woods could ever be any sort of good. The metallic sound rang quietly over the small clearing just as the wild boar’s head thrust its way through the brush. It stamped, snorted. It had found what it was looking for. Devi’s blood ran cold. The tusked beast was nearly Devi’s own height, it could comfortably fit her entire upper body in its mouth if it wanted to. And it sure looked like it wanted to. The boar lumbered up to her. She could smell it now, unwashed animal with the stench of rot lingering on its breath. She laid still as it examined her, startling it would mean a tusk or two to the face and maybe it would realize this was not a good target, that it wasn’t worth the effort of finishing her off. Maybe it would go find some other unfortunate bitch to eat.

The boar reared back.

Devi flung her body to the side seconds before the its trotters came down on her. Pain bloomed in her calf as it jerked forward, for a moment everything reduced to a muffled blur. Her left hand scrabbled against the bark of a tree and she caught herself, stumbling but upright. Tusks scraped against stone with a bone-rattling shriek and the whole world came rushing back. Devi felt her heart pumping with familiar adrenaline, and she steadied herself. All those years of fighting weren’t going to mean shit if she got her ass kicked by one stupid oversized pig.

Just standing hurt like a son of a bitch, but there was no way this piece of shit was going to do her in. Devi was better than that. A sick kind of almost-grin turned up the corners of her mouth, she was going to make fucking bacon out of this motherfucker. The animal snuffled, shaking its great head and wheeling to face her again. She stared it in its beady little eyes, gripping her sword, waiting. 

The boar charged. 

Devi set her jaw and lunged forward, landing in a roll and coming up on the side of the pig. 

On her right leg.

It felt like it was on fire. Nerves begging and wailing for her to stop but Devi kept moving, yelling as she slammed all of her weight sword-first into the off-balance pig. Her blade sunk into its throat and the boar screeched. Branches cracked and splintered as it lumbered blindly into a tree. Devi drove the sword deeper into its flesh and a triumphant cry left her lips and something caught.

Devi barely managed to keep hold of her weapon as the trap chain pulled taut and she was yanked hollering back to the ground. Branches scored across her face and arms but that couldn’t even try to compete with the agony coursing through her leg. It clouded her vision, turned every exhale into a whimper. She grit her teeth and pressed up into standing anyways.

The wild boar was losing steam now, blood gushing from its throat and painting the forest floor in streaks and splotches. It careened into trees, each time stumbling away more and more disoriented, until once again it glared at Devi. She tensed as it lurched towards her, unsteady. For a moment the two of them faced off, staring each other down. Red speckled the boar’s hide and its little black eyes bore into hers with anger and desperation. Then with a roar, the beast made its choice. And Devi’s footing failed her.

One wrong shift of her weight and her leg simply couldn’t fucking take it, she fell back and the boar turned towards her and she braced herself.

The boar stumbled.

Tripped.

With a thunderous crash and a sickening crack the boar fell. Devi gasped for air, crushed partially beneath it. Bile rose in her throat, the scent of blood and fear filled her nose with each strained hyperventilation. Everything was a whirlwind of dust and hog and pain.

The weight in her right hand brought her back to where she was. She could feel the pig against her, see its legs. She knew where she was, and she was far from unarmed. In one swift motion she plunged the sword under the armpit of the thrashing pig and it screamed. Flailing trotters struck out against Devi’s battered body in jerky, panicked motions. 

And then it stopped.

She lay still for a moment, trying to remember how to make her lungs work again. Just breathing made it feel like someone was taking a hammer to her ribs. She didn’t want to move. She couldn’t move. She had to move. Withdrawing her sword only yielded a trickle more of crimson and a horrible squelching noise. Devi inched her way out from under the boar, struggling not to succumb to the fog of pain and exhaustion. 

“Eat that,” she muttered to the pig, knowing full well it wasn’t over yet.. She went for a step and collapsed. What could only be described as a sob wracked her body. The rush of the fight was leaving her, and the toll it had taken on her leg as well as the rest of her was becoming agonizingly evident. 

But she had to get out of there. And soon. Devi tried again but the trap was so heavy and painful and she just couldn’t. She made it two steps, and then the trap’s chain clinked as it reached the edge of its perimeter once more, and with a yelp she hit the forest floor again. Sticks and rocks prodded at her bruised skin, almost taunting her with every tiny stab and bump. 

She wasn’t going to make it with the trap tethering her there. Devi wrenched the sword from the ground and scooted up to a nearby tree, leaning back against the solid bark. Just that movement was enough to send flares of pain coursing through her throbbing leg. 

            This was stupid. This was probably going to get her killed, she had absolutely no idea what she was doing, but this was her only option, unless she felt like fighting off whatever came for the boar's body. Ripping cloth from her shirt she tied it a good few inches above where the teeth closed on her mangled calf, whimpering as she pulled it tight, pulled it tighter. Her hands shook as they took hold of her sword again. She wiped as much boar blood as she could off on her sleeve, trying to steady her breathing. The suffering already encompassed her whole mind, how much worse could it get? Devi raised the blade before she could have second thoughts.

So, so much worse.

Her teeth pressed together were not enough to muffle what ripped through her raw throat. It was dizzying, it was torture. It hadn’t gone all the way through. Devi took a deep breath and swung again. Chips of bone and flesh flew from the wound. Again. And again. Until at last she was relieved of the iron jaws and left half-delirious with pain. Devi allowed her body to crumple sideways. If she thought she hadn’t wanted to move beforehand, there was nothing that could make her move now. But once again, she had to. Her sword was probably fucked but she didn’t even consider leaving it behind as she half-crawled, half-dragged herself away. It would be like leaving behind a limb, and she’d already done that once today.

She didn’t know how far she’d made it when wet leaves sent her tumbling into a ditch. It didn’t matter. Hopefully the corpse of the boar would be interesting enough to keep anything else from sniffing her out, hopefully it would be far enough. The trees blurred, vision swimming in and out of focus. Pain was everything, yet laying there felt so good. She was alive. She fucking won. The pig could suck it. In agony and in exhaustion, Devi finally slipped into oblivion.

[lavendersam]

The Shortest Night of the Year

introduction, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

previous

So now that Miranda was playing her warlock sellsword, Rook, before she became either a warlock or a sellsword, what did we know about her? Well, that she’s been working at the inn instead of on her family farm, and that she was given a true name by a traveling mage, somewhat abruptly and without clear reason.  We also know that she is butch as hell, and only has a Wisdom score of 9 - and that a pretty girl wants to dance with her.

Rook - or Bridget, as she is known in the village of Wilmott’s End, up in the mountains several day’s ride from the King’s Road - joins Alyona, the miller’s daughter, by the dancing boards as the first jig of Midsummer’s Eve begins.  Miranda says she wants to try a smooth move where she pulls Alyona into a dancing position with a bit of flair - and rolls a 4.  The two girls bonk in to each other, laugh about it, and step up onto the floor.  They do a few dances and have a great time, but after a while have to stumble laughing to the well in for water and a break.  Alyona lets Rook know that Teron, a boy from Redwheel farm that they had seen earlier in the evening, had told said he wanted to talk to her about something, but that she will most certainly be back for another dance soon.  

Alyona wanders off, and Rook decides to join in a riddle game with Old Mabin, who’s sitting and drinking tea with her daughter. The first riddle she asks Rook is “They come at night without being fetched, leave by day without being stolen.”  To which Rook answers, “Dreams.”  

Mabin smiles and nods.  Her second riddle is “Always runs but never walks, often murmurs, never talks, has a bed but doesn’t sleep, has a mouth but never eats.”  

Rook thinks a a little while, then says, “A river?”

Old Mabin grins wider.  She leans in for her final riddle and asks, “Why does a chicken cross the road?”

Rook pauses, a little confused.  “...to get to the other side?”

Old Mabin laughs.  “Because it’s too long to go around,” she answers.

Rook takes this in good humor, and thanks Mabin for the game. It’s about then that Alyona comes back, but looking a little concerned.  Rook asks what’s wrong, and Alyona says that Teron has just asked Alyona out on a walk in the woods, swearing that he knows how to find a blooming fern.

Now, Rook’s heard stories about the blooming fern.  Supposedly it only blossoms on Midsummer night, and the golden flower has many alleged magical properties; wishes, wealth, and, oddly enough, fertility - although this may be euphemistic for young couples who go “seeking the fern” on midsummer evenings and get up to an entirely different activity altogether.

Alyona must have heard those latter stories also, because she asks Rook to come with her.  Rook readily agrees.

Teron sulks a little bit at the news, but it doesn’t  stop him from grabbing a paper lantern and leading them out across the cow pasture and into the forest north of the village. They pass the fireflies dancing in the outer woods; the cow paths thin into game trails past the birch trees and the alder stands, into the deep woods with old, heavy oaks and straight, tall pines, the forest floor a tangle of bracken and ferns lit only by moonlight and the small glow of the candle.  Teron explains that he stumbled upon the fern last year after Ewen and he had stolen a cask of Hama’s ale (“don’t you mean after you two were sent home for stealing that cask of Hama’s ale?” Alyona interjects), but wasn’t able to reach it.  He tried to come back the next day, but it had of course vanished.

Rook is more than skeptical, and is about to suggest that they go home, when Teron gives a shout and begins running up a steep hill.  She and Alyona run after him, and the three of them come to a small meadow lit by the full moon.  In the center, a single fern stands tall, a golden, five-petaled flower almost glowing at its tip.  Teron yells in triumph, and Rook mutters “Oh, so he wasn’t full of shit.” That’s when she spots the tips of mushrooms in the grass, forming a perfect circle around the fern.

“Teron, wait, it’s a fairy ring!” she cries, and tries to grab his shoulder as he runs forward, but she isn’t fast enough.  Teron’s foot crosses the ring, and the ground gives way beneath all three of them and they fall into darkness.

next

[2bitnoir-blog]

Kitten Island

                                                               1.

First he noticed the noise.  Tiny eeks, like squeaky baby birds.  Birds were all over, different birds, and they squeaked but not like this.  

The veranda was long and low.  Jutted out the back of the house like an afterthought.  Stubby tree ferns squatted the length.  

At the tank-stand end a rabid bouganvillea threw purple and green up onto the corrugated tin wave of the roof. Unsatisfied and still reaching it tried to hook tendrils onto the sky.  

There was a bald spot of ground by the back door that was dead and smelled of piss.

Straight from dim indoors, his eyes squinty.  The bright was broken glass.  

Almost afternoon now, his morning was wasted.

Splat flat on the lawn, he listened.  Slim grass tongues licking his toes. Bright yellow dandelions smearing sunny paint onto his face.  

Wondering at the sound.

Sunlight stenciled prison bar shadows onto the dirt through the cracks in the boot-worn boardwalk. The noise came from somewhere under.  

He crawled closer.  

Many indignant insects in his face.  Buzzing and clicking and skittish.

He could see movement like the swirling grey on black when he closed his eyes at bedtime.  Something moving in the underhouse.

                                                               *

A stray thought to be turned and examined like something found. Could he make the same sound?  

He had a talent for it.  For mimic. He could give the three-bell ‘all’s well’ signal to the rosellas.  Match the laconic caw of the greasy black crows.  

Maybe this was another he could do.  A new one.

He drew his lips across his teeth and squashed his tongue.  It was a kind of squeaky-yowling he made in the back of his throat.  It was “Yew, Yew…”

Wrong.

Close, but not the same.  

He shushed. Listened.  

No noise. No movement.  No swirling grey, just black.

He pressed his fingers hard into the corners of his eyes.  Scrubbed at his eyeballs, a trick to bring the sparkling fairy goldies.  Friendly twinkling lights, sometime companions that came when he stood up too fast or sat too long on the toilet.  

They didn’t appear.

A cloud blotched the sun, shat dim light over all.  

He waited for it to fly by in the sky.

Frogs gronked down by the creek.  Blowflies farted and zoomed. Cicadas tore strips off the air.  

His heart thudded.  Distant marching soldiers, louder the longer the cloud lingered.  

He tried again.  “Eew, Eww…”  

It was closer.  Almost there.

He worked the sound around.  Chewed on the shape of it.

                                                               *

“Ehew. Ehew…”  He had it.  Spot on like a lyre bird, or near as.  

Again. “Ehew. Ehew…”  

He waited.

Nothing. Just screaming insects because it was so hot.  

He drifted for a while under the warm and blue.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm...  The afternoon hummed.

                                                               *

“Ehew. Ehew…”  

Piercing, the noise stabbed the still.  

He was swimming, swimming in the creek with the platyp-.

“Ehew. Ehew…”  

Awake now and aware.  Under the ferns, with a crook neck and itchy mosquito bites.  

He responded.  

“Ehew. Ehew.”  

Two blue eyes peeked out at him through the gap in the boards.  He saw them and they saw him.

“Ehew, Ehew…”  

It wanted something.  He wasn’t afraid though.  It was something good.

“Ehew, Ehew…”  He spoke to it.  

“Ehew, Ehew…”  It answered.  

This was great.

It was joined by another.  Then another.

They too said “Ehew, Ehew…”  

“The bloody heck?”

Grey on black swirling.  Blue eyes peering at him through the cracks.  

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said.  

“Ehew, Ehew…” the underhouse things said, then ventured out into the day.

                                                               2.

Raggedy kittens, as many as the fingers on his hand.  They blinked flinty eyes.  Tried to focus on everything at once, swaying their little heads.  

Grey tabbies with stripes like tiny tigers, crooked tails hoisted.

Impossibly cute.  

Fragile magic, delicate and exposed.

The boy grinned from happy.  “Ehew, Ehew…” he said.

                                                               *

They looked at him in unison.  It was funny. Then they looked at each other.  

They were wary of the stranger who spoke kitten.  

He was like nothing they knew.    

Tempted to flee, follow instinct and scatter, run, hide.  

He made his new sound, rising like a plea.  “Ehew?”  

The kittens stared at him, afraid to move and afraid to come closer.

                                                               *

He could wait.  

He would wait.

He could smell the sweet grass, the moist earth slightly cloying.  

He thought about all the things that lived and grew and died there.  

Slugs, seeds, caterpillars, weeds.  

Harlequin beetles, grasshoppers and lizards.  

Butterflies, stick-insects, bugs, lots of different bugs.  

Bugs in your face, bugs in your eyes, eat a horse manure pie.  

Too many things to count.

                                                               *

A cold shock dabbed briefly his hand.  Silk brushed past his elbow like a whisper.  

He lay still as a dead rabbit.  

A wet kiss in his ear, startling.

The kittens were there, soft and suddenly all around.  Jumping, climbing, scrambling over him. Scratchy claws catching in his t-shirt. Paws poking into his back, trotting down his spine. Whiskers swiping his nose and tickling his legs.  

An adorable patchwork menagerie, stuffed toys come wonderfully to life.

“Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew…”

                                                               3.

A head picture flickered, took form, played like a movie.  He was the hero, the star, an idea that literally moved him.  

Carefully so as not to alarm, he sat up.

The kittens looked up at him wide-eyed.  

He slowly stood.  They were unsure, but still squirming on the grass.  

Then he moved quickly.  He didn’t look back lest the magic vanish.

                                                               *

The shed was peeling weatherboards on an exposed wood frame and a dark mouth yawning.  

Shabby white sheets nailed to an elephant’s skeleton full of spiders.

Hanging waving cobwebs and the strong smell of rats.

Moldering piles of junk almost to the roof and sprawling across the crammed gravel floor. Stuff and more stuff.

There were lead pipes and a bicycle pump.  

Gamey horse blankets, horse ropes and leather bridles, horse medicines, horse shoes, horse stuff.  

A metal bucket, a selection of birds nests and a big tractor tyre.  

An untouched packet of ratsac and a half-full bag of super-phosphate.  

A butcher’s knife, a fishing pole, a kerosene lantern.  

A bunch of thick maroon books, pages slowly fleeing their bindings.  

A stringless tennis racket, a box of nails, a mangy or moth-eaten fox’s tail.  

A bunch of empty plastic bags, brittle and disintegrating.

                                                              *

It was resting on its side close to the back of one of the smaller piles.  

Woven by some deft hand, the cane basket Mum used to haul fruit up from the orchard.

Peaches, pears, apricots, apples.  Whatever the coddling moth or possums hadn’t got to first.  He was pleased; it would be ideal.  

He grasped the handle and hoisted.  

It felt good in his hand and smelled faintly of lemons.  

It was dusty so he wiped the inside of it with his shirt.  Now he was dusty too.  

That shirt would be big trouble later with Mum.

Sunlight fingers felt through the cracks in the shed wall.  Motes swished in the shards, swirled, slowly fell.

                                                               *

The flattened patch of grass by the veranda was empty when he returned.  

He sat and called to the kittens.  “Ehew, Ehew…” he said.  “Ehew, Ehew?” he asked.  There was nothing.  

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said louder.  “Ehew, Ehew?” he asked louder.  

The emptiness ached a bit, so did his stomach.

He called until at last they answered, little mouths opening to show little pink tongues.

Little inquisitive faces poking out from the gloom.

                                                               4.

“Ehew, Ehew…”  Up from inside the basket, a swinging pendulum from the crook of his fingers.  Rock-a-bye-babies, his responsibility now.

Panicked blue eyes, they couldn’t get out.

He couldn’t see Mum.  That didn’t mean she wasn’t watching, but he didn’t think so.

There was no yell to “Get here right now.”

He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she wouldn’t understand.  

She would take the kittens away.  Hurt them, kill them.  

Ferals.

This was no place.

He carried the basket like a secret up the garden path.

Grey concrete pavers, fragrant roses along the way.  

At the end a wrought iron gate, ornate but exhausted.  Old paint flaked off like dandruff.  

Its hinges complained bitterly when he shoved through with his hip and into the back paddock.  

It was ill, he should show more respect.

                                                               *

He wasn’t supposed to be in the back paddock, there were bulls.  

He couldn’t see any but Mum said so.  He’d never seen any but the fear was there all the same.  

Bulls were all big horns and snorting fury.  

A lone crow wheeled above and decided on the bony remnants of a gum.  

Brooding and dreadful it sat in judgement.  Then with a flap and dismissive “Waark…” it was gone.

A cockatoo shrieked and for a second he thought it was Mum.  

No, not her.

Just a bird.

The sun baked the side of the hill.  The air wavered in the heat.

Thump, thump, thump.

His feet determined thumps in front.  

Over short crunchy stubble, summer-scorched pasture parched and beaten.  Mainly kikuyu, some dock here and there.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The kittens weeped, their eyes pleaded.  

He made the sound to them.  “Mhew…”  It didn’t help.  

                                                               *

Reaching the base of the hill, he approached with caution a crowd of scotch thistles, most standing taller than him.  

They were menacing, alien things.  Huddled in groups, dire needles sharp and glinting.  

Vibrant purple crew cuts sprouting from faceless heads held together in nodding conference, watching, whispering.

He picked his way through, feeling an occasional quick sting to his legs.  They tried to grab the basket but he wouldn’t let them.

He was relieved when they thinned out and he spotted the creek fence, bedraggled posts struggling to stay upright under the constant duress of standing.  Two strands of barbed wire hung red-brown and speckled with bird shit, drooping like a low clothes line.

                                                               *

He stooped and lifted the top wire, careful of his fingers, careful of the tet-nus.  

Tet-nus meant big needles in his belly Mum said.  Doctor’s needles, bigger and sharper than even thistles.  

The kittens begged him to stop.

He squatted through into the rudely lush foliage edging the blasted paddock.

It was a riot of green.  

Patches of clover, milkweed and waving bracken.

Long grass probably full of snakes.  

Bunches of turnip gone wild, a hang-over from earlier days when the farm was still being properly worked.  

Sweet yellow wattle.  Ragwort, also yellow but sour.  

Clumps of slicing razor tussock, innocuous enough but with hidden bastard blades.  

He couldn’t see the water, but he could smell it.

The only way down was a steep narrow cow-track scar worn into the slope by generations of hooves.  He used his free hand to grasp tufts of whatever; anything to steady.  

He dug in his heels and slipped straight onto his arse, still holding the basket but quickly sliding out of control.  

A jarring stop at the bottom and he saw the goldies at last.  

It felt wet where he was sitting.  The kittens were frantic, spitting and trying to climb out.

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said to them.  

“We’re here now.  Calm down. Don’t cry.”

                                                               *

He stood on the edge of the squishy bank and dipped his toes just into the water.

The intrusion stirred the silt.  

Brown clouds drifted.  

He stepped in up to his ankles.  

Brown clouds billowed.  

The basket was heavier now than when he’d left the yard. The handle seemed to strain in his hand just from the sheer weight.  

Paddling water-clocks tilled the surface and left expanding Vs in their wake.

They paused occasionally to make the crazy ticking circles that gave them their name.

Weeping willows trailed golden strands from above, languid in the drowsy breeze.  Tangled limbs embraced, rubbing and knocking, their gnarled bark skins as tough as tonka.

Friendly guardians of the creek, his favourite trees by far.  Tall and stooped like Grandad, nicer even than oaks or poplars.

He would sometimes swing on them with a big handfull of their hair, out over the water, feet kicking, before returning safely to shore. Sending haphazard leaves spiralling down. Miniature yellow gondolas that settled to drift untethered, race trills and currents, or float helplessly caught on some piece of jetsam.  

The sky, blue like no other colour, reflected up at him from the water.  

It was a mirror.  In it he looked small and weak.  

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair.  

He looked at the wriggling kittens.  They were small and weak too.  

It was easy to get lost watching the water.  

Time flowed gently down the stream.  The creek was beautiful, but not to be trusted.

There were deep holes with snags where kids could drown.  

Slippery black eels hungrily patrolling the depths, bellies white and fleshy.  

Crayfish with snipping claws and beady eyes on stalks in hollow-log lairs, scuttling under shelves of wormy willow roots or flipping their tails and shooting backwards through the murk.  

Mesmerising sounds, hypnotic ripples, boggy traps of sucking quickmud, dangerous crossings…

Once in winter he had seen a platypus playing.  

The water was brown and fast, right up the sides of the creek and spilling over.  

Mum told him falling in meant dead as dead so to stay away.  

The platypus was rolling on its back, bobbing and diving, having fun in the speeding flood.  

Dead was dead though, so he’d just watched until eventually it bobbed under and didn’t come back up.

                                                            5.

The bridge to the island was a half submerged root, like a pale wet bone reaching.

The island itself no more than a bump.

Two slow roads flecked with whitish foam flowed around.  

Cress and water-weeds fringed the shore.  Baby gudgeons bulleted, flashed, sucked at the waving strands.  

Fishbone ferns gave an impression of solidity, alongside blanched drifts of disintegrating leaves.  

Piles of wattle baubles - no longer golden but gritty soaked orange.

                                                               *

He tried not to think and just did.  

He walked the root.

He jumped at the end, planted his feet and landed with a splotch.  

He stepped forward. He hadn’t fallen in.  

Tawny water seeped shallowly into his left-behind footprints.

                                                               *

At last they had arrived.  Kitten Island.  

A place away from all the bad things in the world.  

A place he could visit any time he wanted.  

A place where he could watch them grow, his beautiful secrets.

Tenderly he tipped the kittens out of the basket.  They toddled onto the ground, lost and frightened.  They were not where they thought they belonged.

He was sure they were wrong though.  

They would be happy here, safe and privileged and private.

                                                               *

The way back was easier without the weight of the kittens in the basket.

It felt so much lighter.  

He felt so much lighter.

                                                      Epilogue.

After a sweaty night he wakes still tired.  

Rags of lucid dreams.  Something about his stuffed toys attacking him, circling with bared teeth.

Then he remembers the kittens and leaps from the bed.

                                                               *

A hurried bowl of coco-pops and a disapproving scowl from Mum.  

He smiles and tells her he’s going outside to play.  

“Alright,” she says. “But stay in the yard.”

He steps off the veranda into a scalding wind.  

No noise from the underhouse.

The insects scream about the heat.  He doesn’t care, lets them scream.  

He feels a sort of thrumming anticipation, the twitching tug of a line running to his guts and pulling at his insides.  

How happy they will be to see him.  

They’ll purr and rub his bare legs with their chins.

Little darlings.

A blowfly buzzes by.  Fat and slow, patrolling for a feed or somewhere to lay its eggs.  

It diverts to the plum tree, attracted by the soggy bombs that sticky the ground dark red with juice.  

He avoids going over there this time of year.  Hates the disgusting feel of the plums under his his bare feet.  Imagines walking across a field of bloody eyeballs.

Spring is better.  Petals cover the ground in pink snow.

He makes his way up the path and through the gate.  It’s still sick and lets him know.

                                                               *

Mum is wrong, the back paddock has no bulls.  

He isn’t afraid.  He’s yelping and rushing forward, his feet quick thumps in front.  

Thump, thump, thump.

Whacking the thistles with a picked-up stick, laughing.

Through the fence, the green curtain, sliding down the slope easily.  

His heart drums fast-marching soldiers.  The blood sings sugar in his ears.  

Nothing could be better.

The creek is a shiny silver worm, a dark mirror over which iridescent dragonflies skim and linger.  

The weeping willows groan and sway in the hot gusts, tossing leaves to the cool water below.

He looks to the island and his smile sinks like a clod thrown into a dam.  

It sinks like Mum’s smile when he’s again broken something.

“Ehew, Ehew..?” he asks.

Kitten Island is empty.  

The kittens are gone.

[montyistrapped]

The other shit eating bracken drawings

Some were requested by friends