#that I ended up saving somewhere around EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS on because instead of the refurb one that cost like 1.2k with tax

[talesfromthebandgeekmafia]

Goodnight everyone!! I love you!! 💕

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, obsessedbutonline!

For @obsessedbutonline, who listed fluff, angst, and ‘Derek giving Stiles gift’ as a few ‘Likes’. I hope I did those items justice. Hope you have a wonderful Christmas, Friend!

Read On AO3

*****

The Gift

The gift. He supposed it all started with the gift. Or maybe Star Trek. Derek wasn’t sure. It was Stiles, after all. One day, the younger man had been debating the cuddle rating of a Tribble, before diving into an analysis of The Voyage Home being one of the worst movies in franchise history (except for the whales, of course), and the next thing Derek knew, he’d found himself discussing how Moby Dick was one of his favorite books. The random jumps from one topic to another hadn’t been anything new for Stiles, but that had also been the year they’d legitimately gotten ‘together’ after their contentious circling of each other’s orbits, so when Derek had opened an inelegantly wrapped early edition of the novel on that first Christmas as a couple, he’d been rendered speechless.

He couldn’t remember how long he’d stared at the leather-bound copy exactly, but he did recall feeling a bout of inadequacy. He thought he’d hid it well though. “Stiles – “ he’d started. “I wasn’t expecting…This is too much.”

Stiles had shrugged like it hadn’t been a big deal, an eager grin on his face. “Nah, it wasn’t too bad. A classmate mentioned a prof who needed an assistant to help translate some Latin verses, and I thought I’d check it out. When I went, I noticed a copy of Moby Dick in his office, and you’d mentioned it was one of your favorites, so I offered my translation services for free if he would sell the book for a discounted price.”

Of course, Stiles had remembered that weird detail from a throwaway conversation. And of course, he’d been resourceful in procuring it. That was just who Stiles was. Now, Derek, on the other hand… well, he’d felt completely out of his league when he’d pulled out the gift card he’d picked up a day earlier from a comic book store. He hadn’t even known if that was a store Stiles ever visited. He really sucked at gift-giving. “Sorry, I didn’t …”

Stiles had yanked it out of his hands before he’d even finished. “I love it. Thanks, Derek!” The younger man had beamed excitedly, clutching that cheap piece of plastic in his hands as if he’d just received some personal heirloom. There had been no uptick in the man’s heartrate, so there’d been no lie in those words, but that hadn’t stop Derek from feeling bad.

And it was then that he had resolved to do better, that he would be thoughtful and meticulous in his gift selection the next time Christmas rolled around. Stiles deserved as much.

But he’d mentioned he was bad at gift-giving, right? As in, monumentally bad. Because the next Christmas, when they’d settled down on his couch after an intimate holiday dinner he’d prepared for the two of them, Stiles had presented him with a charmingly wrinkled gift bag. And when he’d pulled out a lovingly restored and framed photograph of his family from before the fire, he’d not only felt a slight lump in his throat at the sentiment, he’d also felt remarkably small and completely lacking in comparison. It was a good thing they’d come to a mutual understanding that their birthdays would be a no-gift zone, because Derek wasn’t sure he could’ve handled double the inferiority complex this time of year.

“I found a copy of the photo from the digital archives of the town newspaper. It was for some fundraiser committee your mom chaired, I think. I saved a copy, and googled around for some pointers on how to increase the resolution so I could print out a decent version of it,” Stiles had explained.

Derek had nodded absently, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of his mother’s face under the cool glass. His whole family had stared back at him, carefree and unburdened in the moment that photo had been taken, eyes all shiny from a sunny afternoon picnic. “Yeah, I remember. It was a Pets in the Park fundraiser for the local animal shelter.” There had been an ache in the pit of his stomach at the reminder of everything he’d lost, but it wasn’t as sharp as it had once been. Now, it had been dulled by time, and tempered by the meaningful relationships he’d found, foremost of which was the one with the man beside him. “Thank you,” he’d said slowly, slightly surprised that his voice hadn’t cracked at the pool of emotion swirling within him.

“Anytime, big guy.” Stiles had leaned in, his weight and warmth freely offered as a source of silent strength.

But when he’d pulled out his gift for Stiles, he had had that sinking feeling of failing an important test. He hadn’t even had time to wrap it properly, opting to place a haphazard bow on it instead. “Sorry, I didn’t know …”

Stiles had grabbed the cellophane-covered box with a puzzled expression. “A bath set?” he’d asked slowly. “Is this your way of telling me I stink?”

There had been amusement in the younger man’s tone, devoid of upset or disappointment, but that hadn’t stopped Derek from feeling upset and disappointed in himself. After Stiles had gone through all the trouble of giving him such a personal and meaningful gift, he’d reciprocated with … soap. “Remember when you were on break during Thanksgiving,” he’d started to explain. “That necromancer problem we had?”

“Oh, damn, do I ever! We spent the whole night trying to wash zombie goo out of bodily crevices I never knew I had!” Then, realization had set in as those rich brown eyes widened. “This is perfect, Derek! Thank you!” And just like that, Stiles had fallen on him with his usual gracelessness, and proceeded to express his ‘gratitude’ properly.

That had been last year. But this time around, right before Stiles had returned to campus for his final two semesters of college, Derek had stumbled upon the ideal Christmas gift, while they were cleaning, of all things. They’d been packing up and storing some of Stiles’ stuff before the younger man headed back to school when they’d gotten diverted by some dusty, old boxes in the Sheriff’s attic. Somehow, in the way of procrastination, they’d ended up flipping through old photo albums when Stiles had paused to tell him about a picture of his mother.

“Oh, there’s the locket my dad helped me buy for Mother’s Day when I was eight,” Stiles had said as he’d pointed to a picture of Claudia Stilinski, vivacious and beaming brightly at the camera. Anyone could see where Stiles had gotten his smile. “I didn’t have the greatest taste in jewelry, so it doesn’t look like much, but she was so excited when she got it. She wore it all the time.”

“It’s nice that you have a memento to remember her by,” Derek had supplied.

Stiles’ shoulders had slumped a little at the comment. “Yeah, I think we accidentally sold it during a garage sale not long after she died. Dad wasn’t exactly in the best place, and he just wanted to get rid of the memories because they hurt so much back then. Lots of regret now. Who knows? It might’ve found another home, or it might be in a garbage dump somewhere.”

And that comment had led him down the winding, convoluted path to where he was now: standing in front of a teenage girl with bright blue hair and an eclectic ensemble of a loose plaid shirt, artfully ripped leggings, and combat boots.

“A hundred bucks,” the girl re-stated, her tone indicating that this wasn’t a negotiation.

“One hundred? The pawn shop owner said you only paid five dollars for it.” He could be stubborn too, though deep down, he knew he wasn’t really in a position of power in this situation, much as that rankled him.

Ms. Blue-hair shrugged. “So? If you want it that bad, then you should be willing to pay for it.”

She had him there. Three months of diligently interviewing the Stilinski neighbors, and following a trail of multiple goodwill and pawn shops had led him to that very locket hanging from the girl’s neck, that very locket Stiles had shown him in that old photo of his mother. He gave the teen what Stiles had laughingly termed his ‘murder-brow’ look and pulled out his wallet. Of course, he would pay, especially after all the work he’d put into tracking it down, and because this was for Stiles. He didn’t have to like being swindled like this though.

“That’s a nice jacket, by the way.”

Derek looked up from pulling out the cash and froze. He glared at the girl, hoping the intensity of his stare would deter whatever she was about to insinuate. It didn’t work.

“No,” he said flatly as she watched him expectantly.

“Okay, I guess we’re done here then. Nice meeting you.” And with that, she turned and started to walk away.

Derek ground his teeth together to keep from outright growling and fought hard to not wolf out. He hated being bested like this. Life would’ve been so much simpler if he could just take the damned piece of jewelry by force and run off with it. Stupid morals.

“Fine,” he conceded with a clenched jaw after she’d managed to walk several feet away.

She turned with a triumphant smile as he started to shrug off his leather jacket. When he held it out with the wad of cash, she unclasped the chain without any further objections and handed it over. “Pleasure doing business with you, sir.”

(***)

Stiles’ name flashed on his lock screen just as he was pulling up to his loft.

“Hey, you back already?” he answered as he shifted his car into park. His regular visits to Stanford notwithstanding, he’d been anticipating Stiles’ winter break for a while, and the timing couldn’t have worked out any better with him finding the locket when he had. “I was going to pick you up tonight after you’ve had a few hours with your dad.”

Several seconds of heavy breathing greeted his words, and almost instantly, he was on alert, muscles tensing and heartrate increasing. “Stiles?”

“Yeah, Derek, I’m here,” a familiar voice sounded through the phone. “Sorry, just had to get around Scott to check something out. But no, I’m not home yet. Got sidetracked on my way into town. Can you come to the preserve right now? The trail just off Parsons. We’ve got, um, a problem.”

Since his return to Beacon Hills, the supernatural activity in the area had decreased significantly, especially with a solid pack established in the area now, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t the occasional run-in with creatures bringing in death and mayhem. This sounded like one of those times. Shifting gears into reverse, he responded without hesitation, “On my way.”

The trip to the preserve was quick, the route having been travelled so many times that he could probably drive it eyes closed. After parking in the lot off Parsons, he picked up Stiles’ scent almost immediately, along with a few others of the pack, and had no problems tracking the source down a few hundred feet off a popular running path.

Not surprisingly, Scott noticed him first, looking up from a patch of tall grass and nodding in greeting as Derek silently approached. Stiles stood more out in the open, back turned and head down as he tapped busily on his phone. Once upon a time, his quiet ‘stalking’ would’ve caused a flailing of limbs and a high-pitched yelp from the younger man, but of the familiarity borne from the years of closeness, Stiles simply turned, smiled, and greeted him with a warm ‘hey’ as if he’d known he was there the whole time. And all things considered, he probably had.

They’d never been a couple for overt displays of affection, but the way Stiles unconsciously leaned toward him, trusting and open, worked just as well in telling Derek how the other man felt. He usually did the same, subtly breathing in the scent of his boyfriend and feeling more settled in his presence. They hadn’t seen each for a couple of weeks, and he’d missed having Stiles near.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking around for the rest of the pack. Their scents were fainter, which meant they had been here recently, but had likely wandered off or left altogether.

“It’s Christmastime in Beacon Hills, so the usual. Y’know, carolers, Santa parades, sleigh rides, tidings of comfort and joy, and oh yeah, witches.”

Derek had never been bothered by Stiles’ sarcasm, though he wouldn’t openly admit that if asked about their first encounters with each other, but now, he found the trait rather endearing. “So, we’re dealing with a witch. How bad?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I was driving back into town when I saw a kid running across the road. Freaked me out, and barely stopped in time. When I went to check on him, he was crying and said an old woman had tried to take him. At first, I thought it was an attempted kidnapping, but then, he said that there was a lot of screaming coming from her big bag, and he was scared of getting stuffed in there with all the other kid. For this town, that triggered alarm bells. Stuffing kids into bags and lugging them around is not your regular run-of-the-mill kidnapper MO. I called my dad, and he came out here with a few units, but is running interference on the supernatural front. He’d mentioned that this was the third attempted kidnapping this month, so the deputies are on high alert. They still think it’s a regular human predator, so they’re canvassing the other side of the preserve right now, which means we can do our own investigation here. I called Scott, and the others are now fanned out, doing a search to see if we can catch a scent.”

“No luck yet,” Scott added as he strode over to join them. “Just a whole bunch of the usual smells, and with the people that use the running trails, it’s hard to pinpoint a specific one. We’re not exactly sure what we’re looking for.”

“I think I have a lead though.” Stiles held out his phone to show an etching of a stooped crone with a large sack. “We might have an Icelandic witch in the area, one that kidnaps and eats children, but I’m not a hundred percent. I hope I’m not right because … well, children! But she’s supposed to be active around Christmas. I need to double-check some books at my house to make sure though.”

Derek nodded, not surprised that Stiles had pretty much figured it out already. As human as Stiles was, he was arguably one of the pack’s most valuable assets, and truth be told, Derek felt quite proud of the other man’s quick wit and life-saving accomplishments. “So, you need to go home then?”

Stiles made a sound of agreement as he tucked his phone away and gave him an apologetic look. No words were needed to communicate how sorry he was that their reunion wasn’t what they’d planned.

“Okay, call us with any info,” Scott chimed in. “Derek and I will probably be more useful if we keep scouting the area. This is children we’re talking about. I don’t want anymore of them put in danger.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Alpha leader, sir,” Stiles replied jokingly, giving his friend a mock salute.

The years had matured Scott somewhat, enough that the erstwhile werewolf took his role and responsibilities somewhat seriously now. And for this, Derek was grateful.

Scott gave Stiles a shove to get him on his way, before shaking his head with a laugh and started to move back to the tall grass he’d been searching through earlier. “Go, you idiot.”

Stiles responded with the very mature gesture of sticking out his tongue. Then, Derek felt the younger man’s arm wrap lightly around his waist and pull him close for a quick kiss. The motion was casual, natural, and one that Derek returned without thought. “Sorry, not what we’d planned when I got back, huh? Let’s catch this witch fast so we can start our Christmas cuddle session, ‘kay?”

Derek raised an eyebrow at the comment. His boyfriend sure did have a way with words sometimes. “Christmas cuddle?”

“Hey, it is what it is.” Stiles shrugged innocently as he started to move away.

“I’m not calling it that.”

“Suit yourself, Sourwolf, but I’ve officially labelled it, and you can’t take that away from me,” Stiles said as he walked backwards toward the nearby trail. Derek half-expected him to trip on some invisible rock in the next few seconds. “Gonna say it all I want!”

He rolled his eyes as the younger man’s antics. “Go.”

“Christmas cuddle! Oh, and far be it for me to complain about seeing you in that t-shirt, but you do know it’s winter, right? We may live in California, and you may have some super-awesome internal wolfy furnace going, but I’m cold just looking at you. Where’s your jacket?”

“Go!” While he didn’t feel the chill as acutely, he didn’t need to be reminded about his fleecing by a greedy, blue-haired teenager.

After Stiles wave his acknowledgement and jogged out of sight, Derek turned back to join Scott. Their relationship may have started out roughly, but they’d fallen into a companionable pattern over the last few years. It was likely because of everything Scott had been through and his maturation, but Derek guessed part of it may have been out of respect for both their relationships with Stiles. Without much preamble, they quickly sectioned off their respective search zones, and fanned out into the thicker parts of the preserve. Derek had grown up here, had run and played amongst the trees and foliage so often that walking through it now stirred a sense of homecoming. Still, sometimes, there were things here that could still surprise him. Like the odd whiff of fear and panic he caught a few minutes after he’d split off from Scott. It was faint, probably non-existent for the newer wolves, but it was there, so out of place with the earthy scent of moss and soil. He started to follow it, his senses sharpening as he homed in on the potential prey. He hadn’t made much progress before he heard a howl off in the distance, and his entire body tensed, ready for action.

They’d found something!

Once he pinpointed the source, he was off, dashing through branches and over roots with a surety of stride that had been acquired from a lifetime of running these woods. He didn’t get very far though. He heard it first, a loud symphony of disembodied laughter all around him. Before he could stop and confront whatever it was, he caught a flutter of movement in his periphery, and then, he was flying, thrown through the air by an impact harder than anything in recent memory. He was out cold before he even landed.

(***)

He wasn’t unconscious for long. At least, he didn’t think he was, given that generations of werewolf evolution had refined his healing abilities to the point where he shouldn’t be. But however long it was, it was enough to find himself strapped to a board – or a crude table, perhaps – staring up at the flickering shadows of a stone ceiling. Or a cave? He honestly hated losing time like this and waking up in unexpected places, which, given who he was and where he lived, was an actual occupational hazard.

A whimper somewhere to his left drew his attention just then, and he tilted his head at an uncomfortable angle to take better stock of where he was, and with whom. Just within his field of vision, he could barely make out a small figure sat huddled inside a primitively constructed cage no higher than his hip. A wood fire burned beneath a big vat just a few feet away, thoroughly heating up whatever was inside if the bubbling sound was any indication.

“Hey,” he said quietly, if a little hoarsely, hoping the hunched figure would shift enough into the firelight for him to make out who it was.

The figure shuffled over, and Derek could see the tear-streaked face of a boy, probably no more than eight or nine years old. Stiles had said there’d been attempted kidnappings. It looked like one had succeeded.

“H-hello? You’re awake.”

“Yeah, I am.” He wasn’t good with children, barring the few cousins he’d played with when he was younger, yet that had been different. They’d been family. He knew this kid was scared, could hear it in the tremor of his voice and smell it in the dankness of the air, but he wasn’t sure what he could say to help with that. “I’m Derek. What’s your name?”

“A-Andy.”

“Well, Andy, if you give me a minute, we can get out of here and I’ll take you back to your parents.” He tried to sound reassuring, though he wasn’t sure it worked as well as he’d intended when he was tugging and testing the thick ropes tied around his chest, waist, and legs. They were tight, but he managed to slide a hand free enough to shift and start slicing away at the restraints with his claw.

“Just Mom,” the boy said quietly. “Dad left.”

“Okay, we’re going to find your mom then. I’m sure she’s really missing you right now.” He figured that keeping a calm tone and easy conversation going was as good a plan as any while he worked on the ropes.

Andy shuffled a little in his cage, his face dipping down again into the shadows cast by the nearby fire. “She’s working. She’s always working. She promised I’d get to see Dad, but she couldn’t take me, so I went to find him myself.”

Which might explain why the boy hadn’t been reported missing yet. There was some give to the rope by his right hip, so he tilted his head and tried to look over at the boy and hoped he properly projected the sincerity of his words. “That doesn’t mean she’s not missing you, Andy. I know she’s probably very worried. She – “

The stench assaulted him first, sour and rancid, before he felt the whole space shake with a reverberating thud. Andy quickly scooted back into the corner of his cage with a scared squeak, leaving Derek to turn and search out the source in the dim light. An old woman came into view near the foot of his table, posture bent and face haggard, each of her steps sending tiny shockwaves through the cave. Her long, gray hair hung in a greasy, unkempt mess, framing a crooked nose and a gap-toothed, mirthless grin. She resembled the picture Stiles had shown him on his phone, but the younger man had neglected to mention one thing. She was a fucking giant!

The whole cave suddenly felt cramped, and her looming presence caused his heartrate to spike. He worked faster on his ropes.

“Good dog. You’re too old and gristly for my liking, but if my lads want a pet, a pet they will get,” she said in a voice deeper than he’d expected. She patted his stomach dismissively as she passed, and he fought hard not cry out at the jarring, painful contact. “Now, where’s my little snack? Little boy for a little snack. Little boy snack.” She cackled at her own wit.

He heard Andy whimper again as the old, giant crone ambled her way over to the cage, and he wanted to tell the boy to be brave, to hold on because he was almost through his rope. Yet, as he was about to do just that, he caught the scent of metal and electricity in the air. It cut through the myriad of other unpleasant smells like an olfactory beacon, clear and crisp and a harbinger of something – or someone – familiar. He couldn’t help but smile a little at the arrival of the calvary, even as Andy shrieked when the witch pulled him roughly from the cage and shuffled over to the boiling pot.

Then, several things happened at once. First, voices that sounded like the disembodied laughter he’d heard earlier came from somewhere outside. This time, however, they were shouting out in distress, intermingled with the familiar voices of his pack. The cries gave the witch pause for a split second, just as he cut through the last of his restraints and pulled free. After that, he was up and leaping through the air, aiming to get Andy free of the old woman’s clutches and away from the fire. And he managed just that, wrapping his arms around the boy as he clawed at the large hand that held him. But he underestimated the reaction speed of the crone, and barely managed to turn his body to shield Andy before her other hand swatted his side. He landed with bone-cracking impact against the boiling pot, adrenalin enhancing his movements as he rolled quickly to avoid landing on the fire or getting splattered by the hot liquid in the toppling vat. He was pretty sure he’d probably cracked a few ribs, but they were already healing. Andy seemed none the worse for wear when he looked down, unhurt and safe in his arms still.

“My boys! What are they doing to my boys?” the witch wailed.

Derek tensed briefly, thinking the giantess would take her surprise and anger out on him. He readied himself for a fight, but instead, she turned and marched the other way, he and Andy seemingly forgotten. He eased himself up with a barely suppressed groan, and let the small body pressed against his chest slide down to his lap. He could hear the pack outside, the growls of the wolves and the foreign-sounding chants from Stiles, and he knew that they had it handled.

“You okay?” he asked as he gave Andy a good once-over.

The boy simply nodded, his whole body still trembling. Then, without a word, he leaned forward and hugged Derek as if his life depended on it. Not sure how else to respond, Derek hugged the child back.

That was how Stiles found them a few minutes later when he stumbled clumsily into the cave. After some coaxing, they both managed to talk Andy into finally letting go. Scott took it from there, coming in to take the boy away to find the Sheriff, who had been called to the area when Stiles had triangulated Derek’s location. Stiles waited a moment after Scott had left before he turned and threw himself into Derek’s arms.

“Oh, thank every deity I just prayed to you’re okay. Had me worried.”

Derek squeezed the warm, lithe body clinging to him like an octopus, and bent down to briefly nuzzle his partner’s neck. He breathed in the fortifying scent that was simply Stiles and used it to ground himself after the crazy events that had just happened. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m fine.”

“I know. You’re one tough son of a bitch, but the uncertainty always gets me.” Stiles pulled away and gave him a look with those ridiculously wide Bambi-like eyes that made Derek’s insides go warm. “And of course, you would go all superhero and save a child while we saved you. With the way the boy was holding on to you, I thought you’d replaced me with a cuter, newer model.”

Derek quirked up his lip into a lopsided, half-smile. “Never,” he returned easily. “If I did, I would at least try to get a good trade-in price for you.”

“Smartass.” As his comeback, Stiles smacked his arm with the back of his hand. He then slipped said hand into Derek’s, intertwined their fingers, and started walking out of the cave. “See if I ever send baddies back through an intercontinental gate for you again.”

“So, she wasn’t a witch?” Derek asked as he followed Stiles’ lead out of the cave

“Oh, no, she was a witch. The giantess witch, Gryla, and her sons, the Yule Lads. I don’t know how they got here, but I was working off of some quick and dirty research, so the best I could do was track down caves in the area, which is what the literature says she tends to favor, and find a spell to send her back to her native Iceland.”

Derek silently listened as Stiles explained what had happened, both grateful and proud – and not for the first or last time either – at the quick wit and resourcefulness of the guy he got to call his. They eventually emerged from the cave, and he immediately felt lighter the moment he could smell the fresh earth and foliage again. The sun was beginning to set, creating lengthening shadows of the redwoods and the oaks that stood like sentinels around them. And with that came a distinct chill in the air. He felt Stiles shiver at the lower temperature, and wished he’d had his jacket around to offer the other man. The jacket that he’d exchanged for …

With his free hand, he reached into his jeans pocket where he’d tucked the locket earlier, and –

Shit!

Without another thought, he turned and sprinted back into the cave. He quickly scanned the area and did not see the locket anywhere. His eyes then fell on the overturned pot and the still-burning embers of the woodfire. A dash of panic began to taint his actions, but he didn’t stop to quell it. Instead, he rushed over to the dying fire and started digging through the ashes. His hands burned and healed almost simultaneously as he dug desperately through the charred wood, an odd combination of frustration and helplessness clouding his judgement.

“Derek?”

He heard Stiles, but didn’t answer, mainly because his fingers wrapped around a clump of metal just then. He looked down at what used to be Stiles’ mother’s locket, the piece now misshapen by the heat and bearing no resemblance to what it used to be. He dropped the thing, both dejected and angry. This was supposed to be the year. This was supposed to be the Christmas where he would show Stiles how much the younger man meant to him by putting the care and thought into his gift that Stiles had always put into his. But everything… everything had been for nothing.

“Derek? What’s wrong? You okay?” Stiles approached and knelt beside him, looking ready to join him in whatever he was searching for.

He brushed the soot and ash off his hands, shook his head, and stood up. “Nothing. I’m good. Just thought I dropped something but I was wrong. C’mon, let’s go home.”

Puzzled, Stiles stood too, though he didn’t pry, and together, they made their way out of the cave once more, but not before Derek threw one last, longing glance at the pile of ashes.

(***)

“Oh, my god, I’m so stuffed,” Stiles said as he plopped down on the couch and rubbed his belly. “I might have to be rolled off to bed later because there’s no way I’m standing up.”

Derek smiled softly at the younger man’s dramatics, and joined him on the sofa. Christmas dinner had been an intimate one again between just the two of them, with Derek doing most of the preparation, while Stiles had ‘helped’. He didn’t mind though. He enjoyed their time together. The way they fit together, their ease with each other … it had all been hard-won, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. The younger man had chatted animatedly throughout the meal and Derek had let him go on, wanting to prolong the whole thing because, if he was being honest, he was dreading what would happen afterwards: their gift exchange.

“Merry Christmas, Derek,” Stiles said, as if reading his thoughts. He reached over to the end table and grabbed an unevenly wrapped gift.

Derek stared at the thing for a moment, just knowing deep down it would be a typical Stiles present, all special and personal. Why did Stiles even stay with him? He must come across as an unthoughtful, unappreciative jerk. Slowly, he unwrapped the gift, and revealed a collage of artfully arranged photographs. There were trees and flowers and butterflies dancing on sunbeams across open trails. They were beautiful, more so in that Derek recognized where they had been taken: the preserve.

“You sometimes talk about how you grew up in the preserve,” Stiles explained. “How it’s a second home to you, and how you have all those memories with your family there. I know the memories are special, so I went and took some pictures during summer break. I hope these help you remember all those good times.”

Derek blinked away the prickling he felt in his eyes. Stiles may have assumed he was touched by the gift, which was fine. He didn’t need to know what Derek was really feeling. He didn’t need to know that in that moment, he thought Stiles really deserved so much better than him.

“Thank you. It’s perfect,” he choked out. “I – “ He didn’t know how to continue. What else could he say? “My present isn’t –“

He stopped. Stiles looked at him expectantly. Not finding the right words, he leaned over to the coffee table and grabbed the last-minute gift bag he’d filled the day before. “Here.”

He looked away while Stiles eagerly dug into the bag. He knew what was in there, and he didn’t need to see the lackluster reaction the younger man would have at the assortment of Reese’s candies he’d find.

“Oh, this is awesome, Derek!” Stiles exclaimed excitedly. “Holy shit, there’s a half pound peanut butter cup in here! Hello, Heaven!”

Derek felt Stiles’ arms wrap around him in gratitude, but he couldn’t find it in himself to return the gesture. The younger man seemed to notice and pulled back. “Derek?”

He turned and took in Stiles’ questioning gaze. He couldn’t do this. They complemented each other so well in everything, but somehow, in this, they were completely mismatched. “Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked in earnest.

“What?”

“My gifts. Doesn’t it bother you that my gifts are so … so bad. Yours are always so … so perfect.” It felt good to get that off his chest.

Stiles gawked at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. “Huh? But I think your gifts are perfect. And that’s not a lie. You can tell, right?”

True, Derek hadn’t heard any change in the other man’s heartrate to indicate otherwise, but no one could like his choice of gifts that much. “I just ... I wanted to show you how much I appreciate you, how much I care about you, the same way to do for me, especially with the gifts you give me. But I can’t seem to do that.” This was uncharted territory for him, this admission. He wasn’t used to revealing his insecurities like this. Yet, this was Stiles he was talking to, he reminded himself. Stiles, who never had any shame in revealing his every failure and weakness, and who gave his trust without fear of being hurt. Derek owed him the same. “I found your mother’s locket,” he finally said. “The one from the album you showed me. I found it, and was going to give it to you, but I lost it when we fought that witch last week. I’m sorry.”

He stared at the coffee table. He stared at the discard wrapping paper of the collage he’d just received. He started at everything but Stiles.

And then, “That’s what you were worried about? Not being able to show me you loved me?” Stiles’ tone was incredulous, and it was enough for Derek to turn his attention to the younger man again. “You’re an idiot, Derek,” Stiles continued. “For the record, your presents are awesome. But that’s not the point. You drive three hours each way to visit me on campus every other weekend. You cook Christmas dinner for us every year. You help me pack for college each fall. You drop everything and meet me in a forest, no questions asked, when I call. You even spent all night picking zombie guts out of my hair. If that doesn’t say ‘love’, I don’t know what does!”

To put an exclamation to his point, Stiles pulled him in for a long, lingering kiss. “I love you, Derek Hale, and I know you love me. You don’t need to give me things to show me that. You show me every day in the things you do. And that’s more than enough.”

Derek looked at the man sitting beside him, stunned and at a loss. “I –“

“It’s more than enough,” Stiles re-stated firmly. “Now, stop your self-flagellation, and show me how much you appreciate my gift by kissing me.”

Stiles pulled him in again, and this time, Derek did put everything he had into that kiss because the weight of those heartfelt words were slowly sinking in. He loved Stiles. And Stiles … Stiles knew that. He groaned in appreciation at the true gift he’d been given as he pushed the younger man down onto his back, bracing his weight on his arms as he ground their hips together. Fuck it, he felt like he’d really won the lottery in finding Stiles … because Stiles was right, he realized as he deepened their kiss, tasting and teasing the smart, sarcastic, and silly man beneath him.

This … This was more than enough.

[clarketomylexa]

halley’s comet and other extenuating circumstances ch. 2

read on ao3

The diner is empty. 

The laminated sign in the window — decorated for the season with one, shiny, pumpkin sticker grinning jovially — reads ‘open’ in black, block letters but this early, people are still respecting what they think is common courtesy and staying away until a more agreeable hour. 

Which is fine by Lexa because she gets paid either way; whether she’s pouring coffee or finishing the Calculus B homework Clarke lured her away from last night — cheeks flushed and still in her uniform from practice—in a booth in the corner. She runs a finger over the mauve bruise on her jaw at the thought. 

(If Gus has noticed, he’s had the grace not to say anything). 

“Did you know Venus is the hottest planet in the solar system?” 

“No.” 

“It has the average surface temperature of four-hundred and fifty degrees Celsius.” 

“That makes sense,” Clarke says: “‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’.”

“Are you saying that the temperature of a planet six-hundred and twelve miles away is dictated by your sexual preferences?” 

“Are you calling yourself hot?” 

Clarke grins — game set and match — and Lexa feels herself falling for her a little harder. 

In the month since Clarke invited her to the game, her life has become a John Huges cliché; they have graduated from car-pooling to holding hands to kissing beneath the bleachers after cheer-practice and it’s safe to say it has given Lexa whiplash. Not the bad kind though—if there is such a thing—but the kind that she imagines you would get if you got on a roller coaster without strapping in, or even expecting to get on a roller coaster in the first place. 

Clarke is her roller coaster and Lexa was so wholly unprepared for her to appear when she did, Lexa’s head hit the back of her seat and she hasn’t stopped feeling dizzy for it since. 

She watches Clarke rest her sneaker on the worn, laminate cushion of the booth, a windbreaker—turquoise and blue with the logo of a brand Anya drools over when they drive to the outlets two towns over on the sleeve—over her t-shirt and jeans and she looks prettier now, drenched in weak Fall sunlight, with syrup on her fingers, than Lexa has ever seen her. Which includes the moments she’s spent sitting on the end of Lexa’s bed with her arms crossed over her pale-pink bra and her lip gloss on her chin, flushing prettily while Anya berated them for going at it too loudly. 

It's game day today—Fridays still don’t agree with her but they have gotten more manageable now that she has a reason to partake in the festivities, even if her reason is more the half-time show than the game itself—but Clarke has forgone her uniform for the morning at lease. Instead, it sits beside her in her gym bag, waiting until after her morning student council meeting to be put on and Lexa thinks she’s relieved. Not because she doesn’t like Clarke’s uniform but just the opposite.

“It’s a joke that that book spent a hundred days on the bestseller list,” she clears her throat, copying a problem from her textbook into her spiral, worried she’s thinking too loudly. When she looks up, Clarke has her cheek in her hand and is grinning at her. 

“What?” Lexa asks. 

“Nothing.” 

“Clarke.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

Lexa nudges her under the table and Clarke squints at her happily. Her chin slides off the bracket of her palm and she sits up, placing her hands on either side of her plate of hotcakes as she leans over the table to kiss her—a sticky-sweet kiss that tastes like syrup and toothpaste somewhere beyond that. It’s slow and sweet, filling Lexa up with liquid sunshine from the pit of her belly to the top of her ears until all she can feel is Clarke’s grin against her mouth. She can hear footsteps somewhere beyond their booth—Gus probably—and when she starts paying attention again, back from the faraway planet that the feeling of Clarke beneath her fingers always sends her to, their teeth knock. 

Clarke leans back on her hands and Lexa goes to apologise when she sees her lips curl under her teeth. She smiles down at her breakfast—the picture of a naughty bashful school girl—as Gus meanders past with a rack of dirty mugs, doing his best imitation of ignorance. 

It isn’t convincing in the slightest. 

“You’re coming tonight, right?” Clarke asks when he’s gone, lowering herself back to her seat. One foot sits propped up on the bench of the booth and the other remains under the table to play footsie with Lexa’s.   

“If you want me to,” Lexa says softly as if worried if she speaks too loudly the sunshine will drain away and she will have to wait the minutes until Clarke sees fit to kiss her again, cold and sunshine-less. The thought almost doesn’t bear thinking about. It reminds her of the excruciating minutes between AP English and Biology—the only passing period in the school day when she and Clarke don’t manage to find each other—and it’s excruciating.   

“‘Course,” Clarke says executively. “We have to plan our costumes.” 

“Costumes?” 

“Costumes.” Clarke quirks her brow cheekily. 

A phone alarm goes off before Lexa can ask anymore and Clarke rummages through her backpack to silence it, checking the time as she does. “Shoot. I need to go.” She swings her backpack over her shoulder, then her gym bag and pries two ten dollar notes out of her bi-fold, handing them to Lexa as she slides out of the booth. 

“I’ll see you at lunch?” she asks, kissing Lexa on the cheek. 

“Yeah,” Lexa nods, then looks down at the money in her hand. It’s too much for breakfast. “Clarke—” 

“The tip’s for my waitress,” she grins, waving to Gus who looks up from where he’s studiously stacking glasses by the counter as she goes. “Tell her I think she’s cute.” 

//

Lexa isn’t nervous about the pumpkin patch until she hears people talking about it. 

(Well, that’s a lie, because the day she isn’t nervous about spending time with Clarke is the day that the stars descend from the heavens). 

When Clarke first brought it up over lunch with Octavia and Lincoln, it didn’t seem like it would be any different from their breakfasts at the diner or their study dates that turn very quickly from English to Biology of the kind that probably won’t be tested on the SATs. In fact, when she was younger she loved Halloween for that very reason. She remembers Anya saving quarters their parents gave her for taking out the trash to buy them tickets for the kid’s haunted hayride the Greens put on every year, presenting Lexa with her ticket and paper bag of candy corn like she was bestowing her sister a great honour. 

Then, Anya started the sixth grade and suddenly, the thought of a kid’s anything was morally reprehensible, let alone sitting in a moving vehicle for any length of time longer than the eight-minute drive to school. Lexa made a habit of being busy on Halloween after that. 

She thought the function of it remained the same though, no matter how many years she missed sitting in her room streaming Scream one through four on her laptop. Or at least she did until her calculus substitute let the class dissolve into a rapturous discussion of who had invited who to the pumpkin patch and, suddenly, it seemed like the most important thing in the world — more important than Spanish homework or SAT prep. 

It makes her panic as she stands in her room after school, surrounded by the casualties of an uncharacteristic rampage through her closet. The white and green of her Polis High School debate team has been relegated to beneath her bed. So has her track uniform and instead, every dress, skirt, shirt and sweater she owns lies trampled beneath her socked feet.

Lexa never saw herself as someone who would participate in the trashy, teen-film cliche of changing thirty-two times before going out but she thinks she understands the necessity of it now. This is a date — an honest to God date. Since Clarke asked her to the football game they’ve been falling into things without thinking about them — falling into hanging out after cheer practice, falling into eating in the cafeteria together at lunch, falling into the routine of having breakfast together at the diner on Friday morning while Lexa works a shift — but this is premeditated and it makes her nervous. 

In the end, she goes to Anya for help, who looks at Lexa past her mascara wand when she asks to borrow her clothes in the same way she would if Lexa told her she was quitting model UN to join the prom committee. 

“I thought you didn’t go out on Halloween,” she says, returning the wand to its tube and setting it on her vanity between a mug of makeup brushes and a jewellery stand. She has a t-shirt on and a towel wrapped around her head — halfway to getting ready for a date with Raven — and Lexa squirms in the doorway, looking for familiarity among the gauzy curtains and framed prints on the wall. She thinks she can see the edges of a mural they painted in elementary school hidden beneath the edge of an Urban Outfitters tapestry. 

“Clarke invited me to the pumpkin patch.” 

Anya doesn’t seem to need any more explanation than that. Her lips curl into a smile and she rises from her desk, herding Lexa towards her closet where she pulls two hangers off the rack and holds them up to her. After a moment, she puts them back, sending Lexa to her room for a pair of jeans and when Lexa returns, a tight, white longs-sleeve and a cable-knit jacket sit on the bed. She hands them both to Lexa, nodding in approval once she’s changed. 

It’s the most sisterly thing Lexa thinks they’ve done in a long time. Anya pulls the wrinkles out of her shirt and tucks the hem into Lexa’s jeans, maneuvering her in front of the mirror like she would when Lexa was seven years old and being bribed with Birthday Cake Pop-Tarts to be her dress-up doll. 

She sits down obediently on Anya’s desk chair when she’s asked, parting her lips for Anya to apply a coat of lip gloss she isn’t sure she asked for and staring at the join in the ceiling Anya points out as she pulls out a tube of mascara and, by the time she’s done, Lexa feels even more nervous than she did to start off with. 

“We don’t do this very much,” Anya says once she's satisfied with her handiwork and miming rubbing her lips together to blot the lip gloss. Lexa follows suit, looking past her sister at her own reflection in the mirror atop Anya’s dresser. 

“You’re busy I guess,” she shrugs, which isn’t exactly a lie, but it’s also the favourite excuse for not doing things in their family, from Sunday night dinners to the summer vacations they took annually before their father got promoted. 

They are busy though, Lexa reasons — Anya with cheerleading and Lexa with everything else — it’s OK not to be living in each other's pockets. They were close when they were younger — inseparable actually as if Anya was trying to make up for the fact that they were half-sisters by being twice as involved — but school only seemed to exacerbate the distance between them. 

“Not too busy to be your sister though,” Anya challenges, stern-faced and Lexa smiles in spite of herself. “OK?”

“OK,” Lexa nods, rolling her eyes as Anya chucks her chin. Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she fishes it out, reading Clarke’s message — ‘I’ll meet u at the diner after your shift <3’ — and smiling. 

When she looks up, Anya is watching her with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. She hands her the tube of lip gloss she used and flicks Lexa’s hair behind her ears before shooing her out of her room with a shake of her head and a “go meet your girlfriend, Lexa” and this time, Lexa complies. 

//

“Could I get two ciders please?” Clarke asks, leaning on the toes of her sneakers to reach the vendor, the sleeve of her jacket falling down her arm as she hands a twenty dollar note over the lip of the trailer’s window. 

(Strike breakfast, Lexa thinks, thoroughly flustered beneath Anya’s jacket and the thin layer of makeup her sister had insisted on, this is the prettiest Clarke has ever been. Lexa would trade this morning’s syrup-stick kisses for Clarke’s chapped cheeks and the palm of her free hand pressed flush to Lexa’s own any day).  

“I’ll pay!” She says, lunging forward and replacing Clarke’s rolled up note with one from her bi-fold, flattening it against the side of the truck before handing it over. 

“You don’t have to—” Clarke tries to argue, mouth thinning into a pout when Lexa bats her away and accepts two take-out cups and a paper bag of apple cider doughnuts that feel warm in her hands. 

“I got a big tip from a pretty girl today,” Lexa explains, shrugging as the wander back towards the picnic table Octavia has saved for them along the fence-line. 

“A pretty girl? Should I be worried?” Clarke teases. 

“Probably not,” Lexa reasons slyly, watching as Clarke drops her jaw in faux-outrage. 

“Watch it, Woods,” she says. “Or this’ll be the last time I invite you out on a nice date.” 

There’s that word again, Lexa thinks — date — and it makes her stomach knot even more than it already had on the twenty-minute drive here. 

This is certainly the most date-like that hanging out with Clarke has ever felt, from the way Gus had acted like a proud father hanging his daughter off to her homecoming date when Clarke came in to pick her up at the end of her shift — ‘your face,’ he’d said, pointing to the mascara on Lexa’s lashes and the shine of gloss on her lips, ‘you look…very grown-up’ — to the way they had driven here with their fingers linked over the gear stick. 

Even paying for Clarke’s drink feels oddly official — so far they’ve stuck to paying for their own meals at breakfast or football games, or if they share a milkshake they split the bill down the middle — and it’s scary in a way Lexa hasn’t quite found anything scary before. 

(It makes her feel grown-up when she thinks about it. Strangely permanent like none of her extracurriculars, good grades on the fridge or compliments from her parents ever have. Like, if she looks back at this moment in ten years, she will see herself here holding hands with Clarke beneath the Jack-O-Lantern lights and it will be as clear as it is to her now). 

“So’re we doing the maze?” Octavia asks eagerly as they sit down — Clarke sliding onto the bench on the same side as Lexa instead of opposite her as she would in a booth at the diner. It makes heat bloom through her body despite the evening chill. 

It’s nearly six o’clock now, and the string lights threaded overhead paints the twilight yellow and gold and flickering orange. To their left, the fields of pumpkins have almost fallen into darkness while, to their right, the Green’s barn is lit up, the lopsided scarecrow Lexa remembers from her childhood Halloweens sitting atop a pumpkin pyramid outside. 

Every few minutes a shrill scream will come from the direction of the maze and a terrified teenager will come running out of the exit, laughing and gasping for breath, happy to be back amongst the relative safety of the throng of families and little girls in Elsa dresses milling about in the light. 

Lexa doesn’t think any part of it appeals to her. She hasn’t stepped foot inside a haunted attraction since she was eight years old and facing her first Halloween without Anya’s coat sleeve to cling to — the jump scares in Scream are thrill enough for her — but when Clarke nods, and Octavia and Lincoln do too, she doesn’t have any choice but to say yes. 

Grinning, Clarke takes a sip of her cider before she slides a cold hand beneath Lexa’s jacket and fastens her fingers in her belt loop, leaning her head against Lexa’s shoulder. When she leans up a moment later to kiss Lexa gratefully she tastes like hot cider and allspice and the fake strawberry flavour of her lip balm Lexa has come to know.  

Words roll around in her head — words like date and girlfriend — but the longer she finds Clarke pressed against her, warm and real and present in a way Lexa never could have imagined her to be when she watched her sip her root beer floats from behind the counter on game days, the more she finds her fear draining away. By the time their ciders are finished and their doughnuts have been eaten and Lexa is standing in front of the maze, staring at the gruesome party store prop poised over the entrance, she doesn’t think it even existed in the first place.

“Are we doing it together or separately?” Lincoln asks, handing out the slips of paper and plastic Bic pens for the scavenger hunt. 

“Separately,” Octavia says immediately, sliding under her boyfriend’s arm in a way that makes Lexa think she’s going to use the opportunity to find a quiet annex on the far side of the maze and make out. 

“Don’t worry,” Clarke whispers when Lexa blanches at the thought — every horror movie ever made says splitting up in a corn maze is begging to be hunted down by a masked psychopath. “I’ll protect you.”

(It occurs to Lexa as she’s being pulled through the darkness that she’ll never stop finding extenuating circumstances for Clarke).

[gaspbrat]

Senior Year Hues

not blues

au where IT is just a normal travelling clown.

Georgie is alive and well.

As is the prom haze.

warnings: angery jealous eds, swearing

ENJOy, I don’t know why I never posted this. Undoubtedly was part of an entire series.

wc: 3500+

Gretchen Tozier was a beloved and respected 1968 partially black Barracuda “carefully” handed down through the family. Gifted to Richie’s uncle in ‘71, pawned off on Richie’s dad following his uncle’s first DUI and the damage that came with it in January of '72.

Two matte grey mismatched panels on the driver side door and the front bumper were added, hoped to be finished by '73 so Richie’s older sister could joyride through her senior year, seven years later. Thanksgiving that same year, though, dear Uncle Andy rolled through Derry again. He borrowed the car for about twenty-six minutes before overturning it on an embankment near Neibolt. Gretchen was towed, fixed and released back to his father a few months later. His uncle spent the night in the drunk tank, receiving his second and final DUI. Andy hasn’t returned to Derry or their lives since.

To his sister’s distaste, she would not be able to take it a few hundred miles down the coast to college with her like she had hoped. His parents told her she needed to buy her own, especially with her living on campus. She does, a beat up ‘88 Mitsubishi with peeling forest green paint and a bumper that didn’t match.

Richie, upon turning 15, bought her off of his dad for fifty dollars and a pay stub in '91. She has been appreciated properly for the next three wonderful years. Only the finest of company near Ol’ Gretchie.

Eddie definitely hated the ridiculous, loud, obnoxious piece of junk. He definitely didn’t end up falling for that piece of junk just like he did with its driver. Out of the question.

He didn’t get excited when he heard the rhythmic drumming of the old engine approaching his street from a block away.

He most certainly did not love the homey fabric of the seats with endless rips in them or the faint lingering smell of the little trees Richie puts up to mask the ghost of cigarettes past. (Eddie is almost certain they aren’t Richie’s, but if they were he knew Richie would never admit it.)

Eddie did not love that car. Whatsoever. But he did find a place in his heart for all the memories made with it. With him.

So when Richie told him he had to take it to the dump, Eddie nearly lost it.

“What do you mean you’re trashing it, I thought you loved that thing?!”

“Eds, why are you getting so upset, I thought you hated it?”

“I do (not), but… it’s sad seeing you just get rid of it like that.”

“You’re gonna miss ol’ Gretchie aren’t you, spaghetti?”

Richie knew his car didn’t actually need to be trashed entirely it just needed a few major repairs that he knew he would never be able to afford. At least not soon; not for another three months until he could save enough. And if Eddie found out he’d dump his savings into that thing no question. His little hypochondriac was far too good to  him. Even if he wasn’t his yet.

Eddie always was ready to help Richie any way he could, he knew that wholeheartedly, but his stupid damn pride would not allow it.

Richie took up working overtime on the weekends just so he could get back to driving his little Eddie bear around Derry as soon as possible.

Gretchen was a staple in the Tozier’s Promposals. She accompanied his parents to their prom. He was not about to break this tradition just because of his bank account. Eddie deserved the best carriage for his first prom. He was going to have to swallow his pride and buckle in for the most agonizing waiting game of his life, so far.

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie called over to his friend, remembering an invitation he was to extend, snapping Richie from his brooding, “Bill’s having a sleepover tonight, did you want to go? He said you can pick the movie.”

Eddie’s smile was so genuine and hopeful the he almost said yes just so he could keep that smile right where it belonged always but he remembered he had to close tonight and work the mid shift tomorrow. And Bill never let him pick the movies, ever.

“Wish I could but I work tonight. Sorry, buddy.” he patted Eddie’s shoulder and gave him a weak smile.

“You’ll get along without me though, won’t you, Eds?”

“I guess… yea.”

Richie immediately wanted to take it back just to see that smile. Just to see those damn dimples.

He seemed to have gotten his wish when he noticed those big brown eyes light up.

“What about tomorrow? We could go see that movie you wanted to see?”

Again, almost horrendously, Eddie looked so hopeful to be spending time with him that Richie’s frozen heart thawed, just slightly.

“My old man wants me to help him get my sister’s junk out of the house and down to her dorm this weekend, shit, I’m really sorry Eds.”

Richie really really hoped Eddie would leave at that but of course not. He really wanted trashmouth to suffer even if he didn’t know he was suffering.

“..I could help?”

Eddie knew he just grasping at straws here but he really missed being annoyed by this dumb stupid asshole every day even though he would never tell him that.

“Eds, I’d love for you to,” the smaller boy’s eyes twinkled, “but there probably wouldn’t be enough room?”

He knew he didn’t sound convincing. Not at all. He just didn’t want to think about it anymore. He wanted to just get work done so he could get paid and then never ever ever have to see this look on Eddie’s face again.

“Oh. Yea, you-you’re probably right, um, sorry I asked. Maybe next week, I guess.” Eddie decided it was best to just give him his space at that point, turning away from him, trying to end the conversation.

“Eds, wait-”

“Stop fucking calling me Eds.”

Richie didn’t see Eddie for the rest of the weekend after he dropped him off at Bill’s that night. Partially from working almost the entire weekend, partially because Eddie had avoided him as much as he could.

Somehow Eddie managed to steer clear of anything remotely related to Richie that next Tuesday.

The taller boy caught a couple glimpses of him the previous school day but he would disappear before anything could be said between them.

Richie sauntered over to the rest of the losers at lunch to find Eddie absent like the day before.

“Hey, where’s Spaghedward?”

“We thought you would know, didn’t you guys just have chem?” Ben answered from beside Stan.

“Yea but he darted off somewhere in a hurry. I thought he’d be here.” Richie turned around hoping to spot Eddie coming from the bathroom or something.

“He seemed kind of upset when I talked to him earlier, what’s going on?” Beverly interjected after swallowing her first spoon of peach yogurt.

Stan ate in silence while the others discussed what could be wrong. He eyed Richie with what others would call just blatant disgust but hid it behind his thermos of chicken noodle soup.

“Yo, Stan, what do you think?” Richie finally asked him directly. He knew something.

“I think you should talk to him.” Ben responded before realizing he wasn’t the one with the answer Richie wanted.

“I second that. Talk to him.” Mike said around his turkey and cheddar sandwich.

Beverly and Bill simply nodded as they picked through their lunches.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Stan very quietly said, focusing pointedly on his sandwich.

“Why not?” Richie started to get impatient. Stan knew something he didn’t and it was clearly upsetting enough that Stan couldn’t hide his distaste. More than usual.

“He clearly just wants some space, I think you should respect that, okay?”

Stan started to raise his voice slightly and that immediately made Richie eight times more concerned knowing that Stan, of all people, was trying to keep Eddie away from him. Stan quickly picked up his tray and dumped it into the trash before heading down one of the halls.

Richie gave Beverly a kick under the table.

She initially was annoyed but softened when she saw the beat up Docs that had kicked her, nodding without a word. She kicked back twice, the second kick stronger than the first.

“Ow,”

“What, Richie?” Bill raised his head.

“Nothing just kicking myself.”

Lunch proceeded in near silence. Richie was silent for once while the others gossiped about their classes. He was debating the decision to ditch his last period to be early for work. Craig would appreciate him showing up and relieving him early, anyway.

The others returned to their classes and the day sailed by. After school most of them, save for Richie and Mike, met up by the racks to see each other off. Beverly and Ben made a plan to head to the library to cram for their English final tomorrow morning. Bill was planning on tagging along but decided to spend some time with Georgie instead.

Stan knew he didn’t want Ben to third wheel, even though it was evident Bill would be the outlier.

“Bye guys, see you Monday!” Eddie called to the other three losers as he and Stan got on their bikes to head home.

“Oh, hey can we stop by the store really quick? I need to pick up some more of the Nutty Buddies for my mom.”

“Sure.” Eddie didn’t think twice about the grocery run given Mrs. Uris had an acute craving for peanut butter after four.

He was unaware, however, that Stan had set a plan in motion.

Just so happens that the general store was directly across the street from the arcade. Eddie immediately got excited and thought to tell Stan they should go say hi to Richie. Then he remembered Richie telling him he had to help his sister today and brushed it off.

The two went inside to pick up the Nutty Buddies. Stan bought a kit-kat and a bag of chips for him to eat after dinner later.

“I don’t know how you can eat all that junk Stan, how do you sleep at night with your teeth just-,” Eddie stopped nagging momentarily as something outside of the store caught his attention. A dark green, vaguely familiar, car pulled up outside the arcade.

He saw Richie pop out and walk into the arcade with a can of Shasta cola in his hand and a snickers hanging from his mouth, leaving who Eddie assumed was his sister to drive off.

Weird. Thought she would still be in New York right about now.

“Eddie whats going on? You stopped yelling at me.”

“Shut up Stan, look!”

Eddie pointed out the window towards a car he noticed was parked every other season in the driveway.

“Wait, I thought you said he was helping his sister.” Stan inquires further, knowing far better.

“He said he was.” Eddie was immediately disappointed for a reason he wasn’t sure of yet.

Their investigation was put on hold while the clerk rang up their items. She tried starting small talk but Stan just replied curtly with, “Not interested, thank you” while waving a twenty in her general direction.

Eddie supplied a ‘thanks’ to Stan for buying the goods without once looking away from the arcade, observing a cloud of teenage girls huddled in a corner. Their ring leader was approaching the glass and Eddie started to feel dread at the pit of his stomach. He nudged Stan and then started bagging erratically.

They gathered the items and bolted out the door, trying to make sure they could see Richie through the glass without him seeing them.

“Wait, who’s that girl?” Eddie said after a long period of silence.

“Looks like Melissa Cromwell. She’s pretty hot du-.” Stan passed on the general rumor he heard relentlessly from around town. They made him sick but she was definitely well recognized by most boys.

“Shut up, Stan, who asked you?” Eddie whipped out, hoping his words stung like the sting he felt in his chest at this moment.

“You.. did-”

“What the fuck is she doing?”

“Is that a trick question?”

He scoffed but let Eddie’s rambling continue, however, because he had a feeling that Eddie cared a lot more than it already seemed he did. He hasn’t said anything to Stan like ‘Hey I’m bangin’ Richie now, deal with it’ but they’ve been spending a lot of time in each other’s company as of late.

He also knew exactly what a little jealous sap Kaspbrak was like so he didn’t intervene; didn’t mean he couldn’t feed the flame just a bit. Richie was being dismissive and kind of a dick lately, not that that’s anything new. Stan just didn’t want to see his friend tossed over a cliff over this dirt bag.

“Oh my God he’s making her laugh? Look- look at that!”

“I mean, yea? They have Lit together.” Stan announced with his all-knowing bird brain. He saw all and only repeated what he wanted to.

“Why do you care about what Richie fuckin’ Tozier does with his wa-”

Eddie turned to Stan and gave him the look.

Stan shut his mouth tight.

“He lied to me Stanley and know he’s chatting up that hot chick.”

He would never say it to Eddie’s face, (Richie’s face is another story) but Stanley didn’t truly understand what Eddie saw in that asshole. Richie was a dick about three-hundred percent of the time. A dick to Eddie three-hundred percent of the time. He was also for some reason intensely obsessed with his mom.

Stan decided it was best to just let that ship sink on its own eventually when the captain abandoned it. However, if he saw a time bomb ticking down the hull of that ship, he would hop on that lifeboat without a single word and paddle away, letting the pieces fall behind him.

But he couldn’t do that to Eddie.

Right?

The pair noticed the girls all call his name as they exited through the glass doors, cackling with their mob mentality. Stan found them repulsive but knew most guys saw the other qualities.

“Eh, Richie makes a lot of girls laugh sometimes. I guess they think he’s funny?” Stan attempted to level out some of the doubt surrounding his friend.

Much to Eddie’s dismay, Richie started to head back outside of the arcade.

He let out a panicked ‘oh fuck’ before darting off into the alley and biking through it, he didn’t care where he went he just wanted to get far from there.

Stan was struggling with the bag and his kickstand and failed to notice the quick departure of his friend.

He started off a moment later but hesitated when he saw Richie following Melissa further down the street holding a pair of sunglasses and a sharpie in his hands.

Bright neon lights blinked in the arcade window with a welcoming glow. It felt like home to Richie. Except he worked there and wasn’t allowed to play (unless it was empty because it was so slooow after eight).

He got out of his sister’s car with a quick ‘thanks, sis’ before closing the door and heading into work. He wondered what bullshit he’d have to put up with today as he munched down on his snickers.

Richie immediately noticed Melissa and her biters at Pacman not far from the counter. He knew all too well that it yielded almost no tickets at all.

“What’s up, Craig?” he called from around his almost-gone snickers.

The mid-twenties blonde looked up from his comic to acknowledge the brunette boy before him with his hand outstretched in a fist. They bumped fists before Richie set down his shasta on the glass prize display case so he could vault the counter. He landed with a huff loud enough to peak the interest of one of the vapid cheerleaders. It wasn’t hard, none of them were at all focused on collecting dots.

“Those girls came in about a half hour ago. One of them was asking about you.” Craig was telling Richie offhandedly while the younger brunette took off his leather jacket to replace it with his work shirt.

“They’re annoying please, just, like, give them your number and be done with it, totes,” Craig started to bust out laughing while he took off his work shirt and headed into the back of the store.

Richie bent down to put his keys and jacket under the register, pausing when he heard a light giggle from above him.

Fuck.

He slowly got up to face whoever was waiting on the other side of the counter.

“Heey, Richie.” Melissa was leaning on her hand with her elbow propped up on the glass of the counter.

Richie took small a step back from the register.

“Hi, Melissa.”

“I, um, wanted to exchange these tickets for something.” she reached into her back pocket and brought out a pitiful stack of tickets.

Absolutely pathetic.

“Okay.” Richie took them and put them into the ticketing counting machine next to him.

27

“You have twenty-seven.” He said back plainly.

“Ooh, jackpot.” she said slyly smiling as she bit on the end of her sunglasses.

“You can get a finger puppet, a pocket alien” He began listing the lowest tier of redemption.

“A pair of dice,”

“Or jelly bracelets.” The short list came to an end, his attention being returned to the glinting eyes across the counter. He took note of how flattering this direct light would be on anEone else. He pushed it back and awaited her decision.

“Can I get that one?” she pointed to a particularly adorable bear toy.

“Oooh, no sorry. You don’t have enough tickets. How sad.” he clicked his tongue, cocking his head to the side.

“How many more do I need?” She asked with a horrible attempt at puppy dog eyes.

“One.”

“Let me check,” she dug into her back pocket, bouncing from foot to foot.

“Ah-hah!” Melissa pulled out a single ticket, setting it on the counter and sliding it across to him.

“Lucky you.” he said so sarcastically he almost sounded believable.

Richie turned the ticket over before putting it into the machine revealing red numbers and a call me in sloppy cursive loops with,his favorite, a little winky face. He paused, collected his nerves before presenting her with a coy smile.

“I’m sorry, this ticket has been tampered with. I can’t accept this.” he slid it back, grinning.

“Fine. Then I’ll take the,” she leaned much farther than necessary over the counter to point to a tiny alien on a key chain.

“Weird ass alien thing.”

“All yours.”

“Thank you.”

She winked at him before returning to her gang of much too giddy single sheeple friends.

He couldn’t wait to tell Eddie all about this petty ordeal but then he remembered he probably wouldn’t see his best friend until tomorrow at lunch if Eddie showed. Maybe he’d sneak out tonight.

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw Melissa and company head towards the exit.

“Bye Richie.” they all called in shrill unison as they left the arcade, giggling manically to each other. Melissa dangled her alien keychain from hier pinkie as she turned away.

Fuck he hated his job.

He crossed his arms on the glass that he would need to clean anyway and rested his head on top of them. His nose bumped something on the counter causing him to jolt up.

Fuck.

Richie picked the glasses up off the counter before vaulting it again. He walked with some urgency through the glass door after Melissa.

Lucky for him she was lagging behind her friends while they undoubtedly chattered among themselves about how perfect him and Mel would be together. How great they would look together at prom, most likely.

“Melissa!”

Eddie’s bike was thrown into the dirt far from the arcade while he sat down on a rock and used his inhaler. He hasn’t biked that fast since they had to chase Bill to that stupid fucking house on neibolt. That house that he broke his arm in. The house that the clown tried to eat him and all of his friends in.

That goddamn house where Richie set his broken arm after relentlessly trying to keep his focus on that motherfucking shit clown.

He coached his breathing back down to mildly panicked just before he saw Stan biking rapidly towards him. He seemed shocked.

He immediately worried if Richie had seen his buddy Stan and stopped him.

“Hey Stan, what’cha got there, lube for you dad?”

“No it’s Eddie’s snacks, he bolted like a bitch when you came out.”

“Oh damn, well, I got Melissa’s digits and I would have wanted to tell him that his mom’s gonna have to wait unt-”

“Eddie!”

Stan shook his shoulder lightly.

“Wait, when did you get here?”

“Like a minute ago while you were lost in thought, dude.”

“Shit. Damn.”

“You okay?” his only sanity broke off at Stan’s useless question.

“No, Stanley, Im not o’ fuckin’ kay.”

Thanks for readin’! Much love

[everlarkchristmasgifts]

Thanks to all the mods putting this Holiday prompt page together! Thank you for all your hard work and contributions to the Tumblr everlark family now and in the past.

A/N: This is part one of a hasty, four-day attempt to multi-part a drabble set for @everlarkchristmasgifts ‘s prompts. It may not get done on time, but they say it’s good to believe in miracles at Christmas, lol.

This part rated G

Thanks to @alliswell21 for giving it a beta read on quick notice.

And… *deep inhale, because why on earth am I trying to butcher one of my favorite stand alone drabbles with a sequel???**… this follows on the events of Pasty White Raisin.

________________________________________________

“Shopping…”

It was twelve days to Christmas. They’d missed Christmas last year. It could’ve been their first Christmas, but Peeta had been too stubborn to let a woman “waste her life” on a washed-up baker twelve years older than her.

She’d won, by the end of the Winter thaw. He’d already been in love, but he’d finally let himself love, and everything that had seemed to mean to him.

Well, everything within the parameters of being a gentleman.

He’d insisted on her making him work for her good favor, and at first it had been a funny game, his insistence that he court her, a delicious, slow romance of soft kisses and interwoven fingers and getting to know each other over conversations, dinners, or during walks. But the game had given him time to reconsider what he might be getting in to.

Which was robbing her of a future she deserved.

So ultimately, he’d come to use the game as a way to buy time to fortify the barriers so strongly she’d be forced to admit she should cut her losses.

And when she’d still refused, he’d cut her losses for her, before the summer heat had waned, with an “I’m sorry, Katniss, this isn’t working for me,” followed instantly by firing her from doing the bakery’s books, which she’d been doing part-time for the low cost wage of a half-dozen cheese buns a week, and refusing to respond to her texts or voicemails.

At Thanksgiving, she’d shown up at his door, asking if they could spend the evening together, talk. Consider reconsidering.

He’d shaken his head and closed the door on her, but not before his face had presented a few moments of unmasked regret and longing.

She’d almost gone to a hardware store for an ax to chop his door off its hinges.

When she’d called her uncle Haymitch in tears from her car, still sitting in the bakery’s parking lot, he’d agreed chopping down Peeta’s door was an acceptable strategy, except there wouldn’t be a hardware store open on Thanksgiving Day.

So this Christmas season— the Christmas that could have been their second Christmas, or at least their first— just a year after she’d chosen him, the rejection had left its mark on her. She couldn’t face flying out west to spend Christmas with her sister and mother. Would not be able to muster the emotional energy necessary to pretend she was okay for a whole evening spent with her friends, despite their invites.  

No, she and Haymitch were going to spend it getting drunk on vodka, eating crock-pot roast and microwaved mashed potatoes, and watching either a marathon of The Profit, or Rocky, depending on which one of them won the coin toss.

So with twelve days to Christmas, Katniss Everdeen decided it was time to say goodbye once and for all.

Well, twelve times, for all.

Twelve ways to say she loved him.

Twelve ways to say goodbye.

Twelve ways to say both at the same time.

Twelve days, twelve gifts.

And it was going to start with a Thursday, lunch hour shopping trip.

“Kat, where you going?”

Odair was the afternoon manager for the restaurant side of the brewery operation where she was a bookeeper. He’d stepped so quickly in her way she almost couldn’t stop before walking into him.  

His hands here clasped behind his back and he was grinning. His up-to-something look.

“Lunch,” she said, guarded.

“Right. It’s treason to buy lunch from somewhere other than here. And anyway, you eat lunch from a brown bag. Every day. You’re so frugal, you probably even reuse the same bag until it’s toast. No, Katniss Everdeen looks like a woman on a mission.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Then it would make sense to get out of my way.”

He studied her as though he could read her secrets if he looked hard enough.

“You off to see that baker guy of yours? Because I would love one of his everything bagels, and Annie likes the peanut butter chip cookies.”

Katniss swallowed and fought off a wave of pain.

“No, I’m going to the mall to do some Christmas shopping.”

“Oh, perfect then,” like magic, his hand was suddenly in front of her face, waving a hundred dollar bill, as though he already knew where she was heading and was just enjoying teasing her about the other, “I need something pretty for Annie. I was thinking a necklace.”

Katniss felt an urge to punch him, but started to step around him instead. He stepped in her way again, grin back on his face.

“Come on, help a guy out. The last time I picked out jewelry for her, it was a total flop, and you remember it.”

“Finnick, the only reason it flopped, was because you thought it’d be funny to give her a used pendant with someone else’s initials on it.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. That thing was an antique. And it was beautiful, and I knew the emeralds would set off her eyes. And anyway, the first initial matched.”

Katniss just shook her head; his problems were his, thankfully.

“Have to go, bye.”

He snagged her hand, yanking her momentum to a stop and then slapping the bill into her palm.

“Just in case something jumps out at you.”

“You realize how terrible it is to ask another woman to shop for your girlfriend.”

Finnick shrugged. “You’re not another woman, you’re basically family. And anyway, I already have her other gifts bought. I just want a wildcard.”

Katniss scowled.

“Fine, but I’m taking two hours for lunch, without losing the extra hour of pay, and you have to cover in case someone needs a bank run.”

Odair winked, then walked off with a, “Thanks, Katniss. You’re the second-best.”

Katniss shoved the bill into her jean’s pocket, so it could help her debit card burn a hole into the denim.

___

She knew what the first gift for Peeta would be, so she parked near the entrance closest to the woolen shop. Unfortunately, that entrance was the least used, and its parking more like the back forty. With Winter being stubborn about providing snow for Christmas, and the mall neglecting to plow that section, by the time she was inside, her feet were wet and freezing from slogging through patches of standing slush.  There was a small hunting shop just inside the entrance, one of her favorite stores, and the moment she saw a pair of boots she’d been drooling over for six months on sale for forty percent off, she decided that if she was going to loosen up on the financial reigns enough that week to buy herself a sense of closure about Peeta, she might as well give herself that one treat.

Fifteen minutes later, she was stalking to the sweater shop in knee-high, front lace brown leather boots with reinforced heels and toes, all weather tread, and Gortex lined.  And to make it better, her toes were swaddled in thick, high-tech, sweat-wicking winter socks.

She was even smiling by the time she got to her intended destination.

But then as soon as she was inside, her heart sank.

Peeta’s first present was a sweater she’d been eying for him for almost a month, folded on a center display table just inside the entrance. Imported from Ireland, it was a heavy, rough-finish wool sweater, that had a faded quality to its blue.  The first time she’d seen it, she’d wanted him in it. Wanted to see how it contrasted with his light hair, complimented his blue eyes, hugged his shoulders, and layered over the waist of his jeans. Back then, she had still be holding hope he’d snap out of it, that maybe Christmas morning they’d be opening presents together and she’d get to see him in it, run her hands along down his arms to sense the feel of it, rest her palms against the scratchy texture of the wool, but feel the warmth and firmness of his shoulders and chest beneath.

But now, she wouldn’t get that pleasure. He would have the sweater. Hopefully, he would wear it. But regardless, she’d never get to see it.

If things went according to plan, someone else would.

She looked through the stack, finding his size and then laying it out, unfolded, over the rest. Her fingers stroked along the back and inside of the collar, where a beautiful, muted orange line of silky fabric had been sewn in to help prevent the roughness of the wool from rubbing against the sensitive flesh of his neck. It was even almost Peeta’s favorite shade of orange.   

A  friendly young clerk came up, asking if she could be of help. Her bubbling mood was a knife-stab to Katniss’ heart, so Katniss told her she had other shopping to do and was in a hurry. The girl agreed to wrap it and have it waiting for Katniss to pay for and pick up on her way back out of the mall.

The next stop was Eddie Bauer, where she had a clerk box a wheat-colored Henley on a bed of black tissue, hand it over long enough for Katniss to finger press a dog ear into the collar where the top button would normally be, and then finish with the full-on Christmas wrapping treatment.  Her first hour was almost up.

Neiman Marcus covered two more gifts, six depending on how one counted, and fortune favored her in a special find that saved her a side trip to Hot Topic.  Plus, the clerks there were fast wrappers. She had thirty minutes left for this trip, and, for this trip, only two more items to go.

The most expensive.

A boutique, ultra-high end men’s store cost her savings account exactly eight hundred, forty-seven dollars and sixteen cents. The gift wrapping took absolutely forever. But everything about the work, from the paper, to the simple ribbon, to the ridiculously expensive, and large, carry out bag, was immaculate. It almost made her cry.

It did make her cry, actually. Because signing her name to a payment slip that size made it crystal clear just what she had committed herself to do, and that she would not be the one to see the end result.

But she made a quick stop at Zales, saw what she instantly knew was the right call. It was just shy of two hundred and fifty after tax, but today was her day to spend on others, and Annie and Finnick were good friends, so she pocketed the hundred for her piggy bank, and paid for it out of her checking.

_____

“You’re late. Nice boots.”

“What?”

Finnick rooted around in the Zales bag she handed him for the necklace box.

“You’re late. You said two hours. It’s been a hundred and twenty-seven minutes. Did you stop at the bakery and bring us the bagels?”

“I didn’t have time.” Thankfully.

“Then I’m docking you the seven minutes,” he said without missing a beat, and when he finally got the red velvet box open, his teasing fell away into a look of confusion, and then a threat of real emotion. “Katniss, how did you…”  He shook his head and the red headed prankster looked like he might actually hug her.

“Call it fate,” she said, and then started walking back to her office.  “And if you dock me those seven minutes, our next limited run is going to be called Odair Pale, ‘cause that’ll be the vat you’d drown in.”

_____

Katniss was out the brewery doors at 5:00pm sharp.  She managed to stop by the barber shop and the youth initiative before they closed by six, and that left only one purchase to go.

First, a stop at the bank.

Then, her final stop at the pawn shop.

The old man who owned the shop had held the item for her, and all that remained was for her to bring in the cash for it.

He was sitting at the counter like he was waiting for her— a sale like that, she was probably the one single person he was waiting for that day— and produced the item immediately, including the silky box that went with it, dull and stained by time. She carefully counted out the money, and he carefully wrote her out a receipt in his shaky handwriting.

Pawn shops didn’t gift wrap, but since it was raining, he found a used plastic bag from the back and gave her that to carry it away in.

It felt heavy, the plastic in her fingers as she walked back to her car.

Heavy like an ending.

Heavy like time moving on without her.

_____

By seven, the drizzle was threatening to turn to sleet with the evening’s cooling temperature.  Katniss shivered a little, trying to shrink further into her jacket, and was even more glad for her new boots, because the slush in the alley behind the bakery was even worse than it had been at the mall. The windows above her, on the bakery’s second floor were lit; Peeta was at home, no surprise.  He’d be watching television, maybe. Or even finishing dinner. Within an hour, he’d start thinking about bed.

For the six or seven months he’d let her into his life, she’d learned his habits fast.  They’d never shared a bed and never spent a night together, because he wouldn’t allow it— because he was going to ‘do things right’— but they’d spent plenty of time together.  By the Summer, they’d been seeing each other every day. And she’d found so much joy in the not rushing it. It had given them time to fully appreciate the excitement of almost innocent kisses and the silly, mutual attempts to find opportunities for them to be less than strictly innocent, the almost stolen thrill of sitting just close enough knees might touch, or arms might press.  The silences and times where they were just around each other, without having to feel pressure that being out on a date, or on a walk, or going to the bookstore together was somehow really only posturing for a race they were supposed to complete by end of the day.

She knew his hours.

Knew not to text him after seven thirty.

Knew he didn’t actually like texting at all, and preferred a phone call, if a personal visit wasn’t possible.

Knew which corner of his couch he liked to lean into when watching television.  Knew where his mugs were, and his glasses. Knew which drawer had the silverware, which hall closet had the extra hand towels for the bathroom. Knew he recycled cans, but often forgot to recycle plastic. Knew which episodes of Big Bang Theory were his favorites.

Each step up the steel-grate steps up to Peeta’s second-floor entry, brought another ‘knew’ to her mind, digging the knife a little deeper.

But she kept going, careful to duck a little near the top in case he happened to be at the kitchen sink window, and then leaning the box with the wool sweater against his door, with a note taped to it.

—Don’t open until six on Christmas Eve—

Just as carefully, she crept back down and then took up a position in the blackness behind the dumpster. A pocketful of little garden stones served as her ammunition, and she chucked three at his door with perfect aim.  

From the shadows, she watched Peeta’s face appear at the window, and then a moment later, light came flooding out from his doorway.  He saw the present right away, but looked around first to see who was there.

He called her name out and for a second she thought maybe he was able to see her after all, but after a few seconds of him leaning out over the rail and looking both ways down the alley, it was clear he didn’t.  He came back to the present, gave it a look over, and then went back inside.

She didn’t know whether to feel honored or sad that after a gift appeared for him, the only person he thought to call out in question to was her.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

A Necessarily Sober Night’s Ramblings

    I’m sitting here in my bed, writing on a shitty, hundred dollar netbook that rests on a book thicker than my fist to prevent overheating. The floor of my room is covered in a disgusting salad of dirty laundry, trash, and books, all sprinkled with a frustrating amount of cat litter from the box a few feet to my right. A space heater with more personal space than anything else in the place keeps me warm in the mornings and nights, and the fan that’s blowing my hair at  the moment keeps me cool during the afternoon and whenever else I’ve been drinking.

    I’ve got Altered Carbon playing beside my word processor; just started watching it. It’s impossible for me to focus on any one thing, so its there just to keep the excess ‘brain energy’ or what have you busy while I try and write this all out. All this nonsense. The lamp resting on my nightstand, which is currently sitting in the midst of the chaotic disaster that is my floor rather than being pressed up against a wall, is annoying but helps keep the anxiety down a bit.

    The anxiety is still drumming my heart and shaking my hands, but it would be worse in the dark. I enjoy knowing what’s surrounding me. If I turn off the light, I can only assume what rests in the darkness. I don’t think there’s any monsters hiding beneath my bed amidst the beer cans and paper plates, I’m not a child. But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing. When the light is gone, the whole world becomes Schrodinger's fun house.

    Plus, if I turn out the lights, the odds I step on a sharp piece of aluminum on my way to the bathroom magnify ten fold. Foot lacerations are the fucking worst. Slicing your palm isn’t that bad because you don’t always have to have your dick in your hand. Plus, for the most part, your always aware of the palms of your hands. You forget the bottoms of your feet, and the trail of blood you leave behind is a bitch and a half to clean up.

    Not that I’d clean it from my own carpeted floor, but there’s certain expectations for the world outside the stained and battered walls of my bedroom. Smiles required, pleasantries demanded; it’s a whole other ball game out there. That’s not some dramatic piece of speculation either. When I was a child my parents threatened to beat the frowns from my face and decried my silent coming and goings as disrespectful disobedience. Now that I am a man in age and burden if not status however, I am free to move more freely. The habits have already taken root though.

    Despite my already volcanic anxieties simmering and sizzling beneath my flesh, I’m having another energy drink, my third of the day. I went to the store earlier for something fizzy and calorie free to drink, and despite knowing I must be wary of caffeine, I was swayed by a little sticker promising ‘3 for $5!’. It’s a rare moment that I’m without thirst, but unless I have sweat through my clothes in exhaustion (an even rarer moment) or am exceptionally hung over, drinking water gives me heartburn.

    It’s a touch allegorical, really. Water, that most basic material of life, burns the ever living shit out of my throat.

    People don’t take caffeine seriously enough. It’s just like any other drug, if a bit milder. At first it puts a bounce in my step, then in a few minutes my mind will be racing with dark thoughts and fears, and if I go without it for too long my head feels like someone is taking an ice pick to the top of my skull. Sometimes the initial jauntiness is worth it though. That ‘sometimes’ keeps me coming back.

    There it is. Reading this back, you won’t remember the pauses between sentences, the distraction filled minutes as Altered Carbon takes priority over writing between paragraphs. I say that so it won’t feel quite so jarring when I say that anxiety is carving a butcher’s knife through my gut and up my sternum after just mentioning the jauntiness caffeine can bring.

    Anxiety and just a hint of anger are filling me. Thinking on it now, and exploring this idea for the first time (though I’ve brushed against it like a virgin schoolboy ‘accidentally’ bumping into a pretty girl before), I’m realizing there’s always anger somewhere in this stack of flesh. Anger I was bred into, that was taught to me, beat into me. It’s always there. Just, I keep it buried away and hidden. Once, I did that so that I wouldn’t get in trouble, so that I would be safe. Now I do it so that the people around me will be happier.

    The only people I’ve ever intentionally physically hurt are my male family members. My younger brother, in adolescent rage reminiscent of my father’s, has been strangled, punched, thrown, and kicked. It was never unprovoked, but always unearned given the severity. I never bruised or truly damaged him, but still. Trauma is trauma. The words I spewed at him were instinctively and specifically chosen to hurt him, to damage him. It’s left me with a quandary similar to that of the chicken and the egg. Did his little man complex come from my infrequent but scarring abuse, or were the assaults unleashed by his constant needling and provocations?

    Then there’s my father. Him I tried to kill once. He was drunk, and violent. He was roaring and screeching with anger at my mother, worse than normal. I went to figure out what the fuck was going on, he put his hands on me, and I snapped. I threw him to the ground, and amidst his punches and slaps and scratches I began to choke him. Tears and spit pouring from my face I bared my fangs and produced more animalistic sounds than actual speech.

    My mother was futilely trying to pull me off, begging me to stop. I didn’t care. I was beyond reason at that point, my id was in full control. Like a flare in a moonless night however, a thought brought me to a stop. I had my second day of work at a new job the next day, and couldn’t afford to spend at least the night and next day in jail for murder. That lone, paragonal thought amidst a sea of frothing rage was all that saved my father’s life.

    Other than those two examples however, I’ve never allowed myself to be a violent person. Or rather, I’ve never had the courage for it. I get the fight or flight shakes just from passing a slow moving vehicle, let alone a face to face confrontation. I wonder if that’s who I am, or who I was made to be.

    My first girlfriend, who could technically be called my ex-fiancee if you don’t dismiss a six month, hormone-fueled, teenage puppy love engagement, was victim to some verbal abuse throughout the two or so years we spent together. She was a piece of work herself though, and although I cringe to think back on my words and feelings back then, I don’t think less of the man I am today for them. I see it as character growth. She cheated on me, lied to me, and was certifiably crazy herself. She and I have both come a long way since then though, and I’ve learned to be a better man based on the awful example I set for myself.

    I say we’ve both come a long way, but in reality, she’s got a college degree and is dating a successful musician while working for a governor. I’ve got a GED, am entirely alone, and as of the end of March jobless. There was a brief spike in my life a little over a year ago. I only weighed one-hundred and sixty pounds, I was on the second rung of the company I worked for’s ladder, I had a girlfriend, I was happy. That’s all long gone now though.

    See, even though I hunt for zero calorie sodas and energy drinks, I still eat too much food. I drink too much alcohol. I lay around in bed like a fucking pile of ooze. I was going to call myself a slug, but even those invertebrates get more exercise than I do. I probably weigh Two-ten by now. Two-fifteen maybe. I’m sure if I were sitting on a scale right now it’d read in the two-twenties, between my clothes, belly full of spaghetti sauce-drenched pizza, and general fat ass.

    As of today I’m twenty-two years old, five-eight in the morning and in shoes, with short brunette hair and just the one tattoo, a coyote on my left arm. My upper right arm and my left ‘tit’ are covered in scars. I have a handful spread over the rest of my skin; faded ones all across my legs, one across my stomach, one on my right ‘tit’, three partially faded bands on my right forearm. All self-inflicted, obviously. I have a small patch of fur all across my chin that struggles to reach the center of my lower lip, stubble spreading back from it towards my throat, and a curled moustache above my mouth.

    I fucking hate when television shows have non-English parts. It prevents me from being able to just spend the extra ‘brain energy’ on them, and instead I have to divert more of my direct attention to follow along.

    Sometimes I want to carve out my own eye. Even though my left eye is (diagnosedly so) the weaker of the two, whenever I envision it, it’s always the right one I slice out like an avocado pit. The cut would start close to the center of my forehead and run all the way down to my jaw, stopping just a hair over the line and onto my throat.

    I don’t think that comes from any weird sort of mutilationist fetish, or one of those weird (Ha, who am I to judge?) mental illnesses where a part of your body feels alien. I think its just a desire for attention? If that’s the right way to phrase it. I want to be special, look special. All those bad-ass pirates and fantasy characters have facial scars, typically over their eyes, and I want to be like them. I want to be special.

I want to be special. I want to be important. I want to feel like I actually matter. No amount of self reaffirmation has ever been enough for me. I’ve always needed ‘affirmation’ from others, and I’ve rarely ever received it. And it can’t be just anyone who gives it to me, it has to be someone special, someone whom I respect. The words of those I subconsciously deem as ‘below’ me mean absolutely nothing, no matter how reverential or supporting.

As for who I respect, which isn’t the right word at all, I’m not really sure. Beautiful women. Impressive men. Members of authority. People with experience in fields that I respect (this time it is the right word). I’ve had coworkers who practically begged me to hang out, less than attractive women who nearly molested me in their flirtations. All it ever did was annoy and nearly disgust me.

It’s a strange dichotomy, my ego and self-loathing. On one hand, I’m disgusted by myself. I look in the mirror and see a hideous, fat, disgusting, waste of human existence who could die tomorrow without the world so much as blinking. On the other hand, I recognize my intellect, sense of humor, virtues, and what few skills I have as being exceptional.

I hate myself, but somehow still place myself above others.

It’s funny how little self control I have compared to what little drive I have. I crave love, yet haven’t been able to muster the willpower to eat healthy and exercise. I crave fortune, yet haven’t been able to finish writing (Really writing, with editing and everything) a book. I crave attention, yet stay hidden away in my room and when out in public avoid standing out at all. When I crave a McChicken, I’ll drive to the McDonalds across town at 3 AM for it.

I guess I’m just short sighted. Back when I still played chess, I could never think more than a single move ahead. When a problem has a single-step solution, I can find it near instantly, no matter how obscure or obfuscated it is. Throw in just one more step, however, and suddenly I’m lost as an orphan looking for his mother in a department store.

That applies to long term goals too, even when the answer is spelled out for me step by fucking step. Step one, cut the calories down to less than two-thousand. Step two, take the dog(s) for a walk everyday. Step three, repeat steps one and two for the next six months. Just like that, I go from fat lard-face to looking like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.

But I just don’t do it. The one time I succeeded with a diet, it was based on routine. Every morning on my way to work, I’d get two McDonalds burritos with mild sauce and a large diet coke, no ice. Every night after work, same thing. Right now, jobless and hopeless, there is no routine in my life. That’s just an excuse though, I know that. Doesn’t mean I fucking do anything about it.

It also helped that back then I spent every night with a woman I was in love with. Kira. Black haired, thin as a skeleton, cheek bones like daggers. Her nails were more like claws, and she’s never without her eyeliner that stretch out like wings from her beautiful brown eyes.

When we met, she hated me, so of course I sought her approval. She hated me just because I sat in her spot one time. She, never to my face, called me an inbred hobbit. After several random encounters at work (which is where I met her), we also bumped into each other at the vape store. A casual, friendly conversation lead to her messaging me at work the next day, and a friendship quickly formed.

After that, it didn’t take long for love to form. One sided love. I asked her out, she rejected me. My love diminished but quickly re-blossomed. I confessed full-blown honest to god love to her. Again, she rejected me, with a full (and requested) letter explaining why. That letter tore me to pieces. Not because it destroyed my hopes for ever having her, but because every reason she listed was (to my eyes) nonsense.

She said I wasn’t artistic, I consider myself to be a great story crafter and a half-decent writer. She said she thought I’d be controlling and possessive, when I am nothing of the sort. She said I wasn’t ‘edgy’ enough, in so many words, even as I carved my flesh into ribbons. Even to this day, when she describes her perfect partner’s personality, she describes me to a T, or at least to a lower-case t.

I treat our bond as though we are siblings, and I believe that’s how she sees me, though I feel a much stronger love than that for her whilst single, and she feels nothing for me. She treats me like garbage. One time I begged her for company, knowing that if left alone I’d make an attempt on my life, and she said no. No one else came either, but I thought she of all people would understand and care. But she didn��t. And despite the handle of vodka, bottle of nyquil, assortment of pills, and sheer amount of blood loss I endured that night, I lived to suffer the pain of her betrayal.

With her it’s always apologies and broken promises. She’s sorry she abandoned me for the millionth time to be with her new abusive boyfriend, she promises it won’t happen again. She’s sorry she disappeared without a word of warning, and promises she’ll warn me in the future. She’s sorry that she broke her promises, she promises it won’t happen again.

And yet I love her. I’ve given her thousands of dollars. I’ve bought her over a hundred meals. I take care of her when everyone else abandoned her. I helped her get her shit together when agoraphobia had grabbed hold of her. I’ve given her everything I could possibly give, sacrificed everything she’s ever asked for or needed that I had.

But its never enough for her. It never will be. She will never care about me and my needs. I don’t need her romantic love, as much as I would enjoy it. But never once has she sacrificed for me. Never once has she gone out of her way to make me happy. She gave me a stack of ‘coupons’, to be redeemed for things such as ‘a guaranteed hang out session’ or ‘You can pick the music all day’. The one time I tried to redeem one, the first one I mentioned, she blew me off.

But of course, she moved to a whole other state for her drug addicted, physically and verbally abusive boyfriend. Then when she came back I took her back following a promise that she was completely done with him. I’m sure she will, or already has, broken that promise.

Despite all that, she is the most important person in my life. The thought of her killing herself makes me genuinely want to die too. Without her, there’d be absolutely no one in my life that I truly love. She is a fire amidst a barren tundra without which I’d freeze to death, even if she flickers in and out of existence that I’ve wished to  die in her absence.

My only other friend is Whitney. The strangest person I’ve ever known, and one of the most genuinely wholesome and good people you could ever have the pleasure of meeting. She’s sweet, kind, caring, generous, intelligent, and fun. She’s also asexual, so there’s no hope for romance there either. She lives a busy life, between college and work, so it’s rare I ever get to see her.

    Everyone else in my life is temporary, fleeting. They either abandon me purposely or drift away like clouds.

    My last girlfriend, the only other serious one I’ve had besides my ‘ex-fiancee’, abandoned me out of the blue. One moment, she was saying that she loved me and that I was her perfect man. The next, she provided a list of issues she had with me and said that they were irreconcilable. She left me with trust issues that have plagued every attempt at romance I’ve had since. I lost my virginity to that girl.

    And when we broke up, you know what happened? Her shit head best friend went and spread all of my personal information to our mutual friends, in a horrific way that painted me to be a violent and hurtful man who was ruining her life. And they believed him. Even though he was known to be an over-dramatic, hyper-aggressive piece of shit, they believed him. In spite of all the good things I’d done for them and absolutely no personal experience with me to back his words up, they took it as gospel. I had non-romantic commitment issues before then, but damned if they weren’t magnified ten fold after that.

    Every other romantic trist I had after her has had its issues. One time, whilst I was seeing a shrink and given pills that amplified my anxieties to levels beyond my control, I went full blown crazy with a girl. Demanded to know where she was, why she was ignoring me, sent over thirty texts in as many minutes. I quit that medicine the moment I ‘came down’.

    Another I ‘broke up’ with after we agreed that she couldn’t handle just hanging out in my car, and I can’t handle going to clubs. Another couple ghosted me. Another was even flakier than Kira, and far more blatant about it. Another just wasn’t that into me, even if he (an FtM transgender person) wouldn’t admit it.

    Right now, the biggest source of my anxiety is the fact that Kira has yet again disappeared. I’m used to that, but this time she explicitly said she would text me ‘soon’ when we hung out three days ago. The girl is a fucking suicidal drug addict, and doesn’t care about the pain it causes me when she disappears like this. The fears and anxieties that fill me hurt so bad you wouldn’t believe it. I’ve told her this countless times. She just, doesn’t, care.

    I want to punch something, tear my room apart. Its a disgusting mess now, but the mess is settled at least. A path to the door amidst the refuse, big piles pushed against the walls. It could be much, much worse. I feel like I’m about to explode, all these feelings bursting out of my fucking rib cage. But she doesn’t care about that. All she cares about is herself.

    There’s only two people in the entire world I’ve truly cared for, like really, wholly, undeniably loved and felt empathy for. My ‘ex-fiancee’, and Kira. But even for those I didn’t feel that way for, Whitney or my ex-girlfriend, I treat them right. Better than right. I buy them gifts, I look after them, I tell them I love them, I do my best to be the best friend or boyfriend I can be.

    I’m a heartless monster, but at least I have the manners to act better than that.

    You know something, I legitimately can’t remember the last time I cried. Probably when Kira and I first started becoming friends, she demanded I open up and tell her everything if I wanted her to do the same. So I did, and I broke down. Since then, not a drop. I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired. I’m tired of being alive, but outside of drunken and seemingly random spikes of suicidal ideations, I’m too scared of death to try and kill myself tonight.

    The thought of death, of everything just disappearing, terrifies me. It has since I was a little kid, we’re talking four or five years old. I don’t want to die, I never want to die. I want to live forever, or at least to know that there is reincarnation or an afterlife. I fear the ocean too, specifically being in the middle of the water with no land in sight and seeing a silhouette approaching me. But that’s not what my fear of death is. That’s a shock, a jump in my seat when I watch a video on youtube.

    My fear of death is primal, unadulterated terror. It keeps me up at night, it forces me to keep a light on when I want to sleep, it gave me a love for twilight hours as they brought an end to the darkness when I was a child. It brought me peace.

    Kira finally texted me back, simply saying ‘’I love you’. It could be her last words, it could be an apology for going back to her shit head ex, it’s definitely a lie to either herself or to me. It brought some measure of peace, though left a trail of underlying fears in its wake.

    I just wish I could be happy, but for that I need at least one of the three B’s. Booze, blood, or betrothal. The last B is hyperbolic, I don’t need that much of a commitment, just some sort of romantic connection with someone. Gotta keep the pattern going though. When I’m drunk, my troubles fade away. When I’m cutting, the pain distracts me. When I have a girlfriend, I feel accepted.

    Right now I have none of those things. I might cut my arm here in a bit, but I doubt I’ll be getting a girlfriend sometime tonight; and its too risky to be drinking on a night like this. So, I’ve just got to wallow in my own misery.

    I meant to write chapter two of a new book I’m working on tonight. It’s a dark, nautical comedy set in a fantasy-ish world about a dull yet narcissistic pirate captain and his misadventure to regain his fortune. I started writing it to keep myself busy while I wait to distance myself from the first book I wrote, a more serious piece. That one’s about a man and his new apprentice facing a rebellion of monsters who are supposed to coexist with humans, but are sick of their treatment as second class citizens.

    I need to distance myself from it because every time I look at it I want to delete the whole thing. It all feels too fresh, too personal. I can remember every keystroke that I put down, and since I was the one who typed it all, it must be trash. That’s how my mind sees it. I need to forget.

    I’ve just started episode five of Altered Carbon, haven’t paused it once, haven’t stopped writing except when they speak in another language or I don’t know what to wrtie next or when Kira texted me. I’m starving. By starving I mean I’m hungry, just enough that my stomach hurts. I’ll probably go grab more food like the fat ass, no-self-control shitstain that I am.

    I hate when people tell me I’m not fat, or when people say it shouldn’t matter. I am fat, and it matters to me. I don’t find fat people attractive. Never have, never will. I remember once, back when I was dieting and nearly at one-sixty, a (fat) girl said to me “Why are you still dieting? You look great.” I responded by lifting my shirt up (I didn’t have the scar on my stomach at the time) and jiggling it, which immediately elicited an ‘Ew!’ from her. I said, “That’s why.”

    It’s not a crime to be fat, nor do I treat fat people any worse than their skinny counterparts. I just think its extremely unattractive, just like me. I don’t want to be fat. I just don’t have the willpower to put a stop to it. And I hate myself for it. Maybe if/when I get a new job I’ll be able to get back into my routine. It’d be a lot easier if I lived on my own, and could choose the pantry and fridge’s contents myself.

    But for now I’m stuck living in my parents’ house. I thought once I bought a new car, I’d be able to save up and move out. Then I met Kira, and spent thousands on her. Then I allowed myself to be talked into going to therapy, a waste of time that I put a stop to after being told that I’d never be happy and to keep on cutting, that put me in debt to pay for. Then my car broke down, and I’ve had to open a new credit card for over nine-hundred dollars and spent another four-hundred up front, and her check engine light is already back on.

    Oh, and I don’t have a job anymore after getting fired for spending too much time helping coworkers, so its not like I can get a place with the two-hundred and twelve dollars I get a week with unemployment. I’ve dreamed about living on my own since before I was even a teenager. I’ve always hated my parents. Every time I think everything’s about to turn around fiscally, life comes around and shits down my fucking throat and cuts a hole through my trachea so it can fuck my feces-stained esophagus. Every, single, fucking, time.

    God that therapy was fucking worthless. I did what the guy said in regards to cutting. I tried rubber band snapping, icing, writing out my feelings. None of it had the same sense of distraction and gravitas. So, he told me if it helps and I’m being safe, keep doing it. So I have. I wanted to stop though, not for my own sake, but because the people who say they care about me (in other words, Whit) don’t like it and I can understand why. Again though, no will power.

    When it came to my moods, I told him about as much as I’ve told anyone in my life about myself. At first it felt good, he looked at me like some sort of specimen. By our last session though, it felt more like I was a chore to him, a frustrating waste of time. Although I didn’t bother to remember the words verbatim, he more or less told me that sometimes there just isn’t anything you can do to stop being miserable, and you’re just stuck that way. So, since that was the case, I stopped going.

    There was another professional I saw there, a woman who was there to actually prescribe medicines. After the first one ruined a budding and potentially great relationship, I was hesitant to try another. Given the fact that it was also expensive as fuck and I was constantly broke, with or without hesitation I couldn’t try another kind. She refused to prescribe me medicine for my ADD either, even though she did diagnose it. Said we needed to get the depression under control first. Maybe I’d be less fucking miserable if I could concentrate on one thing at a time instead of constantly having my attention diverted between two to three things every waking moment of my life.

    It’s funny, when I finished my first book, I thought I’d be happy. Filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment that would spur me forward in life. So I rushed it. The last couple chapters were far below my typical word count. Whitney pointed out that fact, and the fact that a lot of the earlier chapters were subpar comparatively, so I went back and finished it ‘for real’. I rewrote most of the earlier chapters, filled in the later chapters, got a real, proper first draft done. And still nothing.

    Now I’m telling myself that once I can edit it properly instead of just grimacing through the prologue I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe it. Maybe if an agent wants it, I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe that. If it were miraculously published, then, then I might feel a hint of genuine joy, but I don’t believe that. I keep pushing the goal posts of finding happiness further and further back to excuse my failure to do so.

    Fuck, I don’t even know why I wrote all this. I don’t feel any better. I feel like an overdramatic, self-important, delusional cunt. Same old same old I suppose.

[leam1983]

On Autumn

I call these chilly, wet days with bright colors and overcast skies the Dying Days. Nature's nowhere close to dying, she's just tucking herself into bed. No, what's really dying is a chapter of life itself. Maybe I see too much syncronicity in this, but defining moments in my life usually happened somewhere between late August and late November.

Today felt like one of those days: colorful, vibrant, chilly, with the earth smelling of decay outside the office - and everything telling me to get the Fuck outta Dodge while I still can.

The Big Boss is in denial. He's repeating to anyone who'll listen that the chip shortage is on its last legs. It's not. Appointments and referrals are in the pits, our no-shows are through the roof, and our clients are down to basically begging and groveling, plastering superlatives on dogshit rebates and hoping beyond hope that calling Joe Average for his 2014 Corolla's going to land them a buyback. My call center colleagues are filling in for the satellite teams that handle tire-change season for local garages. Hours might shift to a nine-to-five to reflect this, which I don't mind.

That covers October, and only October. November is usually dialed in months in advance, ahead of the Holidays, and now we have nothing. The salesforce might see its hours slashed within a week. I'm fine, being on the Production team, but the Sword of Damocles is still up there, all dangly-like. For the second week in a row, we've got nothing planned for Friday.

Next week? Hey Google, play The Twilight Zone's theme.

All because the global chip shortage is driving prices and import costs up the wall. Things get spread out across the chain, but the consumer ends up picking up the saltiest part of the final tab. It's hard to present anything as a great deal when you're looking at a 10% upmark cost for even last-gen sedans. That means no buyback offers. That means no clients for us, and those that do hang on are told to revise their expectations.

When I took the phone, I used to be able to bring in fifteen, maybe twenty referrals and appointments a day. Now, with the same skills and toolset, I bring in three. Sometimes five or six, on my better days - and that's for the mid-range and high-end sectors.

Try calling in and around factory and manufacturing districts. Try convincing a young mother that's already struggling to make ends meet in the midst of the Delta wave that shouldering a debt in the tens of thousands is worth it when her car's barely six years old.

Fuck, no.

The call center's deserted, our huddles turned into the seven or eight remaining regulars hashing things out around the coffee machine, and it's gotten harder than ever to keep the froshes motivated. Now, more than ever, they're aware of how upper management sees them.

They're disposable, and it pisses me the fuck off. We're some of these kids' first job ever, some of my youngest colleagues are still in their mid-teens - and the fun they had over the summer's evaporated. Now we're just the breadline they need for their smartphone contract or their tentpole console and PC releases. The breezy ones turned into cavalier types, then turned brazen - then stopped giving a shit. Four of them are playing hooky almost weekly. Instead of addressing things responsibly, the floor manager's pacing around the lanes and aisles, taking anyone aside who isn't transfixed with their desktop's set of Web apps.

"I'm afraid you're not giving us your 100%" is something I've heard several times over the past week, now. She's given it to me, too. I used to think Floor Manager Boss Lady could look fierce when she needed to - a moderately non-cliché Girlboss type - and now all I'm seeing is a cornered animal. Whenever she reports back to The Actual Boss, it's with taut skin and deepening worry lines. She's terrified.

The veterans feel it, too. Apart from their pension, the paycheck made their modest lives livable. Now, though? Those with enough strength left are scrambling, and those that can't are in the process of navigating HR's darkened halls to try and find an exit that doesn't land them on the unemployment line. Half of these guys' work is starting to look like the kind of stuff you'd see pushed around work placement agencies: pages and pages of LinkedIn printouts and Indeed screengrabs.

The Actual Boss is spending more and more time at the gym. He handles things well, but you can tell that there's a punching bag, somewhere, that's taking the blame for everything from the strikes in South Africa's silica mines to the various manufacturers' head offices being stuck trying to keep the shareholders in line with offers that aren't too generous.

Others don't have release mechanisms. Some colleagues of mine stormed out of the floor manager's office, cussed out shitty scripts in full view of Production team members or just stopped giving a shit. Our metrics are getting worse, which makes people feel worse.

People openly talk about looking for other jobs. In Quebec, at least, etiquette demands that you don't publicly discuss job-hunting while on the clock. There's been several reprimands, already.

As expected, nobody gives a shit. I sure as fuck don't. I don't give in to the temptation, but I also haven't worked my own authority as a fill-in supervisor all that much. I shield the other supers, all the while nodding at the mouthier types and adding I feel ya on the after-hours Discord group.

I've got three interviews lined up. Work's already notified. Supervisors and floor boss accepted that with looks of quiet resignation, but Actual Boss came up to me, offered to give me a raise out-of-pocket (assuming I didn't tell anybody) and more or less begged me to stay.

We get along well, but I also get along with girls in Accounting. How's it going to look for me if I drink from that cup and one of these girls notices weird extras in my slips? I can't do that, not in good conscience.

One of the sales reps took me aside, a few days back. They're not fazed yet, they're partly paid by commission. They make cash even out of sales they cinch outside of our referrals and appointments.

"You know why you'd never really hack it as a salesman, Brain? You're too nice. You empathize too much."

I realized that this was coming from the rat bastard in the salesforce; the salamander who's okay with pricing overused and worn-out demos as close to Stock price as he could without breaking the law.

I smiled icily, took a swig of coffee. "Yeah, it must be nice knowing you'll just go back to the same four Nissans and that you won't ever have to confront a customer's dissatisfaction. Betcha you sleep real well, at night."

He didn't pick up on my sarcasm. "They're just opinions, bro; I'm just here to deal, y'know?"

Sure. Deal away. In the meantime, some of my colleagues have been driving the same busted sedan to the point of being ordered by the cops to get their cars towed in for servicing - all because they can't structure their budget around a broken part that costs two hundred dollars to fix.

I caught one of my older colleagues weeping, alone in the cafeteria. An older lady, sweetest person you've ever met; everyone's Favourite Grandma, no matter the lack of blood relations. She was crying, because she wasn't sure how she was going to afford Christmas presents for her grandkids.

I hugged her after sanitizing my hands, social distancing be damned. If it weren't for my Disability Savings Account, I'd be forced to stick my inhalers on my Visa.

I figured the end of my tenure there would feel like a big, huge nothing-burger. Woop, one office - and zoop; another office!

Instead, it feels like I'm watching clumsy hunters trying to work out how to put a lamed hunting dog out of its misery. Doom and gloom around the water cooler, either in the meatspace or on Slack.

Time to send more resumés - except I'd rather stop and hug more people for a few days, first.

[devilsknotrp]

Congratulations, Cee! You’ve been accepted for the role of Bobby Davies with the faceclaim of Julian Morris. Here’s another sample application from one of our existing members. You can find our other sample applications in this tag here. If you’re working on an app and have any questions, don’t hesitate to send them through.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Cee Age: 20 Pronouns: She/her Timezone: GMT+10 Activity estimation: During my university break, I can typically post IC every day or every second day, doing multiple threads. During semester, I’m usually able to write and post IC every 2-3 days, at least. If I know I’ll be extremely busy, I’ll request a hiatus or semi-hiatus or stagger posts slightly! Triggers: N/A

IN CHARACTER: BASICS

Full name: Robert ‘Bobby’ Davies Age (DD/MM/YYY): Thirty (30/09/1966) Gender: Cis male Pronouns: He/him Sexuality: Homosexual demiromantic Occupation: Systems research analyst Connection to Victim: Truthfully, through town gossip. He’s never spoken a word to any of the Goodes. Maggie’s brought Linda up once or twice over dinner, especially since Brian has gone missing. All Oh, poor Brian and sidelong glances at Deborah. That, or the Goodes have been mentioned in passing when he’s landed himself in a hushed, sensitive crash-course on his younger sister. Alibi: He was at a high-end wine bar in Lansing that afternoon, doing his damnedest to impress a colleague over a twenty-dollar glass of merlot. Bobby’s been tentative to suggest to him they go for drinks, especially on a four-thirty Friday knockoff. So they agreed for Saturday instead. He drove back alone to Devil’s Knot around 8.45 that night and went straight to bed. Faceclaim: Julian Morris

WRITING SAMPLE

His eyes are starting to blur. Long gone are the heat mirages and blinding pale sunlight across the flat. Now, the horizon bleeds into purple and blue. Worse yet, the radio’s been reduced to static and there’s not a cassette to be found in the car. A hand idly goes up to pinch the bridge of his nose first, then rub at the corner of one eye. At first, the distant spot of light is dismissed by fatigue, although as he nears the brightness grows, bringing into focus silhouettes of parked trucks and cars, patchy along the line of a gas station.

Once there he pulls over. At the pumps Bobby stops, although he doesn’t get out of the car right away. He’s somewhere over the Nevada border, past Reno but ultimately nowhere. Why didn’t he buy a goddamn plane ticket? Right. Work had left him high and dry, damn near cashless save for what he’d stuffed his wallet with. They’d even been hesitant to cough up a final pay, leaving Bobby with no choice but the car, though he suspects it’s got a touch more leg room than economy.

Deep down, he drives for the nostalgia. Lets himself revisit the same sights from the way over when he was eighteen. Though, there’s a few more strip malls than he recalls along the way, and the songs on the radio don’t sound quite right. No more Bruce Springsteen and AC/DC. It sounds sadder. The drive’s also to tell himself that when he gets back to Devil’s Knot, Perry won’t be there waiting. Neither will Maggie. It’ll likely be close to midnight when he arrives, the town deadened by sleep and the outskirts pitch black. It’s a cosmic joke that he’ll probably have to get a room at Sal’s run-down motel. Maybe that’s his trial by fire.

Bobby lets out a sigh and leaves the car. His feet shuffle on the spot as the tank refills, homed in on the rhythmic click of the gas pump, the rush of trucks that fly by left muted, as if they’re ways away rather than right beside him. Inside, he meanders between the aisles of garish chip packets and half-melted candy. He’s not proud of impulse buys but the CD copy of a Toto album is set on the counter with resolution as he mutters the pump number, pulls out a few fifties before going on his way once more. The CD slipped in, the stereo begins to blare in a bid to stay awake. Maybe if he can just make it to the state border and hit Utah, it’ll be enough to get there by the end of the week.

He has to stop at a place far closer, though, because there’s a lightness in his chest and not enough air seems to be getting in. It’s asthma, he chalks it down to; only part of the cocktail of nerves he can’t gulp down. At the back of his neck there’s gooseflesh. It doesn’t go away, even as he checks into a highway motel and clicks the television on to the eleven-p.m. news while he searches for a puffer in his duffel bag. It’s a feel-good story, the newscasters smiling and laughing with each other. With the help of a stale mini-bottle of whiskey from the motel fridge, Bobby manages to fall asleep before the midnight television static sets in.

ANYTHING ELSE?

BACKGROUND

TW FOR DRUGS / DRUG USE, OVERDOSE.

As many others can attest to, 1984 has, and continues to, shake Bobby to his core. Try as he might to swallow it back down the taste lingers sour, like bile. Until then he had grown up having what most considers a ‘normal’ childhood. Or a variant of it; depends on who you ask. Small town, a single mother, no dad in sight and grades high enough to make a Mensa member swoon. He had brought up his father once or twice when he was quite young. His curiosity eventually waned once he grew closer with his mother, Maggie, or found his nose becoming caught between a hefty book more and more often. Much to her chagrin, he’d already begun to gobble up Stephen King novels by the time he was thirteen. Books were a pleasant escape from the static of Devil’s Knot, at least for a while.

The year Phillip Silverman died and Pete narrowly avoided the same fate sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s red and swollen and throbbing – infected – and clear as day in the back of his head. Although he’s tried to rid himself of it, tuck the year away nice and neat, it threw everything off-kilter. The IB grades, the cherry-red As on his papers. An Ivy League university just in his grasp. Whatever he was sure of in himself; a hundred and one ways to get out of town and make something of himself once graduation rolled around, all gone. He wanted to get to NASA – where did that go?

Instead of graduating with friends and spending afternoons blush-drunk in the car of the boy he loved a little way out of town in the summer, an ugly mess of events sent him fleeing. He’s never forgotten the flash of red and blue some months later outside the house. Snow dappling the frozen, muddy front year, hands just free of a prayer before dinnertime, Max up and gone with the follow of Charlie Taylor’s pinched stare.

As if the murder, the endless days spent sleuthing for a whodunnit like an episode of Scooby Doo didn’t leave an imprint on him, the trial certainly did. It was the first time he’d ever worn a suit – a proper suit. He still remembers the too-tight collar, the beads of sweat on his forehead, the click of the stenographer in a Lansing courtroom. The worst part, though, was the fall of Maggie’s expression at the end of it.

Bobby didn’t even graduate high school. Where his diploma should be on the wall of Maggie’s living room, framed in beautiful wood and glass and stared at with that wistful smile of hers, it’s not. Instead he drove west with Perry Esposito. He’d planned it for some time. A tatty duffel bag under the bed, bursting at the seams with a few good books and wads of cash he’d saved from odd jobs, birthdays, loose change and old clothes. Cooped up in Sal’s shitty crate of a car with his knees to his chest, poring over a paranormal reader’s digest in the passenger seat, he was sure he could wean himself off the growing panic that grappled its way up his chest cavity. But somewhere in a Californian hotel parking lot, things crumbled once more. Raised voices skipped over the roof of a car, he stole it and ended up boggle-eyed and knee-deep between the swathes of tech geniuses in Silicon Valley.

It sounds like something out of a movie, he can admit. But it’s true. There were a few hiccups here and there for a kid with no qualifications, although things ironed out once people realised he had a natural aptitude, was too smart for his own good. He soon forgot Perry; or acted like he did.

Habits of small town living still lingered there. Although, people on the West Coast seemed more… accepting. Nobody would bat an eyelid if he said he had no other qualifications besides a few months between a tech start-up and unpaid internship, if he became too touchy with another man beside the pool at a casual ‘work’ party or a friend gestured to a tabletop lined by neat white and somebody’s credit card, for that matter. Over the years he’s gotten his hands grubby with money, drugs, uttering This means nothing, agreeing to it. Although it made him feel sure of himself, strangely, it hasn’t come without a price.

When he looks back, it was all far too much for somebody of his age. It raised him, in a way. Just as Maggie did. Except ambitious corporations brought him up on lackey internships, BASIC, an eight to six day and a celebratory drink at the end of the week. Bobby, prone to burnouts and stubborn perfection, slipped into a drug habit by the time he’d hit twenty-five to cope with the pressure – although he was proud to say he’d never gotten into cigarettes. Touted as the young, bright kid obsessed with computers from a place only made infamous by grisly crime, there was an immense expectation he felt he had to live up to.

In 1993 (or ‘94, things get hazy here), Bobby willed himself to walk through the front door of a rehab centre. He’d gone too far at a party. Having wound up in a hospital with an awful taste in his mouth and a drip in his arm, the idea ate away at his head until he forced himself to it. Going back to his job as if nothing had happened, as if his friends weren’t the ones who’d egged him on to have a bit of fun, blow off steam, was much, much harder. After having grit his teeth for another two years, Bobby got in his car that summer to make the drive back to Devil’s Knot, thinking endlessly about the fact that Perry wasn’t in the seat next to him to shout Dancing in the Dark at the top of their lungs while he drove along an empty desert stretch.

Settling back into Devil’s Knot has been met with fleeting doubts. Before Brian went missing, it seemed too good to be true. Nearly everyone from high school remained. Maggie was there, albeit with a surprise that he’d ignored for a staggeringly long time. He picked up a job in Lansing in no time. Or talked his way into it, his boss raising an eye at the fact he’d not gotten so much as a high school diploma, let alone a degree. Since the disappearance of Brian Goode, the oppressive weight of 1984 has set itself upon his chest once more, made the air stifling.

HEADCANONS

Bobby feels as if he’s failed Maggie by returning home with his tail between his legs. His first dinner back home was by far the most nerve-wracking experience, even more so than the shock of catching sight of Perry Esposito behind the bar counter when he ordered a martini filled to the brim with top-shelf liquor (or the best that Devil’s Knot could muster). He expected conversation to fall back as it was in 1984. Although he’d given Maggie the occasional telephone call over the years, it was never enough to properly connect. And after 1994 it turned into complete silence until the evening he arrived back right before the stroke of midnight, hoping the front porch light was on so he could beg for a spare room. Deborah’s a strange addition to the family, although he’s teaching himself to accept it and bite back the simmering fear that he’s lost the place where he stands with Maggie. But it’s a no-brainer. He couldn’t have possibly expected, after twelve years, to come back and have the jigsaw pieces slip neatly into place. He’s skinnier now, with purple always beneath the eyes and a strange edge he hasn’t worn away just yet. Things aren’t going back to the way they were, even if a childish part of him hopes for it.

He’s been living alone for years just fine. Why has it become so difficult to do back here? Bobby’s box-sized townhouse at the end of Main Street is a mess. There’s a distinct lack of furniture save for the stuff that came with the place, a rickety tower of empty Styrofoam takeaway containers in the kitchen sink where dirty dishes should be, television antenna askew and screen buzzing with static snow in his cramped living room. Most of the furniture he owned in California has ended up in a thrift store somewhere, collecting dust. The only thing he brought with him were his clothes, a far-cry from the jean jackets and ratty Adidas Superstars he wore when everyone last saw him. He’s become plainer. Boring. Ironed slacks and crisp white button downs, the collars starchy. No bright colours. Just white and black. The only casual clothing he’ll resort to wearing is a polo shirt and blue jeans on the weekend, if he’s really struggled with the laundry. The lack of company’s certainly gotten to him. His job in Lansing is a muted nine to five, the office laid out like a rat maze and punctuated only by the ring of a telephone or clack of a keyboard, the odd few friends to chat with there at arm’s length. Lately, he’s sought company at Mandy and Mary’s place, particularly on weekends. It’s nice. It makes Devil’s Knot more bearable, as well as dinner time. Bobby can’t cook to save himself. It either turns out burned, undercooked, or tasteless. That, and the weekly family meal at Maggie’s has been his saving grace. He’s still got his place at the table there, to his relief.

Rehab was an easy decision, kind of. Simple in thought, far more difficult in execution. Around 1993, or ’94 (he struggles to remember which; the early years of the decade were a blur) he’d left what little belongings remained in his one-bedroom apartment to settle in, to bunk beds and lights out and positive affirmations and group therapy, all with a hankering for the rush he’d forced himself to wean off. Going back to work was much harder. The culture seemed stifling, or perhaps too impulsive to let him be comfortable. Come on, a little won’t hurt. It’s not that bad. It didn’t take a phone call, or a missing boy in the news to send him back home. No, it was an itch under the skin that kept coming back on every Friday night get-together for after-work drinks.

Brian’s disappearance has made Bobby feel as if he’s been thrown back to 1984. Nothing pleasant, like Marty McFly going back to a wealthy family and happy girlfriend with a big shiny truck. No, it’s as if the search parties, sombre conversation with old friends has put him right back into his spot in the teenage “Scooby Gang” he’d wound up a part of. Worse still is that the sympathetic remarks he’s gotten from those in town makes him feel like he’s been reduced back to a wide-eyed teen. Or maybe it’s all in his head. With a tendency to bottle things up and never set things straight, Bobby’s nowhere near as open as he used to be. There are many things he hasn’t told Maggie, there are many things he hasn’t dared to admit to himself. He can feel the tension bubbling away at the back of his throat. One day, he suspects it’ll come right back up.

Bobby is selfish. After having learned to finally say no, stop putting himself up to the task of making sure others are happy at his own expense, there are many things he does that signals he wants to save his own neck. If he wants to get his way, he knows he can do so with money, all under the guise of a smile and sugar-coated generosity. Although he’ll genuinely splurge on those dear to him come Christmas time and birthdays, there are others he wants to have a sway over through grand gestures. He knows the novelty will wear off eventually.

His new job is okay – just okay. The work is repetitive at best, although it pays the bills and keeps him fed. He wanted a more senior position at first (I’ve got the experience and the skills straight from Silicon Valley, he’d pitched at the interview) but one glance down to the missing degree on his resume was all it took to put him down as a mundane desk worker. The last few months working it are bearable, although he wonders whether it’ll get any better than what he’s got now. A New Year’s resolution Bobby plans to keep once 1997 rolls around is to move to Lansing, maybe. Work part-time, go for a proper degree. If not only to make himself feel like less of a failure in Maggie’s eyes, it’ll help him shed off the worry that things are becoming static again.

[topicprinter]

It’s now 2019 and everything is getting old,millennials are now officially full-grown adults.The youngest are graduating college and entering the job market.The oldest, are well into their careers.And while some companies are busy complaining about millennials killing their business,others are realizing Hey, this generation might not be exactly the same as their parents,and are adapting.One of the most successful of these companies is called WeWork. here’s the idea:Instead of leasing an office for a whole year, You can rent a space in one of WeWork’s 500 buildings in 97 cities.For somewhere between two and eight hundred dollars a month, you get a private office, a desk, or the opportunity of a desk. They provide the Wifi, furniture, printers, and cleaning. . It may not sound revolutionary but it’s perfectly timed with the rise of independent,remote, and freelance workers, who there are now 68 million of in the U.S. alone. WeWork is the 4th highest valued startup in the world, just behind Uber and its Chinese competitor. Many have called it massively overvalued, even the most overvalued. Meanwhile, it’s starting a school, called WeGrow, a gym called “Rise By We”, and renting apartments called WeLive.The answer is just as interesting as what it says about… our whole economy. The way WeWork makes money, or tries to, is actually pretty simple. It is starting to buy a few of its own buildings, but for the most part, here’s how it works: First, it finds big, centrally-located buildings in young, densely populated areas and signs a five, ten, even fifteen-year lease. Which makes the landlord really happy, at least, for now. And then, they turn around and sublease to you and I, on a monthly basis. Pretty simple, right? A little too simple, you might be thinking. If WeWork can make money appear out of thin air by splitting a big lease into a bunch of tiny ones, why doesn’t the building just do that itself? Isn’t WeWork just an inefficient middleman? Instead of paying one landlord, now we’re essentially paying two. And that’s true - nothing stops the owner of a building from creating its own shared offices. Some do. But it’s not so simple.For two reasons.First, WeWork and the owner are really playing two, very different games. At its core, WeWork is one, giant, $47 billion bet that its real estate will increase in value. Because if you and I pay more every month for a desk, WeWork still pays the same 10, 15, whatever-year lease, and they pocket the difference. On the other hand, if can I say, when? property values fall, they have to pay the difference. Now, each lease is under a different subsidiary, so if it can’t afford to make payments, the company, as a whole, is somewhat protected. But if a bunch of them fail at the same time, like during a recession, it could be really, really bad. And remember that most of WeWork’s customers are small startups and freelancers, ya know, the businesses most likely to fail during a recession. The owner, on the other hand, gets a consistent, arguably lower-risk paycheck and makes its building more valuable in the meantime. The second reason is that WeWork has an unfair advantage. Unlike the property owner, it can set prices unreasonably low, attracting far more customers. The secret is that WeWork is always on sale - you just don’t know it. How can it sell a service for less than what it costs? The answer is a little, actually, remarkably not-so-little, company called SoftBank. You’ve never heard of it because it’s a multinational holding conglomerate. In English, a company that owns companies. A big pile of money. Softbank’s Vision Fund is nearly $100 billion, provided by Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, and companies like Apple and Qualcomm. So what does it do with all that money? Mostly, invest in tech companies. And, when those run out, anything that remotely looks like one. Basically, add “big data” or “blockchain” to your name and then buy a bigger wallet, because Softbank wants all of it. Just a few weeks ago, it poured another $2 billion into WeWork. And if you think that’s a lot, which, it is, it was originally going to be sixteen billion. So, Softbank, in a round-a-bout way, is paying for part of your office, in hopes that the company will grow and one day make a profit. Which is all too common - Enjoy those $1 scooters, and cheap Uber rides because some venture capitalist somewhere is paying for them. It won’t last forever, just ask anyone with Moviepass how that turned out. But hang on.Why does Softbank, who likes tech companies like Uber and Bytedance, invest in WeWork, who leases real estate? Well, that’s the question - is WeWork a tech company, or does it just really want to be? Because, if it’s just a middleman between property owners and renters, and Uber just a platform connecting drivers and riders, both of which use technology but suffer the economics of a non-tech company, then they’re a lot less exciting. If that’s true, a lot of investors are spending a lot more than they should, and when they realize this, things are going to get ugly. Think about it this way: A tech company can potentially have seven billion users instantly. A thousand downloads don’t cost any more than one. Scale is (nearly) unlimited. And therefore, so are valuations. WeWork, however, will always have to buy or lease more space as more people join. It scales, but not in the same way. To put it in perspective, there’s this other, less exciting, co-working company called Regus.It's total square feet, is almost double of WeWork’s, again, with a valuation of $47 billion. So what’s Regus valued at? 4 Billion and, fun fact: Regus actually makes a profit.The question is: What makes WeWork worth that extra 43 billion? Why is it valued like a tech company? And Regus, based on, how much money it can make? There’s a reason WeWork is so much more successful and it’s not just that Softbank thinks its money is a hot potato. It’s because WeWork has mastered the art of telling a story. Regus has nice, professional photos and advertises with generic phrases like “Stay productive”, But WeWork understands The Millennial.Big art pieces, craft beer, and so many mentions of the word “community".“WeWork… (is) a state of consciousness, a generation of interconnected emotionally intelligent entrepreneurs.”And it does have useful data, on where people work, when they’re most productive, and so on, which they can use to redesign and optimize buildings. That’s valuable information. It has to decide, for example, how many conference rooms to build based on how much they’ll be used. That’s worth thousands of dollars a month, because if it builds even one too many rooms, its wasting space that could’ve been a desk, and made more money. So, is it real estate or tech company Yes. But, make no mistake: its core business fundamentally relies on property values. That’s true no matter how hard it tries to distract us, “Hey look over here, we’re not just a real estate company”, We’re opening a high-end gym in New York, we bought a wave-pool company, Seriously though, why?! and we’re starting an elementary school! Which, by the way, costs up to $42,000 a year, a total of $388,000 from age 2 to 11. Although, to be fair, it’s no ordinary school - “A field of super-elliptic objects forms a learning landscape that’s dense and rational – yet free and fluid.” Whatever that means, it’s not enough to save the company from the fate of Regus, who after the dot-com crash, filed for bankruptcy. To survive its first recession, WeWork will have to change its strategy or significantly diversify its income. Economic downturns are inevitable, you have to protect yourself by spreading your eggs across multiple baskets.

[foxhenki-blog]

Spirit Traps

I suppose it is fitting just how chaotic this week has been, in retrospect. The week previous I picked up Peter Carroll’s Liber Kaos and began going through some of the deeper machinations behind chaos magic, looking for matches to the Lovecraftian Magical Aesthetic. I had gotten myself into a spot of trouble at work and hadn’t done magic of really any kind, save a few audio experiments and this weekly arm chairing, so I thought a shoal was in order.

I chose what is magically Monday night and what is materially Tuesday morning to launch this shoal, dedicating it to Selene and launching it in the hour of Mars, somewhere near dawn. The shoal revolved around work and success but in a different way than normal. Typically I focus on myself and my immediate needs, but as I am learning (and as it is also pointed out in Liber Kaos) that is the wrong way to go about sigilmancy. I cast them out into deep water, one and two years from now, attempting to manipulate the near future of the firm I work for and who is in charge at that time. The implication being that those with their eyes on me would find the floor shifting beneath them.

The immediate result? Total and utter chaos with me at the epicenter, a very visible epicenter. As Carrol states:

“Any act of magic, if not totally hopeless, will tend to improve any non-zero probability of the desired result occurring by chance alone…”

If I am to look through the world through wizard eyes, the floor shifting beneath me could only be a result of the shoal I launched and probability rearranging itself to nudge closer to the goals I cast. Lovecraftian Magic is also concerned with probability, but instead of casting forward into the future, the aesthetic demands that we cast back into the past. Again from Carroll’s Liber Kaos:

“[Chaos Magic Theory] asserts that… many of the bizarre and anomalous results recorded in the annals of magic can only have been due to retroactive enchantment.”

We have discussed before Phil Hine’s thoughts on Lovecraft and hypernostalgia. Carroll’s retroactive enchantment is the magical realization of this aesthetic. Again from Carroll:

“The ancients often executed prophets of avoidable doom, and with good reason, for prescience can act as enchantment. It should… be noted that this effect can work retroactively as well; the future can also be modified by selecting a perception of the past, and vice versa.”

Let’s explore this further within the the frame of Lovecraft’s tale, ‘The Terrible Old Man.’ We begin in the hamlet of Kingsport:

“It was the design of Angelo… Joe… and Manuel… to call on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be… exceedingly rich… a situation very attractive to men of the [their] profession… robbery.

The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen [like these]…”

We have visited Kingsport in our explorations of ‘The Festival’ [https://gnome.school/blog/a-yuletide-gloaming] and ‘The Strange High House in the Mist,' and it has been deduced by this researcher to be the town of Marblehead, MA. Water Street sits just south of the Boston Yacht Club and there are no end to ancient houses in that immediate area, but the Ambrose Gale House, while not on Water, might be the best guess for a Gate through which Lovecraftian Magic can be conducted in this area, mostly because of its age. Of our archetype, the Terrible Old Man himself, the narrator has this to say:

“He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no on can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name.”

According to the previously referenced site, Historic Ipswich, a ship named Belisarius was launched in 1794 and traded with India for eight years before being wrecked in the Bay of Tunis in 1810. Further information about the ship can be found at the site, Seven Oceans. This, I feel, would be an excellent journeying point in timedepth to connect to a rich vein of Lovecraftian Hypernostaligia.

Another, perhaps tangential connection, is the ship Margaret. While it is not recorded as being in the employ of the East India Company, she was built for one John Derby Benjamin Pickman and one Samuel Derby, surnames we should readily recognize by now in the course of our research. The Margaret and its crew were involved in a wreck and many of the crew were left on the boat prior to its wreck to await rescue, which came after a considerable amount of time, suffering, and the death of twenty-eight of the thirty-one left aboard. It is also not difficult to imagine a Ghost Ship Margaret off the shores of Salem, seeking a port that will never come. Either of these vessels are easy journeying targets and our Terrible Old Man could have learned the secrets to his longevity on either.

The Terrible Old Man’s home on Water is not just old, it is by no mean indiscrete when it comes to advertising the witchy nature of its owner:

“Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large stone, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white hair and beard…”

Here in Milwaukee, we have, or had (how long does an enchantment truly live on past its creator), a similar art environment, namely the Witch House of the artist Mary Nohl. Her front yard was an art environment filled with concrete structures and her reputation as a witch was one that she did not work overly hard to dispel. 

Rumor takes us by the hand and leads us up to the dirty windows of the home, through which we see that:

“on a table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string… they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer.”

This, in particular, is likely the most important piece of tech in the story. In the Hygromanteia there is a particular spell designed to pull a spirit out of a possessed person and trap it in the bottle.

From the Hygromanteia:

“Take a bottle and put it on a table. Then, place underneath a new piece of cloth, clove, musk and galbanum. Light four candles and have [an assistant with a facility with spirit contact with you]. Let the possessed person be nearby and the bottle in a convenient distance. The [assistant] must stare into the bottle. Then recite this conjuration at the left and at the right ear of the possessed person:

I conjure you, evil and impure spirit, by the great name of God Sabaoth, by the revelation of God which He revealed to Moses at Mount Sinai, by the Holy of Holies, by the names of the holy angels Mikhael, Gabriel, Ourouel and Rhaphael, and by the names of the seven angels who are stirring the winds. Let them stir you and draw you out of the three hundred and sixty five joints and marrows of this person, so that you will be removed from him. I will send you to another place. I conjure you, evil demon, by the dreadful God, by the grace and presence of the Holy Ghost, and by the lamentations under the cross of my Christ, go out of this person and enter this bottle, and I will send you to a such and such place. Again I conjure you by the miracles of the angels and the saints, by their prayers and by the grace they gained. I conjure you by God, whom the whole creation, visible and invisible, fears, go out of this person and enter this bottle, so that I will send you to a such and such place.

Then ask the [assistant] if s/he sees a man in flesh within the bottle. The [the answer is] ‘Yes, he is inside,’ take wax and seal the mouth of the bottle, and tell the [assistant] to order him not to move from there. The [assistant] must wear this phylactery. As regards the bottle, take some parchment, draw a pentagram and place it on its mouth.”

With this traditional employment of a bottle as a spirit trap in mind, let’s continue with our story, to see how these bottle are employed by our Lovecraftian Magician. The tale is short, so the action begins quickly, shifting to the perspective of the criminals seeking to victimize the old man and their motivations:

“to a robber whose soul is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very feeble old man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.”

This is a potential clue to the Terrible Old Man’s age and a way in to the aesthetic that this fiction-as-spell paints. At least in the US, gold and silver dollars are available. Most other countries also have gold and silver coins that can be used as legal tender. In our modern age, even the use of paper money is seen as antiquated, yet coins remain and are given value and can be traded for goods. If we are to attempt the Lovecraftian Magic version of the spirit bottle, an excellent lead up would be to obtain some of these coins and go about the day prior to the ritual purchasing our necessities with them. In this way, we can deepen our own performance as the Terrible Old Man archetype. The plot progresses:

“the three adventurers started out separately in order to prevent… suspicions… although they did not like the way the moon shone down upon the painted stone through the budding branches of the gnarled trees, they had more important things to think about than mere idle superstition…”

Offering us more clues for our spell-as-fiction. A clear night where the moon is visible is likely advantageous for this operation and while the operation will likely be conducted inside, a circle of painted stones within sight (from a window, perhaps) bathed in moonlight would help complete the picture and deepen the ritual aspect. Our thugs swallow their lizard-brain fear, however, and move forward:

“So they moved up to the lighted window and heard the Terrible Old Man talking childishly to his bottles with pendulums. Then they donned masks and knocked politely at the weather-stained oaken door… [The get-away driver] Mr. Czanek… fidgeted restlessly… he did not like the hideous screams he… heard in the ancient house just after the hour appointed for the deed… [He] did not like to wait so long in the dark in such a place. Then he sensed a soft tread or tapping on the walk inside the [gated yard], heard a gentle fumbling at the rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy door swing inward… he did not see what he had expected, for his colleagues were not there at all… only the Terrible Old Man leaning quietly on his knotted cane… smiling hideously…”

The short tale ends with allusions that the bodies of the robbers were found slashed and torn in ways that only antique cutlasses could achieve. This implies that the Terrible Old Man, in his version of the spirit bottle spell, has held on to the spirits instead of banishing them to a far off place, and employed them to his protection when needed. This also implies that the spirits aided him in divining the future, that he was prepared for the assailants before their arrival.

Every house has spirits, whether through the accretion of habitation or the displacement of the landscapes spirit ecology as humans fill their alien domestic niches. The traditional spell, I think, would only take a few modifications to work within our Lovecraftian aesthetic. It is likely that our Terrible Old Man did not require an assistant to trap Long Tom or Spanish Joe. Perhaps he had obtained his wisdom while aboard the Margaret and was one of the three survivors? Perhaps he brought with him the spirits of his fellow seamen, trapping them in his bottles as they died from starvation and thirst aboard the lifeless ghost ship? 

In our version of the spell, our bottle should be fitted with fishing sinkers and, to get the aesthetic right, probably horsehair fishing line, as braided horsehair was used by fishermen beginning in the 15th century, or if you want to take your aesthetic back to ancient Egypt, perhaps silk fly line is more attractive to you. 

For our Lovecraftian Spirit Trap, there is no need for a possessed person to be nearby, although some argue that many more people are possessed by demons than we realize. The Lovecraftian Spirit Bottle can be employed to trap, speak to, and employ any type of spirit-of-the-human-dead that may be around. So if you are troubled in your home by mischievous or malevolent spirits, perhaps this is the spell for you. 

The incantation and the offerings of incense should remain the same but the references to ‘evil’ spirits can be dropped:

I conjure you, [spirit of this place], by the great name of God Sabaoth, by the revelation of God which He revealed to Moses at Mount Sinai, by the Holy of Holies, by the names of the holy angels Mikhael, Gabriel, Ourouel and Rhaphael, and by the names of the seven angels who are stirring the winds. Let them stir you and draw you out [of your hiding place]. I will send you [into this bottle]. I conjure you… by the dreadful God, by the grace and presence of the Holy Ghost, and by the lamentations under the cross of my Christ… enter this bottle… I conjure you by the miracles of the angels and the saints, by their prayers and by the grace they gained. I conjure you by God, whom the whole creation, visible and invisible, fears… enter this bottle, so that I [can employ you to do my will.]

The line and sinker is actually a fairly brilliant innovation, as it essentially eliminates the need for the assistant with the greater ability to see a spirit, the pendulum being a sensitive enough barometer for the Lovecraftian Mage to gauge wether or not her operation was successful on her own. Now, once you successfully trap a spirit, how you encourage them to cut home invaders to ribbons with ghost cutlasses will be a matter of personal experimentation.

Our tarot card match for The Terrible Old Man archetype is what Etteilla calls Les Plantes, but what most know as the major arcana card, the Moon.

It is one of the more mystical alterations that Etteilla created for his deck. The two keywords that are offered are ‘propos,’ which in this context means a conversation, purpose, or planning. We see this on two fronts in our tale, the Terrible Old Man conversing with his host of trapped spirits and the planning of the criminals who seek to victimize him. The Moon, in the classical grimoires, is one of the primary moving parts in planning any type of enchantment, much more so than modern Pop Magic gives it credit. The modern view is that the moon in any phase and lunar eclipses are all filled with potent good energy. This couldn’t be further from the truth. There are several days in every lunar cycle where it is not only not good to conduct certain enchantments or even take certain non-magical actions but often these action can be downright disastrous. Clearly, the moon that shone on our criminals and the Terrible Old Man’s circle of Kodama was not favorable for acts of violence against centuries old sea-mages. The other keyword here hits our archetype squarely in the target, ‘eau,’ or ‘water. Water, stemming from the PIE root *akwa-, meaning a conduit. Etteilla is not always easy to suss out, but if I had to take a stab at what the name of this card, ‘Les Plantes,’ in our context, I would look to the Old English ‘plante,’ which means a young tree, shrub, or herb newly planted. In other words, the beginnings of the hedge or the wide datura flower seeking the moon’s light. Moving back further, and deeper, to the PIE root *plat-, we find the meaning shifts to ‘spreading’ as in a root, roots having clear connections to magic and hedge witchcraft in particular.

Our Terrible Old Man, with his spirit traps, sits at the foundation of witchcraft along with Selene, Poseidon, and Gaia. As a sea-mage now living a near eternal life on land, he is connected to them all, as are all that follow in this archetype’s footsteps. The trapping of the spirits of the dead to do our will also tracks very well with our hypernostalgic vein. It is said that the spirits of the dead don’t know any more of the future than we do on this side of the veil. What they do know, however, is the past, in much greater detail and from different perspectives than we will ever be able to comprehend. Shifting back to Carroll’s Liber Kaos, he states that:

 “It is in meeting the conditions of gnosis that will is employed. Desire is scale independent, and as long as a suitable magical link exists subconscious resistance is low, and an appropriate spell mechanism is used to remove conscious awareness…” 

With the definition of a magical link being:

“an elaborate image in the memory of the target phenomenon undergoing the required change.”

When conducting retroactive enchantment, when flooding our magical aesthetic with Lovecraftian Hypernostalgia, who better to aid us in establishing this elaborate image of a past we have never experienced than the dead that did indeed live through it? 

Like so many of Lovecraft’s tales, however, I will have to leave you to question how these theories look in practice.  

[passiondig-blog]

What Children SHOULD Be Learning at School but Are NOT

Americans owe more then $930 billion in credit debt.

In a world where we can learn so much, how is it that some of the essential things in life are not taught?

In school, we learn about The Roman Empire or where Uganda is, but in a world full of debt, why are we not teaching our children finance classes, to avoid mistakes so many of us have made?

Children’s brains are like sponges waiting to take in information. If we could teach our children how to handle their money, how to save, what’s important to purchase and what not, then our world would look a lot different now.

We have found excellent tips (at Forbes) on how you can help your children learn about finances (while their school’s aren’t teaching them).

Ages 3–5

The Lesson: You may have to wait to buy something you want.

“This is a hard concept for people to learn of all ages,” says Kobliner. However, the ability to delay gratification can also predict how successful one will be as a grown-up. Kids at this age need to learn that if they really want something, they should wait and save to buy it.

Money lessons at this age set the tone for later on. “You really can’t start too early,” says Kobliner. Speaking of her own family, she says, “When we go into a store, if I say, ‘We don’t have money for this,’ they’re smart — they know we have credit cards,” So, she would say, “We’re here to buy a gift for X, and we’re not going to buy anything for you, because we’re not here for that.” Kids then quickly learn that going into a store doesn’t always mean you’ll buy something.

Activities For Ages 3 To 5

1. When your child is waiting in line, say, to go on the swings, discuss how important it is to learn to wait for what he or she wants.

2. Create three jars — each labeled “Saving,” “Spending” or “Sharing.” Every time your child receives money, whether for doing chores or from a birthday, divide the money equally among the jars. Have him or her use the spending jar for small purchases, like candy or stickers. Money in the sharing jar can go to someone you know who needs it or be used to donate to a friend’s cause. The saving jar should be for more expensive items.

3. Have your child set a goal, such as to buy a toy. Make sure it’s not so pricey that they won’t be able to afford it for months. “Then it just gets frustrating, and it gets hard for them to wrap their head around. It’s really more about her being cognizant that she’s saving for a goal than, ‘Oh, I really need her to scrape together those $10 to buy the tutu.’ You want to set them up for success,” says Kobliner. If your child does have an expensive goal, come up with a matching program to help her reach it in a reasonable timeframe. (Kobliner says that while an allowance is a personal choice for every family, at this age, a small allowance could help a child save for these goals.)

Every time your child adds money to the savings jar, help her count up how much she has, talk with her about how much she needs to reach her goal, and when she will reach it. “All those behaviors are really fun for kids,” says Kobliner. “And it gives them a sense of the importance of waiting and being patient and saving.”

Ages 6–10

The Lesson: You need to make choices about how to spend money.

At this age, it’s important to explain to your child, “Money is finite and it’s important to make wise choices, because once you spend the money you have, you don’t have more to spend,” Kobliner says. While at this age, you should also keep up with activities like the saving, spending and sharing jars, and goal-setting, you should also begin to engage your child in more adult financial decision-making.

Activities For Ages 6 To 10

1. Include your child in some financial decisions. For instance, explain, “The reason I chose the generic grape juice rather than the brand name is that it costs 50 cents less and tastes the same to me,” says Kobliner. Or talk about deals, such as buying everyday staples like paper towels in bulk to get a cheaper per-item price.

2. Give your child some money, like $2, in a supermarket and have her make choices about what fruit to buy, within the parameters of what you need, to give them the experience of making choices with money.

3. When you’re shopping, talk aloud about how you’re making your financial decisions as a grown-up, asking questions like, “Is this something we really, really need? Or can we skip it this week since we’re going out to dinner?” “Can I borrow it?” “Would it cost less somewhere else? Could we go to discount store and get two of these instead of one?”

Ages 11–13

The Lesson: The sooner you save, the faster your money can grow from compound interest.

At this age, you can shift from the idea of saving for short-term goals to long-term goals. Introduce the concept of compound interest, when you earn interest both on your savings as well as on past interest from your savings.

Activities For Ages 11 To 13

1. Describe compound interest using specific numbers, because research shows this is more effective than describing it in the abstract, says Kobliner. Explain, “If you set aside $100 every year starting at age 14, you’d have $23,000 by age 65, but if you start at age 35, you’ll only have $7,000 by age 65.”

2. Have your child do some compound interest calculations on Investor.gov. Here, she can see how much money she’ll earn if she invests a certain amount and it grows by a certain interest rate. And have her read this inspiring example of someone who used compound interest to his advantageincredibly well.

3. Have your child set a longer-term goal for something more expensive than the toys she may have been saving for. “Those sorts of tradeoffs, called opportunity costs — what are the things you’re giving up to save money — is a very useful thing to talk about. At this age, kids are trying to not save because they want to buy stuff, but thinking of what long-term goals are and what they’re having to give up shows that it’s a good decision,” says Kobliner. For example, she says, if your child has a habit of buying a snack after school every day, she may decide she’d rather put that money toward an iPod.

Ages 14–18

The Lesson: When comparing colleges, be sure to consider how much each school would cost.

Search for the “net price calculator” on college websites to see how much each costs when including other expenses besides tuition. But don’t let the price tag discourage your child. Explain how much more college grads earn than people without college degrees, making it a worthwhile investment.

Activities For Ages 14 To 18

1. Discuss how much you can contribute to your child’s college education each year. “Every parent should start the college cost conversation by ninth grade,” says Kobliner. “Tackling the subject early and being honest about what your family can afford will help kids be realistic about where they may apply.”

But remember that there are many ways to finance college other than with your own money. With your child, look into which private schools are generous with financial aid, how much of it is in “free money” such as grants and scholarships, how much in loans that your child will have to pay back, and what government programs can help pay back those loans, says Kobliner. Also, check out these eight tips on taking out student loans.

2. Have your child use this College Scorecard to compare how much each college costs, what the employment prospects of graduates are, and how much student loan debt could affect your child’s lifestyle after graduation if he or she attended that college. As with any investment, analyze together whether the money put in will pay off in the end.

3. Estimate your financial aid using the FAFSA4caster tool at fafsa.ed.gov. Also research additional loans, scholarships, and grants — and use calculators to estimate monthly loan payments — on studentaid.ed.gov. Find out about loan repayment options such as Pay As You Earn, which limits your monthly payments to just 10% of your discretionary income. For more information, check out ibrinfo.org or finaid.org.

“Parents should absolutely make their college kids get a part-time job,” says Kobliner, adding that research by Dr. Gary R. Pike of Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis shows that students who work 20 hours a week or less at on-campus jobs get better grades because they’re more engaged in student life. “But limit those hours!” she says. “Working more than 20 hours per week can hurt kids’ academic success.”

Ages 18+

The Lesson: You should use a credit card only if you can pay the balance off in full each month.

It is all too easy to slide into credit card debt, which could give your child the burden of paying off credit card debt at the same time as student loans. Plus, it could affect his or her credit history, which could make it difficult to, say, buy a car or a home, or even to get a job. Sometimes, prospective employers check credit.

“The average household owes $7,084 in credit card debt. To reverse the trend of spending beyond our means and racking up hundreds of dollars a year in interest, it’s critical that parents teach their kids how to use credit cards responsibly (or better yet — not at all! — unless they can pay the total bill every month),” says Kobliner.

Activities For Ages 18+

1. Teach a child that if a parent cosigns on a credit card, any late payment could also affect the parent’s credit history.

2. Together, look for a credit card that offers a low interest rate and no annual fee using sites like Bankrate, Creditcards.com, Credit.com, or Cardratings.com.

3. Explain that it’s important not to charge everyday items so that way if you have a emergency expense that you can’t cover with savings, you can charge that. However, even better is building up at least three months’ worth of living expenses in emergency savings, though six to nine months’ worth is ideal. Learn here how to budget money in order to build up emergency savings.

***

At PassionDig we believe in teaching you everything that you need to grow and to live a happy life. Whether that be how to cook or how to save money for that special trip. We are here with passionate teachers who are waiting to guide you.

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Pursue and discover new passions at PassionDig.com.

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10 Financial Choices You’ll Regret in 10 Years

“All I had to do was turn in the form to my HR department.” It was a simple task but one that was shoved to the side to deal with most important things throw at us.

The form was a 401k enrollment firm and I my client was left wondering what could have been had she enrolled when it first became available to her.

We've all faced similar decisions.

Some we get right.  Some we are left wondering the possibilities of what could and should have been.

Let's take a look at some financial decisions that you'd kick yourself for in 10 years.

Don't do them!

1. Starting your budget way too late

I’ll be first to admit that I hate budgeting. Nonetheless, my wife and I both recognize the importance of having a budget.

Most people view budgeting as not being able to spend money on the things that you want to but the reality is sitting down and making out a budget is a freeing exercise. It frees you because you can recognize the areas of your life of where you are wasting money on things that aren’t important to you.

An easy example could be spending money on a cell phone package when you might not need all of the minutes with the data that it provides. Could you put that extra money toward a vacation fund or help pay for your kid’s college education? Using that money for something that is more desirable instead of an expense that you could care less about will put your money to better use.

If you have been putting off beginning to budget, it's time to start. Forget that you should have started yesterday, start today and discover the amazing benefits of budgeting. Some of those benefits will extend to other areas of your life besides your finances . . . .

For example, you might find that having a budget improves your relationship with your partner. If you're married, you probably know how difficult money fights can be to overcome. You know what?

A budget helps reduce those money fights because you're making an agreement before you spend the money. No surprises, no fights.

2. Not paying off your credit cards each month

This was something that my father struggled with and I initially struggled with when I was graduating college. I was picking up credit cards left and right and kept telling myself that I could just make a payment later.

Well, for me, later became never and my credit card debt started piling on and suffocating me. I eventually figured it out only after paying hundreds of dollars of unnecessary interest.

Unfortunately, a lot of people don't take the time to figure out how much interest are paying. However, if they found out, they'd probably want to pay off their credit cards pretty quickly.

Make an effort to pay off your credit cards quickly. The beauty of doing this is that it will ensure you keep more money in your wallet instead of giving it over to some large credit card company.  If you cannot pay them off quickly then open up one of the 0 apr credit cards so you can get your interest down to zero and pay them off faster.

Some people can't control their credit card spending. If that's you, it's best to stay away from credit cards altogether. While you might be missing out on the rewards, you'll be better off.

3. Blindly buying a financial product without investigating first

It amazes me that with the ability to do a quick search online that many investors are still putting their money into investment products and they don’t understand how they work. I talked to dozens of investors who have invested a large chunk of their life savings into something that they couldn’t explain to a friend or neighbor.

Do your homework, get a second opinion, and make sure that you understand how this investment works. How much is it going to cost you? Are there any surrender charges? These are the types of answers that you need to know.

I know a woman who paid over $3,500 in variable annuity fees and didn't even know it. Don't think it can't happen to you.

If someone is selling you an investment or an insurance product, make sure that you do your homework before you invest your money.

4. Putting your emergency fund on the back burner

Emergency funds help protect you from the inevitable. The thing is, everyone has a big financial emergency at some point. That's why you need to prepare.

It's a fantastic idea to have many months worth of expenses in your fund. Some people have three months, others have 12. I think you should have eight months, but choose an amount that makes sense for your situation.

For example, if you're single and have one job, you will probably want more money in your emergency fund. If you're married and both you and your spouse are employed, you can probably get away with less money in your emergency fund.

There are a number of places to put your emergency fund money. Remember, you should only place your emergency fund money somewhere that you can retrieve it pretty quickly without much risk to your capital.

One such place is an online savings account. There are a number of great online savings accounts that deliver quite a bit more interest than you'd find at a physical bank or credit union.

Plus, there are usually no penalties associated with taking money out of a standard online savings account (if there are, look elsewhere).

That's just one idea of where you can keep your emergency fund money. I recommend that you read The 11 Best Short-Term Investments For Your Money at GoodFinancialCents.com to learn about some more places you can keep your emergency fund money. But don't just stop there – act on what you learn and get your emergency fund moving in the right direction!

Remember: If you let your emergency fund slip into the abyss, you might find yourself down the road with more debt than you can handle. Make sure to replenish it!

5. Buying a brand new car that you can't afford

Vehicles are important for many, but remember that they can quickly turn into a discretionary purchase. Don't buy all the bells and whistles when you can't afford them.

The ramifications of a car payment well exceed the financial hit of the price of the car, and you can end up spending your retirement away without realizing it.

Listen, I know what it's like to drive around an old car. I used to have a '98 Chevy Lumina Sedan that was something a grandmother would drive. Now, I probably could have purchased something fancier or sold the car before I did, but instead, I decided that not having a car payment was awesome. But I certainly didn't always think that way.

I remember my professor in a finance class pointing out that he would take a bunch of vacations whenever he wanted to because he didn't have a car payment. And you know what? He was right. That one little point from my finance professor made a difference in my life, and it taught me the value of owning stuff outright. You can learn this lesson too and see tremendous results.

And please, please don't tell me that you're thinking about buying a brand new car for your kid in college because they need “reliable transportation.”

There are plenty of reliable, used cars available for purchase that are much more affordable than brand new cars. And you know what the differences are between a car that's three to five years old and a brand new car? There aren't many in most cases. So why spend the extra money?

6. Trying to be a DIY investor when you have no clue what you're doing

If you're not a financial professional or haven't been exposed to financial education, you really shouldn't be investing unless you're doing so with the help of a financial advisor.

I think the biggest harm in this comes when an older couple is retired and the husband has been mostly in charge of the couple’s investments. All too often, the wife is clueless in what they’re actually invested into and if something unexpectedly happens to the husband, she doesn’t even know where to begin. Hire a financial advisor who can meet with the both of you. Then, the wife has someone to rely on in case something happens and is super important.

Financial advisors can also save you a great deal of time and money ensuring your investing strategy is relevant for your situation. Don't go without this valuable service.

7. Viewing important insurance polices as being lame

If you were to die right now, would your family be financially okay? If not, you need life insurance.

And, that's just one example. There are a number of important insurance policies you shouldn't delay in putting in place: disability insurance, perhaps long-term care insurance if you're over 60 years old, and perhaps umbrella insurance.

“I’ll get around to doing it.” Those were the tragic last words of a husband that left behind his wife and two kids. What he was going to getting around to doing was taking out a life insurance policy. In fact, he had begun the process and gone through his life insurance options, but never signed the application and never sent in a payment so the policy wasn’t active.

In any other situation that wouldn’t have been a big deal, but in this case, the husband took his motorcycle out for a weekend spin and was involved in a collision that left his spouse a widow. What could have been a financial relief (a life insurance policy) is now added stress and worry to a grieving widow (the absence of funds when the family needs it most). She also has to deal with the fact that she lost her husband and the father of her two kids.

Insurance protects you from financial liability you wouldn't be able to cover with your emergency fund alone. Don't neglect it.

8. Treating your retirement like a distant second cousin

One of the first meetings I had as a financial advisor was when I was meeting with a couple that was almost two and a half times my age. They were hoping to retire soon and they sought me out to be their retirement hope.

When I started poring through their financial documents, I quickly learned that retiring early wasn’t even close to being an option for them. In fact, retiring at all might not be a possibility. They put off saving and planning for retirement way too long.

They had little savings and no pension and the only thing they could really fall back on was Social Security. Note: their savings was roughly about $60,000. Don’t procrastinate any longer. Even if you get started investing only $100 a month, do it.

Saving for retirement is critical. If you're trusting Social Security to be your sole source of income, think again. It's not likely that you'll be able to maintain your lifestyle with Social Security benefits alone. If you would be able to, congratulations, you're living pretty frugally!

Invest today with a financial professional you trust.

9. Neglecting important money conversations with your spouse

Want to crash and burn financially?  Try taking on all of your financial goals without getting on the same page of your spouse.

Marriage means you do life together as one unit.  All decisions, especially money decisions, should be discussed and agreed up.

Why not align your financial goals? Talk through your differences, learn to compromise, and get on the same page together. It will be worth it – especially down the road.

10. Being blind to your recurring expenses

Recurring expenses can eat a hole in your wallet. And you know what? Many people don't even know that's happening to them.

Take a look at the recurring expenses – large and small – and determine which ones you absolutely need and which ones look more like discretionary splurges. It's okay to splurge every once in a while, but don't go overboard.

When you are working on your budget, many of these expenses might come to your mind. Don't just forget about them – do something about them! If you have a high cable bill, see if you can get a discount. If you have a gym membership that you're not using, consider exercising at home instead. There are many ways to save money on recurring expenses.

Follow this advice, and you'll be much less likely to kick yourself in the future. Aim for no regrets!

This post originally appeared on Forbes.

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The post 10 Financial Choices You’ll Regret in 10 Years appeared first on Good Financial Cents.

from All About Insurance https://www.goodfinancialcents.com/10-financial-choices-youll-regret-in-10-years/

[easyweight101]

Nuvalift Review: Don’t Buy Before You Read This!

What is it?

Nuvalift is an anti-aging formula that compares itself to an injectionless form of Botox. It is a topical cream that is designed to increase moisturization levels and reduce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. It creates a smooth layer on top of the skin that seals in the chemicals and evens out texture and tone and is formulated to show results after approximately eight weeks.

Our team likes to recommend Kremotex to all individuals that are searching for a reliable and effective daily moisturizing product. It has shown during our testing procedures to increase the health of the skin on a cellular level, which gets results that can be seen on a visual level. Click here to find out more information about why so many skin care professionals have been suggesting Kremotex products.

Do You Know the Best Anti-Aging Creams of 2017?

Nuvalift Ingredients and Side Effects

The website for Nuvalift does not choose to publish their ingredients list. They only admit to one component of their blend, which they refer to as their Polymoist PS Complex. After extensive research into what his complex is, our research team has concluded that while the full extent of its formulation is unknown, it does contain at least these four elements:

Matrixyl 3000 Phosphatidylserine Vitamin E

 Matrixyl 3000: A relatively new chemical that was synthesized in the early 2000’s and started gaining popular use within the last couple years. Matrixyl 3000 is a blend of several different types of collagen-based protein strands that are combined to form a new super-peptide.

Collagen is a complicated ingredient to find in a skin care product because it is highly debatable just how effective they can be for the skin. Despite the fact that collagen is the major building block of skin tissue, topically applying collagen is not thought to be directly related to your body’s ability to generate new skin.

Collagen is a highly complex combination of proteins, amino acids, vitamins and other minerals that combine in various densities and formulations to create our skin, bones, joints, and other tissues. In all, collagen accounts for more than a quarter of the body’s protein solids.

Its molecules are larger than most absorbable chemicals, so when collagen is applied topically most of it isn’t even absorbed by the skin but rather remains on the top layer of it. It has a smoothing effect and can even out skin texture, however that is purely cosmetic and is washed off after the first cleaning.

When your body does attempt to absorb collagen, either through the skin or in the stomach, it has to first break the compound down into its component parts. These various protein chains, amino acids, and other vitamins and minerals are redistributed throughout the body as needed, and they may or may not ever become part of the skin.

Expecting to put a collagen-based product on your face and have that turn into new collagen would be like putting someone else’s hair on top of your head and expecting it to become part of your own hair. Collagen is in general harmless to the body and it has proteins and amino acids that will find a use somewhere in the body, however it has no direct relation to new skin formulation.

Phosphatidylserine: This is the “PS” in “Polymoist PS Complex,” a phospholipid that helps form the membrane around cells. Phosphatidylserine is generally derived from bovine brain tissue and is mostly used as an oral cognitive functioning supplement.

There is no data that suggests phosphatidylserine may have applications for skin care, nor is there a history of it being used to treat conditions that may be cross-applicable such as inflammation.

There are some concerns about the safety of phosphatidylserine, given its source. The brains of any animal will always carry some health risks, but bovine brain tissue also carries with it the added risk of mad cow disease. There is no data regarding the long-term effects of using phosphatidylserine, particularly topically, and it is unclear if mad cow poses a threat to users that are not ingesting the chemical.

Vitamin E: One of the vital amines that the body cannot survive without but also cannot manufacture on its own. Vitamin E is used in quite a few different biological processes, however it is particularly important in the skin formulation process.

This makes it a popular ingredient in many skin care blends, both because it is effective and because it is considered safe for most consumers. Vitamin E has no negative effects on the body if it is consumed in reasonable quantities.

Click here to learn more about which skin care products are the best at increasing collagen levels.

EDITOR’S TIP: Combine this product with a proven anti-aging cream such as Kremotex for better results.

Nuvalift Quality of Ingredients

It is impossible to accurately assess the effectiveness of Nuvalift’s ingredients with the limited knowledge that we have of their ingredients, however the company’s reluctance to disclose their blend certainly does say a lot about what they themselves think about it’s quality.

Reputable companies that produce products that they’re proud of are eager for the chance to display their ingredients list. They know that their ingredients stack up favorably against their competition’s and they want to encourage the comparison.

Companies are reluctant to disclose that they use chemicals with dangerous side effects, like C13-14 Isoparaffin, or fillers that seem effective at first but end up doing more damage than good, like simple alcohols. When a company attempts to hide what is in their product, there is usually a reason.

To learn which skin care products our experts recommend for reducing wrinkles and correcting over-pigmentation, just follow this link.

The Price and Quality of Nuvalift

Nuvalift does not have a straightforward or traditional pricing structure. Where most products are sold on a unit-by-unit basis through the company’s website and often third-party retailers’ as well, Nuvalift instead only offers a free trial of their product.

The catch with this is that in order to get the free trial, customers must also sign up for the automatic payment plan. This plan will charge customers’ credit cards over $90 without notice or authorization after 14 days, and if customers try to cancel they get hit with a number of other hidden fees.

It becomes apparent after researching the company that they are more interested in getting users to sign up for a free trial and then charging them these unexpected fees than they are in trying to create quality skin care products.

Follow this link for more information about the top skin care products that are currently available over the counter.

Business of Nuvalift

Nuvalift is one of many similar products marketed by a group that uses several names including Skin Technologies, Coal Cosmetics, and WPS Innovations. They do their best to hide their contact information online, however our research team uncovered this information:

Phone Number: (877) 759-7349

Address: 501 W Broadway St. #A246

San Diego, CA 92101

Email: support@nuvalift.com

Nuvalift has an “F” rating with the Better Business Bureau and there have been hundreds of formal complaints filed against them with the BBB and the Federal Trade Commission.

Click here to see which skin care products were the most effective at improving pore size and health.

EDITOR’S TIP: For the best results, our experts recommend using anti-aging creams for at least 3 months. Save your money by buying a few bottles at once.

Customer Opinions of Nuvalift

One of the reasons that Nuvalift and other similar products do not offer themselves for sale through independent retailers is that those sites usually allow customer reviews, which these substandard brands try to avoid. This doesn’t stop customers that have been burned from posting reports of their experience on sites like Ripoff Report or Complaints List. Those reviews are often similar to these:

“Let this be a lesson: always read the fine print. I signed up for a free trial of Nuvalift, and by the time I realized it was garbage they’d already hit my credit card for nearly two hundred dollars.”

“Nuvalift is a scam! Their product HURTS your face, and then when you try to send it back the charge you all kinds of hidden fees.”

“STAY AWAY FROM NUVALIFT! THEY ARE DIRTY THIEVES THAT WILL STEAL YOUR MONEY!”

Aside from the reports of fraud, there were many accounts of how bad the product was from users that reported reactions like burning sensations, redness, breakouts, dry skin, flakey skin, and cracked, bleeding skin.

Follow this link to find more information about the safest and most effective skin care products available without a prescription.

Conclusion – Does Nuvalift Work?

After analyzing all of the relevant data about Nuvalift, their business practices, and customer reactions to their products, our team of experts has concluded that it is not a quality product or a trustworthy business.

They seem far more motivated in tricking consumers into paying hidden fees than in producing a product that they actually believe in. Nuvalift is not to be thought of as an effective skin care product and customers are urged to find a more trustworthy option.

They suggest that users try Kremotex for their daily moisturization and skin care needs. It is a proven color corrector that helps increase collagen levels and skin density. Click here to see more information about Kremotex’s skin care system.

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10 Financial Choices You’ll Regret in 10 Years

“All I had to do was turn in the form to my HR department.” It was a simple task but one that was shoved to the side to deal with most important things throw at us.

The form was a 401k enrollment firm and I my client was left wondering what could have been had she enrolled when it first became available to her.

We've all faced similar decisions.

Some we get right.  Some we are left wondering the possibilities of what could and should have been.

Let's take a look at some financial decisions that you'd kick yourself for in 10 years.

Don't do them!

1. Starting your budget way too late

I’ll be first to admit that I hate budgeting. Nonetheless, my wife and I both recognize the importance of having a budget.

Most people view budgeting as not being able to spend money on the things that you want to but the reality is sitting down and making out a budget is a freeing exercise. It frees you because you can recognize the areas of your life of where you are wasting money on things that aren’t important to you.

An easy example could be spending money on a cell phone package when you might not need all of the minutes with the data that it provides. Could you put that extra money toward a vacation fund or help pay for your kid’s college education? Using that money for something that is more desirable instead of an expense that you could care less about will put your money to better use.

If you have been putting off beginning to budget, it's time to start. Forget that you should have started yesterday, start today and discover the amazing benefits of budgeting. Some of those benefits will extend to other areas of your life besides your finances . . . .

For example, you might find that having a budget improves your relationship with your partner. If you're married, you probably know how difficult money fights can be to overcome. You know what?

A budget helps reduce those money fights because you're making an agreement before you spend the money. No surprises, no fights.

2. Not paying off your credit cards each month

This was something that my father struggled with and I initially struggled with when I was graduating college. I was picking up credit cards left and right and kept telling myself that I could just make a payment later.

Well, for me, later became never and my credit card debt started piling on and suffocating me. I eventually figured it out only after paying hundreds of dollars of unnecessary interest.

Unfortunately, a lot of people don't take the time to figure out how much interest are paying. However, if they found out, they'd probably want to pay off their credit cards pretty quickly.

Make an effort to pay off your credit cards quickly. The beauty of doing this is that it will ensure you keep more money in your wallet instead of giving it over to some large credit card company.  If you cannot pay them off quickly then open up one of the 0 apr credit cards so you can get your interest down to zero and pay them off faster.

Some people can't control their credit card spending. If that's you, it's best to stay away from credit cards altogether. While you might be missing out on the rewards, you'll be better off.

3. Blindly buying a financial product without investigating first

It amazes me that with the ability to do a quick search online that many investors are still putting their money into investment products and they don’t understand how they work. I talked to dozens of investors who have invested a large chunk of their life savings into something that they couldn’t explain to a friend or neighbor.

Do your homework, get a second opinion, and make sure that you understand how this investment works. How much is it going to cost you? Are there any surrender charges? These are the types of answers that you need to know.

I know a woman who paid over $3,500 in variable annuity fees and didn't even know it. Don't think it can't happen to you.

If someone is selling you an investment or an insurance product, make sure that you do your homework before you invest your money.

4. Putting your emergency fund on the back burner

Emergency funds help protect you from the inevitable. The thing is, everyone has a big financial emergency at some point. That's why you need to prepare.

It's a fantastic idea to have many months worth of expenses in your fund. Some people have three months, others have 12. I think you should have eight months, but choose an amount that makes sense for your situation.

For example, if you're single and have one job, you will probably want more money in your emergency fund. If you're married and both you and your spouse are employed, you can probably get away with less money in your emergency fund.

There are a number of places to put your emergency fund money. Remember, you should only place your emergency fund money somewhere that you can retrieve it pretty quickly without much risk to your capital.

One such place is an online savings account. There are a number of great online savings accounts that deliver quite a bit more interest than you'd find at a physical bank or credit union.

Plus, there are usually no penalties associated with taking money out of a standard online savings account (if there are, look elsewhere).

That's just one idea of where you can keep your emergency fund money. I recommend that you read The 11 Best Short-Term Investments For Your Money at GoodFinancialCents.com to learn about some more places you can keep your emergency fund money. But don't just stop there – act on what you learn and get your emergency fund moving in the right direction!

Remember: If you let your emergency fund slip into the abyss, you might find yourself down the road with more debt than you can handle. Make sure to replenish it!

5. Buying a brand new car that you can't afford

Vehicles are important for many, but remember that they can quickly turn into a discretionary purchase. Don't buy all the bells and whistles when you can't afford them.

The ramifications of a car payment well exceed the financial hit of the price of the car, and you can end up spending your retirement away without realizing it.

Listen, I know what it's like to drive around an old car. I used to have a '98 Chevy Lumina Sedan that was something a grandmother would drive. Now, I probably could have purchased something fancier or sold the car before I did, but instead, I decided that not having a car payment was awesome. But I certainly didn't always think that way.

I remember my professor in a finance class pointing out that he would take a bunch of vacations whenever he wanted to because he didn't have a car payment. And you know what? He was right. That one little point from my finance professor made a difference in my life, and it taught me the value of owning stuff outright. You can learn this lesson too and see tremendous results.

And please, please don't tell me that you're thinking about buying a brand new car for your kid in college because they need “reliable transportation.”

There are plenty of reliable, used cars available for purchase that are much more affordable than brand new cars. And you know what the differences are between a car that's three to five years old and a brand new car? There aren't many in most cases. So why spend the extra money?

6. Trying to be a DIY investor when you have no clue what you're doing

If you're not a financial professional or haven't been exposed to financial education, you really shouldn't be investing unless you're doing so with the help of a financial advisor.

I think the biggest harm in this comes when an older couple is retired and the husband has been mostly in charge of the couple’s investments. All too often, the wife is clueless in what they’re actually invested into and if something unexpectedly happens to the husband, she doesn’t even know where to begin. Hire a financial advisor who can meet with the both of you. Then, the wife has someone to rely on in case something happens and is super important.

Financial advisors can also save you a great deal of time and money ensuring your investing strategy is relevant for your situation. Don't go without this valuable service.

7. Viewing important insurance polices as being lame

If you were to die right now, would your family be financially okay? If not, you need life insurance.

And, that's just one example. There are a number of important insurance policies you shouldn't delay in putting in place: disability insurance, perhaps long-term care insurance if you're over 60 years old, and perhaps umbrella insurance.

“I’ll get around to doing it.” Those were the tragic last words of a husband that left behind his wife and two kids. What he was going to getting around to doing was taking out a life insurance policy. In fact, he had begun the process and gone through his life insurance options, but never signed the application and never sent in a payment so the policy wasn’t active.

In any other situation that wouldn’t have been a big deal, but in this case, the husband took his motorcycle out for a weekend spin and was involved in a collision that left his spouse a widow. What could have been a financial relief (a life insurance policy) is now added stress and worry to a grieving widow (the absence of funds when the family needs it most). She also has to deal with the fact that she lost her husband and the father of her two kids.

Insurance protects you from financial liability you wouldn't be able to cover with your emergency fund alone. Don't neglect it.

8. Treating your retirement like a distant second cousin

One of the first meetings I had as a financial advisor was when I was meeting with a couple that was almost two and a half times my age. They were hoping to retire soon and they sought me out to be their retirement hope.

When I started poring through their financial documents, I quickly learned that retiring early wasn’t even close to being an option for them. In fact, retiring at all might not be a possibility. They put off saving and planning for retirement way too long.

They had little savings and no pension and the only thing they could really fall back on was Social Security. Note: their savings was roughly about $60,000. Don’t procrastinate any longer. Even if you get started investing only $100 a month, do it.

Saving for retirement is critical. If you're trusting Social Security to be your sole source of income, think again. It's not likely that you'll be able to maintain your lifestyle with Social Security benefits alone. If you would be able to, congratulations, you're living pretty frugally!

Invest today with a financial professional you trust.

9. Neglecting important money conversations with your spouse

Want to crash and burn financially?  Try taking on all of your financial goals without getting on the same page of your spouse.

Marriage means you do life together as one unit.  All decisions, especially money decisions, should be discussed and agreed up.

Why not align your financial goals? Talk through your differences, learn to compromise, and get on the same page together. It will be worth it – especially down the road.

10. Being blind to your recurring expenses

Recurring expenses can eat a hole in your wallet. And you know what? Many people don't even know that's happening to them.

Take a look at the recurring expenses – large and small – and determine which ones you absolutely need and which ones look more like discretionary splurges. It's okay to splurge every once in a while, but don't go overboard.

When you are working on your budget, many of these expenses might come to your mind. Don't just forget about them – do something about them! If you have a high cable bill, see if you can get a discount. If you have a gym membership that you're not using, consider exercising at home instead. There are many ways to save money on recurring expenses.

Follow this advice, and you'll be much less likely to kick yourself in the future. Aim for no regrets!

This post originally appeared on Forbes.

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The post 10 Financial Choices You’ll Regret in 10 Years appeared first on Good Financial Cents.

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