#the fact that there are NEIGHBOURS whose houses i can SEE without having to climb The Big Hill... ASTOUNDING!

[yardsards]

what posts look like on my parents' shitty wifi

[secondhand-trash]

Come with the Wind

Kinktober 2020 — knife play

A/N: this is directly inspired by Sakusa’s merch design from the hyakki yakou (hundred ghouls marching at night????) line Jump released a while back where we get kamaitachi!sks and i just thought he was perfect for this prompt hhhhh

Pairing: kamaitcahi!Sakusa Kiyoomi x f!reader

Description: Sakusa Kiyoomi knocked you off your feet the moment he first entered your life as a strong whirlwind out of nowhere.

Warning: mention of causing wounds on people, non-threatening stalking behaviour (?), non-threatening breaking in behaviour (?), knife play but kinda tender, vaginal penetration, creampie

Word count: 3824

(more of the modern magic au here)

-

鎌鼬 (kamaitachi): a youkai in Japanese folklore that looks like a weasel with claws shaped like sickles (for the sake of visual aesthetics kamaitachi sakusa will have it on his tail instead). It is said that this youkai appear in the form of a whirlwind, knocking its victims to the ground before slitting long cuts on their skin. Despite the wounds, the person who got attacked would not feel any pain.

-

Sakusa Kiyoomi knocked you off your feet the moment he first entered your life as a strong whirlwind out of nowhere.

Quite literally, knocking you off balance and making you fall onto the ground on your knees.

He showed up in the form of a strong turbulent, tripping you when you were alone on the quiet streets of your neighbourhood. Sakusa eyed you up and down as you laid on the cement floor, too shocked by the man that appeared out of nowhere to even move. Your eyes widening when you saw the long tail swaying behind him and the sharp hook that was at the very end.

In a world where the inhuman and human lived as one society, the many youkais that had inhabited Japan way before your kind did were starting to blend into the modern city life as well. But there would always be some that could not, or refused to, give up on the way they had lived by far before they were anything but a story passed on from generation to generation.

Except, unlike the generations before, people of the current day now knew for a fact that these monsters lurking in the shadows were very much so real and waiting for a chance to strike when your guard was lowered.

The kamaitachi stared at his victim, finding somewhere to place the wound. The preferable tactic was to do it fast and precise, but Sakusa always had trouble with making a haste decision. Very inconveniently so, he had quite the distaste towards getting blood on himself and would rather pick a position on the delicate human body that would cause less bleeding. 

Blood was messy, and it was hard to wash off of the fleece on his tail once it got on there. He did not like the mess at all.

The purpose of youkais of his kind was not to cause bloodshed. Well, actually, he wasn’t all too sure what the purpose truly was, given that he really wouldn’t gain from any of this. He had simply been told that this was what his kind did, and he carefully followed this task bestowed on him by his origins for more years than any of the measly humans that had been tripped by his wind could count.

So that was what he had been doing ever since he had a memory of his existence, and he intended to finish his task this time around too. But when his eyes met yours, your lips slightly agape as you sat on the ground from the shock, he found that he couldn’t swing the hook of his tail down onto your skin.

His moment of hesitation was enough for you to come back to your senses, climbing up with scrambled steps as you dashed towards the direction of your house without the time to even look back.

Sakusa realised that he was staring at the floor when he snapped out of his trance, letting out a muffled groan as he looked towards the direction you had headed.

What was it? Why didn’t he do it?

Sakusa had never felt so tortured in his many years of life than he did after he let you escaped completely unharmed. He had failed his one job for the first time ever and he wasn’t the happiest about it. This wasn’t right. He couldn’t get you out of his head no matter how hard he tried and it was really, really irritating him. 

It must be that he couldn’t stand having an unfinished job, it must be it.

-

He spent the next few days in the air of the neighbourhood he saw you at, which wasn’t exactly his proudest moment. It was stupid for him to care so much about a random human that got away through luck, but he was determined that he would right his wrong. There were several times when he caught you alone, but he never managed to do it. He spent a lot of time observing you but always missing the prime timing. It could be that he was far too enticed by the book you were reading (which he tried very hard to see the title clearly because he was so far away from you), or he simply got lost in the way you laugh to yourself when you thought no one was watching (he was, in fact, watching), but he always remembered in absolute frustration that he was there for a proper reason when you had left. 

So he kept going back to you again and again, waiting for the chance to make his strike.

Not because he wanted to, absolutely not.

He swore he only found out about where you lived on accident. He wasn’t really intending to be so stalker-ish but one day when he didn’t see you around all day long when he was waiting for you to show up only to spot you pacing down the streets late at night, he thought that it was absolutely foolish for you to be alone at the hour and just had to make sure you got back to your place safely. Humans were very fragile creatures was what he had learned after years of observation, and if you happened to bump into any of the more vicious youkais or worse, vicious humans, then he wouldn’t get to finish his task with you gone.

(He grumbled, as if he wasn’t one of the said dangerous youkais lurking around.)

He had resisted the urge to look into your house. There were youkais that broke into people’s residents but that wasn’t the nature of his kind and he intended to stay in his own lane. But now that he knew where you lived, it was getting harder and harder for him to stay away.

Sakusa was circling the area midair one day when he saw that the door to your tiny balcony was wide open. He felt his eyelids jumped, did no one ever tell you that you should keep all doors and windows locked when you were out? He floated close with a disapproving tsk of his tongue, wanting to help you close it up when he got a brief glimpse of what was behind the window.

He swore to all the gods whose name he could not even remember because they were far too long to utter out that he had never seen a more horrendous sight.

He took a step back, absolutely disgusted. Had humans gotten to this point of their survival now? That they could live in a condition like this? “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself as he tentatively entered your home, careful not to step on anything that was on the ground.

The trash can at the corner was filled to the top and threatening to spill out. He felt a sharp ache banging in his head when he saw the empty boxes piled up at the side. There were bunches of tissue paper shoved onto the back of your table that had no empty space on it with so many things that were scattered on top. Now that he started paying attention, there were marks on your balcony window clearly left behind because you never bothered to wipe it clean after downpours of rain.

Ridiculous. His brows furrowed together in disapproval, picking up any trash on the ground with the hook of his tail as he inspected the place.

This would not do, he would not allow it.

Right, he clicked his tongue as he looked around, searching for anything that resembled a broom, where should he start?

You were sure you must have tired yourself too much that you were starting to see illusions when you came home that night to see the same kamaitachi who had shoved you to the ground and proceed to let you escape furiously wiping your window with a towel hooked onto his tail while grumbling about how stubborn the stains were. You did not dare to move when he must have heard you come in, slowly and stiffly turning around until you two were staring at each other. Neither of you said a word, and you blinked as you tried to make sense of the situation.

You didn’t know that kamaitachis also break into people’s houses just to help with the cleaning?

“Um,” you gulped, feeling small under his inky eyes even though he was the intruder here, “do you want something to drink?”

This was wrong. Kamaitachis were not supposed to mingle with the mankind. He should have escaped through the little gap on the window he had left for ventilation (your house was far too dusty for his comfort), or throw you off by causing a whirlwind inside your tiny city apartment which was guaranteed to make quite the destruction., or just do what he thought he was there to do all along and slit an open wound on any part of your skin.

Sakusa Kiyoomi had a moment of silence when he realised that he didn’t want to do any of those things.

He did, however, really wanted warm tea.

-

Sakusa Kiyoomi made several discoveries about humans after he met you:

1. under the right amount of pressure, they are able to keep up with a hygienic living environment, you were just too lazy for your own good

2. they make really decent tea (you made him this thing where you pour tea onto rice and umeboshi once and he was completely floored)

3. they invite people to move into their residence as a gesture of affection (you had brought it up after he waited outside your balcony for a good hour before you came home and let him in, claiming that he always around anyways

4. youkai-human romances are a thing now and people wouldn’t get burned alive for it (you laughed very hard when he brought up his concerns on why you didn’t have any issues letting your neighbours see you with him, he didn’t understand why)

Oh, and they were soft, very soft. Sakusa held you just a little closer to his chest as you two sat cross legged on the mattress, his arms wrapped around your waist as he leaned his jaw onto your shoulder while you mindlessly played with his tail.

So soft.

“Careful,” he warned when he saw you tracing your finger along the edge of his reaping hook, “you’re going to cut yourself if you slip.”

You chuckled, watching as he flicked his tail as far away from you as he could. “Shouldn’t you want that to happen?” you mused, twisting around so you could see his face. The two dots above his eyebrow shifted as he narrowed his eyes, his lips pursed into one thin line. You could see the very tip of his tiny white ears peeking out of his wavy black curls, twitching ever so slightly.

He sighed, clicking his tongue at your triumphant expression like you had gotten him good. Light reflected on the silver blade as he lifted it up to your eye level, twisting it slowly so that it glimmered. He always kept the blade clean and sharp even though he hadn’t used it since meeting you. You could see your own reflection on the polished surface and you stared into his inky eyes through it.

For a moment, you were mesmerised, and you could hear your own breaths as your gaze travelled to the very tip of the hook which could draw blood even from the slightest bit of force.

“Omi,” you licked your lips and gripped onto his forearm that was around your stomach, “is it true that I wouldn’t feel it even if you slice down?”

His eyes widened, “I’m not hurting you.”

“I know, but is it?”

Sakusa paused, he hadn’t thought about it in a long time. Gently and with caution, he turned his hook to its dull edge and trail it up to your leg. You stiffen at the feeling of the cold metal on your skin, goosebumps rose on your skin where the hook just grazed past. 

“Apparently,” he said, his voice coming out as a whisper as he took in your reaction. Any hint of fear and he would pull back, but you only seemed to lean back against his chest even more as he brushed the blade along your calf. You were so delicate, he could leave such nasty scars on your skin if he did so little as flick down and you knew it. But the heaving of your chest only got more obvious when the edge of his blade reached higher and higher up on your leg until it was pushing up the hem of your shorts.

He stopped when the curved hook was right at the root of your thigh, and pressed the flat edge down.

He nearly lost control of himself when he heard the faintest resemblance of a moan slipping from your mouth.

“Do you like this?”

Your face burned up at the question and the gravel in his tone. His arms slowly pulled away from your waist, warm palms running along the curve of his waist until they were resting right at the side of your hips. Your breath hitched when you felt his fingers digging down and gripping onto the hem, the fabric of your shorts now bunched up around the silver hook.

“Do you like this?” he asked again, the fleece of his tail brushing against your skin as he crooked the tip. You could see it poking under the fabric, pulling it taunt around the edge, and you felt your own voice betraying you at the thought of how easy it would be for him to just ripped it to pieces.

“Yes.”

A loud tear ripped through the room and sent numbing sparks all the way to your scalp as you held your breath in reflectively, the hook gliding across the flimsy fabric of your room wear and dangerously close to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. 

You whimpered when he slipped his hand under the baggy t-shirt you were wearing, pushing it up until your bare chest was out on display.

“Bite.”

You parted your mouth and took the hem between your teeth, the heat spreading onto the tip of your ears at your lewd position. He brought the sickle up, his eyes bearing at your form when he slowly ran the dull edge down the valley of your breast and onto your stomach. You wanted to arch against him so badly but held yourself still, your shoulders shaking slightly as you did not dare to move.

“I remember how people used to scream when my blade touches their skin,” his lips ghosted on where your neck met your shoulder, warm breath fanning onto you and making every hair on your back stood up. He sniggered when he heard your breath getting heavier when he brought the blade to your front. The chilling metal barely touched your nipple before it pebbled up and stood almost painfully. “But getting aroused... that is a first.”

“O- omi...” you managed to utter his name through your teeth and he brushed against your nipple with a flick, the feeling of steel still lingering on the sensitive bud.

“Look at you getting all antsy,” he clicked his tongue and the sound sent shivers down your spine. He shifted underneath you, hoisting you higher up on his lap. Something hard poked at your ass as he held you still, his erection pressed firmly against you through the shorts that were struggling to hold together.

You let out a pitiful whine when he hooked one nimble finger under the crotch of your panties while the sickle scrapped down from your shoulder to your arm, an inaudible rumble slipping from the back of his throat when he felt the slick that had seeped into the cotton.

Humans, their bodies react in the most fascinating ways.

You froze when the hook brushed past your inner thigh and under the strip of fabric his fingers were holding onto.

“Scared?” he asked, the elastic choking snugly around your skin in tension as he held the hook still, “just one wrong move and I could hurt the most delicate part of your body.”

You pussy couldn’t help but clench around nothing when he cut the last bit of fabric covering you with a forceful pull, the clear essence that was already pooling up all the more obvious when dripped onto the metal.

“Tsk tsk...” 

You could not even press your thighs together to get the friction you so desperately wanted with his hand giving you a squeeze in warning, bringing the hook up to your face as he turned it under the light. 

“You are getting my sickle all dirty,” he said, referring to the shine on the usually spotless surface that was from your arousal. Sakusa’s fingers danced along your inner thigh before bringing them to your sopping folds, brushing past your slit and felt the wetness gushing out.

He brought the hook to his lips and poked his tongue out, the sound of his tongue against the metal where it had just touched your skin forming a blood curling image in your head even though you could only hear him. He twisted his tail, letting his tongue ran along the blade from the base to the tip.

You whimpered when you felt the coldness of his saliva on the blade right at the side of your neck.

“Up.”

You shakily lifted yourself off his lap, getting onto your knees as you waited with bated breath. The sound of zippers had your heart pounding in your chest all while the sharp blade of the reaping hook was starting to make your skin go numb.

He could slit your throat if he wanted to.

Your jaw was aching from how hard you bite down and it only got worse when you felt his tip prodding at your entrance. He signaled you to sink down with a tap of his finger at the side of your hips. You could not hold yourself back anymore as his girth slowly stretched you out, your shirt falling back down over your abdomen as a breathy moan rolled off your tongue. 

“Mph-” your toes curled when he was balls deep inside of you and he tilted your head back until the curve of your neck leaned right on his shoulder with the tip of his sickle, the metal growing warm under your chin as he held you there.

He groaned at the feeling of your tight walls around his cock, the sudden penetration without any foreplay had your cunt now leaking with wetness just to get used to him. 

He slowly started rocking against you before upping his pace. He throbbed inside of you, the heat of him burning into your lower stomach and spreading all over your body. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, guiding you to roll against him all the while never removing the blade from your neck. You let out a choked mewl when the tip of it trailed down your neck, poking against the fragile skin ever so slightly when he thrust up.

Sakusa had never felt any hint of emotions in his brain when he held his blade at any of his past victims, he did it because that was simply what his kind does and that was it. But when he saw the lighter streaks left on your skin where the tip of his sickle had pressed down on, your breaths rigid but with desire dripping from each heave of your chest, he felt all sorts of feelings screaming in his head until all he could do was lash them out through each merciless rut of his hips.

The sound of his balls slapping against your ass bounced off the walls as you panted, your hands threw back to circle around his neck the blade was pressed down flat on your neck. It almost felt like you were being choked as the metal grew warm on your skin, your eyes seeing white in the corners as your walls contracted around him and his name slurred off your tongue like a mantra.

A low moan rumbled from his chest at your walls clamping down on him and the vibration seeped through your back, making you whimper. You sucked in a hasty breath when the hook was removed from your throat, his tail stiffening up at the side as he felt his own climax getting close. He buried his face at the crook of your neck, muffling his moans as he held you tight against him.

He came with a shudder, his hands still clutching you tightly before his muscles relaxed and he slumped onto your body. Your lips parted to let out a soft sigh at the feeling of his release inside of you, the sticky substance slowly leaking out of your fluttering folds down onto the base of his cock with him still buried inside of you. 

His tail, the part that was just fur and not blade, rubbed soothingly against your waist as he gently lifted you off his lap. You whimpered at the feeling of his warmth leaving your body, the sudden emptiness making your still sensitive walls clenched and more of his cum trailed down. Turning you around so that you could lay on his chest, you listened to his heartbeats slowly easing down from the rapid beating as it rose and fell underneath your chin.

His tail was swung over your back, locking you in as his palm ran up and down on your back. You brushed at the white fleece with your finger, a light coo slipping past your lips at how soft it was. It was a wonder how just a few inches down and the fur would blend in with the unbending steel of his sickle.

“You know,” you said, still relishing in the feeling of his fur brushing past your finger tip, “sometimes I’m really glad that you tried to attack me that day.”

He huffed, “You mean you’re glad I didn’t actually do it?”

“Well,” you looked up, smiling a little as you stared into his inky eyes, “you would not be here if you didn’t stalk me weeks after that because you let me went away.”

“I did not stalk you.”

“Yes you did!” you laughed when he rolled his eyes. You paused, letting out a short hum before leaning your jaw on his chest again.

“I’m happy you did though.”

He looked down at your murmur, and closed his eyes as he took in your scent with his face buried into your hair.

Sakusa Kiyoomi came into your life as a strange, sudden whirlwind and in a stunning twist of events against his very nature, he stayed.

And he was very happy he did that too.

[saturatedboy]

The Paw of a Lion (Ethan!Winters x Karl!Heisenberg)

This can be found on my AO3 page (Use title name)

Word count: 4.5K

Chapter 2 is below cut

The car journey had been rather unpleasant much to Mr Winter’s taste. He normally wasn’t picky but the scent on the car was hurting him and making him feel slightly sick in the stomach. Was he still panic-stricken? He stared down at Rose in his arms, fast asleep with a monkey toy in her clutch. No. He wouldn’t let himself be scared after the car wreckage he went through, instead he’d brushed it off as simple homesickness since the new home was in a neighbourhood filled with those who he was sure to ‘get along’ with well. ‘We will be home soon Rose.’ The blonde thought, turning his direction of gaze to stare at the passing trees. “How long left?” The question slipped through his lips, waiting for an answer off one of the agents that had taken the unoccupied seats around him. Luckily for him, he got the window seat and he did feel a little smug about it.

“There in 5 minutes Mr Winters.” The driver replied, adjusting the mirror at the front to get a better look at the apparent ‘bio weapon’ that was sitting in his car. Ethan looked to be just a normal guy with a daughter, there was no physical difference to him than any other ordinary guy. Well- except from the fact there was scars littering his body on his arms mostly, and the loss of his fingers.

Clicking his tongue and wetting his lips, Ethan sighed and leaned his head against the window having the same sickness feeling wash over him. He just wanted out, to feel fresh air and the ground and to hear something else than the music the agents were playing. Fortunately for him, the rest of the journey was swift and soon the car had rounded off in between trees that had a large dirt road leading further into the mass of woods that seemed to appear as he was just about to doze off. Having a spiked interest in the change of scenery, Ethan pushed himself of the window and looked about. Tall trees hung overhead, turning their leaves into a range of the sunset colours with small flowers blooming and dying mixed together in the grass that settled among the sides of the track the car was driving on. It looked, dare he say, peaceful. How ironic, having a bunch of bio weapons staying in a peaceful area. This was sure to be no peaceful stay if he was going to be surrounded with neighbours off different kinds.

Driving down the path had led them into a circled area, with buildings surrounding the outside edge. The car drove clockwise around the circle, Ethan looking towards the middle the whole way. There appeared to be a small park area settled there Ethan had guessed in the middle of the whole site. It held three benches, a small climbing frame as well as a set of swings. ‘I’m sure the Dimitrescu daughters will enjoy there,’ The father had thought, looking down at Rose with a smile taking hold of his lips. “And I’m sure you will too when you’re a little older.” Luckily no one heard him talk to his dear daughter as the music was still playing, loudly.

Placing his sight back onto the buildings, he saw a mixture of them. There appeared to be 5 houses in total, and he had a fair guessed of whose house was who. The first house was a very large one, elegantly painted in white with a very tall front door. The place had pillars outside it and it seemed to have a total of three floors. At the top there was a balcony that looked to reach around the whole house. Driving past it, Ethan could see the three daughters and their mother stepping out of the car, Bella being the first to run straight into the home.

The next house was a bungalow, making the house to its left (from Ethan’s view) more towering than it seemed. The house was simple, having brick walls and small round windows. What made the place stand out on its own was the moat that built around it. A fucking moat. “Moreau house,” Ethan mumbled, a small strike of cold shifting down his spine at the thought of when he had to fight him and how the other would be constantly throwing up. Unpleasant memories to put it.

The next house, this was the centre house that was splitting the 5 houses, was a really nice modern blue house, having two floors and a porch. The car had stopped right In front of the front porch and the agents had begun to move out of the car after it was securely parked. “Hey Rose,” Ethan whispered down to his once sleeping daughter, awaken at the call of her name and her father's voice. With grabby hands and a tired smile, she reached out to take hold of her father in any way, shape or form. Carefully unwrapping her from his coat, Ethan took his daughter into his arms and reached to open his door only to have an agent open it for him. He stepped out, nodding a thanks in return and looked towards what appears to be their new home. “Look Rosie, this is out new home. You like the baby blue hm?” He asked, seeing his daughter babble random noises and have pleased eyes. Some on-looking agents that were travelling him had silently cooed at Rose’s reaction, looking towards one another with scrunched eyes and happy smirks on their faces. Placing her on his hips, Ethan walked up to the front porch and looked back to see the view. It wasn’t too bad...he could probably make a living of being here. Looking to his left, he looked towards the other two houses. A frustrated sigh left his lips.

The house to the left was two floors like his own, only difference being it had a garage connected to it and the windows were boarded up. “It seemed Mr Heisenberg doesn’t particularly like the light,” An agent pointed out to Ethan as they caught him staring.

“Makes sense.” Ethan replied back, looking towards the last house. The last house was also a bungalow; however, it had a garden with a fence surrounding it. The fence was a deep brown and the garden had a small tree already growing within its square. “I’m sure Lady Beneviento would be there every day.”

Hearing Rose’s babbling had Ethan brought Ethan to coo at his daughter, bringing her to nest smugly in his arms instead of his hip. Holding her close, Ethan walked up to his door and let the agents open it. Inside the home was fairly empty but he could've guessed that before even entering the place. “We will leave you be. Any supplies needed or anything changing just contact us on the home phone settled in the kitchen. You are not allowed to leave this area unless orders of Redfield have been given out. Welcome to you brand new home.” The agent who had been driving Ethan and his daughter there had spoken, signalling the other agents that had decided to walk in after Ethan back out of the house. Being quick to accept orders, they left Ethan to standing in the open hallway of his house. The car leaving was the last Ethan heard before accepting the silence of the new place.

“What do you think Rose, think we’ll like it here?” His eyes caught the stairway that led straight to the second floor on his right, with two doors on the left in his eye sight. More babbling came from Rose as she tried to give her father an answer which Ethan accepted with a laugh. “Yes, you are right my little cub. We should see what we are working with.”

It had been a total of three hours before Ethan had got himself comfortable in front of the television on the couch. It seemed the whole place was coated in the paint of blue and white. It was a fitting theme Ethan had thought, however he felt Rose’s room should maybe be painted a different colour. Maybe yellow, maybe green- he'll ask for paint when he needed to. So far, the father had discovered there was warm water, heater was working however it seemed to be on a timer, there was a master bedroom and a baby room right next door on the second floor, the kitchen had been stocked with what seemed to be a month worth of food and there was a living room along with a study room that was filled with books from his last home.

Last home.

He spent a while fixing that place up with his wife Mia...Ex-wife Mia. The place was their dream home, something they planned for a while into their marriage and they had finally got it, finally settled down-all for it to be taken away because of lies. Ethan had laid on his back, arm draped over his forehead as he looked up at the ceiling. The material of the couch under him felt perfect, he could doze of there and then but until he had a baby monitor, he wouldn't be sleeping downstairs until he knew he could be there for Rose in her need. Without realising it, the father had begun to voice out his thoughts to no one but the empty sound of his home.

“I wonder how she is- ha! What am I thinking? She’s going to hate the idea of a divorce. She should be thankful I even let her near our daughter after all this shit. She’s one lucky woman.” A ragged breath forcefully came out of his throat startling Ethan. Leaning up, legs sprawled on the other cushions of the couch, he lunched forward and began to cough into his right hand. Closing his eyes, he could feel a thick substance coat his hand as he coughed into it. Making sure he had his breathing under control, he cautiously opened his eyes to find black substance covering his hand. No- not substance. He knew exactly what it was.  Mold was covering his arm. “Oh, for fuck's sake,” He breathed out, swinging his legs so he could stand and go wash the substance off him.  

Whilst making his way to the kitchen at a brisk pace, it had appeared the Mold was growing further up his arm. Raising a brow and having a feel of sickness was over him again, he collided against the edge of the sink and began to turn the taps to run the water over his arm, watching as Mold fell into the drain below. Strange, the Mold wasn’t coming off his skin. It was like it was a part of his skin. Reaching for the wash cloth with his other hand, Ethan scrubbed hard against his skin seeing the Mold not disappearing any time soon. ”What the!” The exclaim that left his lips had him scarping the cloth against his skin, digging in with his nail and scratching away. Nothing. The black oozed more over until his full arm had become a midnight black. “No, no no no,” The words fell onto the deaf ears of the world around him as he collapsed to the floor, tap still rushing with gushing water and his back touching the cabinets that were sitting underneath.

The sickness that rotted over him fell deep into his stomach, twisting and playing with his intestines. A few dry coughs sent Ethan to feel a lot warmer than normal. He felt like the room he had settled in, the kitchen, had become as hot as the oven that was switched off. His sight became blurred, and the noise of his child was heard faintly in the back of his head. “Rose,” He breathed out, tears stinging his eyes as he let his head fall onto his shoulder. "I need to calm down Rose,” he told himself, as though the Mold covering him could understand him. He could feel it growing, taking his limbs into their own care and covering the skin of his with a protected layer of their own. Weirdly though, it seemed to only cover his arm and the top of his chest. Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. He just wanted to hold his young one, to make sure she knows she is safe.

The cries from the baby had increased, sounding more like a tantrum then just a sadness cry. Ethan pulled his legs to his stomach, trying to steady his breathing and clear his sight of the tears that leaked. It wasn’t till he felt the Mold settle down that he could finally move without feeling like spewing whatever food he last ate. Noticing the change of temperature around him, it being settled to a warm but slightly chilly feeling, he made a quick dash for the stairs that were in the open hallway. He moved swiftly on his feet, not wanting to take any chances of falling ill to the Mold before he could reach his crying Rose.

Scrambling up the stairs, Ethan had busted into his daughter room startling the child more than she appeared to be. “Aw no baby, I’m sorry,” He softly spoke, hurrying to pick her up out of a white crib she was nestled in and taking her into his arms. Being thoughtful with is movements, Ethan cradled her head with one hand and settled her body onto his other arm that was still covered in the Mold to keep support of her. “I’m sorry. Oh, baby papa is sorry. Shh, shh, It’s okay. We will be okay,” He repeated, cooing into his daughter’s ear to help her slow her own breathing. The small bounces he gave and the cradling movements of his body was luckily enough to help her stop crying, the odd sniffle taking out of her mouth instead. “There we go, we are okay. I’m sorry Rose. Shh, we will be okay.” Little Rose had held tightly onto her father’s clothing, smelling the familiar scent of him. She rested her own eyes, her cries making her tired then she had already been in the car and before. “That’s it,” Ethan whispered, “Just sleep my little cub. I’m here now, papa is here.” His voice had soothed her down greatly, the voice bringing her to sleep once more before she was drifted deeply off into her mind.

A dry cry came from Ethan’s mouth as he placed her back into her crib, pulling a blanket and pushing her money toy close to her sleeping body. He stood over her crib, watching the chest of his daughter fall and rise. She was at peace, something she so should always be at. Being a single father was going to hit Ethan hard, if he was down there dealing with the Mold then who knows what he could be dealing with next. He made a mental note to get baby monitors for every single room.

It had been another 4 hours before a knock had awoken Ethan from his lightly sleep. He groggily opened his eyes and looked around, seeing he was leaning his head on the kitchen table. Next to him was his laptop as well as a cup of what he guessed to be a now cold coffee, untouched either way. Checking his arm, the Mold had disappeared as he slept. It was after he placed Rose to sleep, he had come downstairs to turn the tap off and steal a book from his study to do some more research on engineering. He just wanted a normal life as soon as possible, the memories of his job at engineering brought great pleasure to his mind of living normally, a feeling he was already missing and it had just been over a day since he last felt like it.

Brushing a hand down his face and scuffing up his hair, Ethan pushed himself out from under the table and stood up, hearing his bones cracking the process. The feeling was great but the noise was uncomfortable to his ears. Hearing the knocking again, Ethan groaned loudly and exited his kitchen, still hearing the knocking. “What,” He groaned out loudly, the empty space of the hallway making his voice bounce about. The knocking had stopped for a second, only to repeat again. “Oh, go to Hell,” Ethan shouted, hearing the knocks stop for a second time. Smiling, Ethan made his way to his front door, hand placed around the handle. Just as he was about to pull the door open, the knocking once again started again. “I’m going to fucking kill you- Heisenberg what do you want?” Just as the blonde pulled the door, there stood the factory man with a bright smile and hand raised after his activities of knocking.

“Hey there papa, missed me much?” He amused, flashing a smile at the other. Ethan stood, hand still on his door handle looking down at the gruff man. His appearance looked worse than he last saw him at the meeting. He was now all sweaty with droplets pouring off him like a dripping tap, oil was staining his shirt he wore and his hands had become thick with saw dust. A sigh left Ethan’s lips as he moved himself o rest against his door frame.

“What you need?” Heisenberg blinked at Ethan, before whistling a tune. “If you not going to answer, I’ll be going, Goodbye Heisen-”

“Wait!” The voice from Heisenberg had stopped Ethan's movements of walking back inside. Hating himself for still wanting to feel kind to the other, Ethan looked back at the man who looked desperate to say something, a pleading stance of clasp hands looking up at Ethan had the father feeling a little weak.

“What?” He asked, waiting for Heisenberg's reply.  

“I was wondering...” He started, looking around him as though he didn’t want anyone to hear his next words, “That maybe we should start calling each other by our first names.” The request left Ethan speechless, he stood with furrowed brows trying to read the other. What exactly was he planning?

“First names? Now why would we need to do that?” Ethan crossed his arms over his chest, watching Heisenberg huff and look away.

“Because we are neighbours duh? Makes sense. Does it not.” Ethan would have smacked him if it wasn’t the fact he was somewhat right. Uncrossing his arms and rolling his eyes, Ethan nodded at Heisenberg.

“Alright then, what do I call you and the others?” Heisenberg had immediately brightened up, taking a brave move of turning around and sitting on the porch step.  

“Easy! You can call me Karl,” he said, pointing a hand at himself as he looked over his shoulder to see Ethan shutting the door behind himself. He waited for Ethan to sit, to which he had to pat the open space next to him for the father to do so. After Ethan had made himself comfortable with legs straight out In front of him and sat at an arm's length away from Heisenberg, the other had carried on. “Dimitrescu, you can call her super-mega bitch. Next is Moreau. Just call him ugly. And lastly is Beneviento. Just call her Donna because she is somewhat decent and call that wretched thing that moves and talks, sawdust.”  

Ethan had sniffled back a small chuckle at hearing Heisenberg talk. He’ll get the other’s names later, their proper names when he has the chance. “How about I call you the guy who carries a hammer to compensate for something else.” Heisenberg lightly gasp at Ethan’s words, looking over at him with an open mouth.

“How dare you,” He spoke, expressing his offensives to his words. Ethan couldn’t help but allow himself his release of a laugh, finding the moment rather...amusing to be with the factory man. “I would never take you to by a guy like that...to make jokes.” Heisenberg pulled out a cigar from his pants pocket, only to fetch in his other a lighter. Ethan watched as he lit it, suddenly being annoyed with the habit of seeing the man with one. Leaning over, Ethan plucked the cigar from the man's lips and threw it out on the dirt road in front of them. “Oi, what you do that for,” Heisenberg asked, pointing at his cigar a few meters in front of them.

“I have a child, no smoking in or even near my house.” The air around them both changed slightly, dark clouds overhead had slowly begun to invade the space of the blue that was once there. It seemed the sound around them had soon tried to settle in. “I do enjoy making jokes,” Ethan broke the starting silence between them, wanting to keep this conversation going before the upcoming rainfall would ruin it.

“You should act more like that then- seeing you all stuck up is worse than seeing the tree trunk try think of a new name for her new wine.” The older man groaned out, looking at the other once again.  

“I’m just being careful of my kid. I can’t let her be hurt again.”

“You can still be protective and let go of yourself.” The older flicked open the lighter that he had still had in his hand and placed it between them both. Ethan watched as the flame danced, standing at a reasonable height. “See, the flame is surrounded by the wind yet it will stay standing because it has the fuel to do so. Look, it even follows the movements of the world around it. You have the fuel to protect the squirt.” Heisenberg flicked the top of his lighter back down, stuffing it back into his pants pocket before turning back to the other with a small grin. “And you can still let loose. Even if the wind does pick up,” Heisenberg had moved rapidly, wrapping his arm around the young male’s shoulder and brought him into his side. “I’ll be there to shield it.”

Such words and non-thoughtful actions had brought Ethan to look down at his hands. He could feel the burn of his cheeks and the smile that was pulling on the edge of his lips to raise. This. This was weirdly nice, to know someone was there. But that’s what Mia, Redfield and many others had said to him before in the past. “Promise me,” Ethan breathed out, looking up at Karl. Karl raised a brow and tilted his head slightly.

“Promise what?”

“Promise you’ll always be there. And you can’t break that!” Ethan’s tone caught Karl off guard, to the point he had accidently shifted his arm off Ethan’s shoulder and let it fall to the wood just behind him. He swore he caught a glimpse of guilt flash over Ethan’s eyes before his pupils went back to staring at the darkness of his shades sitting comfortable against his eyes.

“Ethan,“ Karl swallowed deeply, noticed by his adman's apple jumping. He didn’t like promises. Never in his life did he have to promise something to someone else. This was big commitment. ‘Promises don’t break. Ethan trusts me to not break something’ he told himself before sighing into the cold air. Using the arm that was behind Ethan, he pulled it around and took Ethan’s chin into his hand. “I promise I’ll always be there. I’m your neighbour, you ain’t getting rid of me that easily.” He said, laughing as hr watched as dread appeared quickly on Ethan’s face.

“Oh great, looking forward to it,” Ethan had sarcastically said, smacking Karl’s hand away from his face but letting the smile dance across his face. “Thanks though, if you break it, I will not hesitate to ask ‘mega-bitch’ to be there for me.”

“Ey, I said I’ll be there. Anyway, I would do a so much better job than her,” Heisenberg said defensively, huffing and pouting that Ethan would go to her than him. “Just you watch,” He sneered, pointing at the Dimitrescu house in a violent manner, “I’ll be a whole lot better than her.”

Ethan placed his hand on the outstretch hand of the fourth lord, pushing it down gently so it rested between them both n the wooden planks beginning to stain from the rain gathered by the wind. He hadn’t realised he left his hand on top of Heisenberg’s as he spoke, however the other was ecstatic over the fact he felt his hand. “I won’t ask her then. Can’t believe I’m saying this but this your first step of gaining my trust that you want oh so badly,” Ethan teased, looking back to the world in front of them.

“You’ll see. I’ll gain more than just your trust.” Heisenberg peered down at their hands, making sure Ethan didn’t noticed and let out a soft happy hum. This was the first step, he would gain Ethan’s trust and then next, he would gain Ethan’s appreciation. For now, he was fine with this. He looked forward too, after tearing his gaze from their connected hands almost and watched as the rain droplets began to pick up.

“Well,” Ethan was the first to speak, standing up to his feet. Karl pouted at the loss of contact but also stood up, feeling excited on what the father would want to do next. “This has been fun. Now go home.” Or maybe not excited.

“Why? can't I hang here?” Karl pouted, trying to make Ethan feel guilty.  

“You want my trust? Go home and don’t make yourself sick. I suppose you can call me, seemingly they just give out numbers on paper without consent.” Ethan clicked his tongue in annoyance, he was sure Moreau had already tried calling him a total of 5 time today in the space of three house, trying to talk his way of how happy he was Ethan saved them all. If only he could block numbers on the rotary phone.

“Okay fine. But you owe me at least a 2 hour call.”

“You get 30 minutes and that’s it.”

“1 hour call.”

“Don’t push you luck...1 hour and 30 minutes and that’s it.” Karl did a mini-fist pump into the air and nodded eagerly. Ethan chuckled and looked away shaking his head watching as Karl tilted his hat down, a way of saying ‘bye’ to the other and made his way of the porch.

“Good talking with you Ethan! Can’t wait for tonight!” He hollered out over his shoulder as he made his way towards his own home, only turning around hallway to see that the Winter male had disappeared already into his home. Feeling very satisfied with his days' work, and it only being the first day, he looked down at his hand and held it in his other, trying to recreate the feeling of when Ethan had placed his hand on top of his.  

“I really am touched starved.” he said before walking straight into his front door.

[theparanormalperiodical]

The REAL Story Behind The Crooked Man And The 7 Other Fairy Tales & Nursery Rhymes With *Even More* Disturbing Backstories

It was 4 years ago that we first met the Crooked Man.

With a *sickening* reveal via rottweiler fit for the latest season of Rupaul’s Drag Race, the suited gentleman staggered his way from The Conjuring 2 (2016) into our nightmares.

But his ashy undertones, gnashing teeth, and general aura of “I’m a demon, or something, which means I have no real motive apart from wanting to kill you” isn’t the only thing that fits the film far too well.

The Conjuring universe is the definition of ‘based on a true story’. And the Crooked Man fits the brief.

In the opening scenes of the film we see lovable and bulliable Billy stutter through a nursery rhyme:

There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile; He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all liv'd together in a little crooked house.

Accompanied by a totally-cursed-i-mean-just-look-at-it zoetrope (it’s a bit like a mini projector that shows you a moving cartoon), Billy introduces us to one of the handful of extra entities terrorising London’s most haunted house. You can discover more about the true story of 284 Green Street which inspired The Conjuring 2 here. 

But Billy also introduces us to a real nursery rhyme inherent in British culture - and British history.

Yes, the nursery rhyme, like many, is based on dark and twisted reality softened for a bedtime story. And amongst this history was a real person. Unfortunately, the Crooked Man is not the only fairy tale monster or nursery rhyme entity that will be haunting your dreams.

Are y’all tucked in?

The Crooked Man

The nursery rhyme was first told sometime in the 17th century during the reign of King Charles I. But the Crooked Man was not the Stuart King - it was allegedly inspired by Scottish general Sir Alexander Leslie and the covenant he signed.

The covenant secured religious and political freedom for Scotland despite prevailing animosity between the English and the Scottish.

The crooked stile is the awkward alliance between the two parliaments and the crooked house refers to the collective union the Scottish and English lived together in. But the ‘crooked’ part works on another level, too.

The great recoinage of late 17th century meant sixpences - which feature in the rhyme - were made of very thin silver and thus easy to bend.

An alternative origins story links it back to Lavenham, a village in Suffolk (England). The half-timbered houses leaned at off angles as if supporting each other, creating a crooked aesthetic that matches the nursery rhyme.

The Pied Piper Of Hamelin

I distinctly remember hearing the story of the Pied Piper when I was about 7 years old. I was there, sat crossed-legged on the wooden floor in assembly and listening to the headteacher tell us the tale of the musical maverick with an overhead projector.

I remember it being far more nostalgic and not so traumatising.

The story goes that sometime in the 13th century a peculiar man dressed in brightly-coloured clothes (pied clothing) was hired by the town to rid them of the rats with his pipe-playing abilities. Hamelin had been suffering from an infestation that would threaten the locals with the plague. The piper was to play his pipe, entice the rats with his magical music, and lead them to a river where they would promptly drown.

He was hired and he did the job - but they didn’t pay up.

The piper couldn’t exactly refund his services. Instead, he sought vengeance, luring away the children of the town with his magical pipe. He waited until Saint John and Paul’s day where the adults would be in the church, dressed in green like a hunter, and played his pipe. The children of the village swarmed to him, all 130 of them, following him out of the town and into a cave. Three were unable to follow due to being blind and deaf and thus told the villagers what had happened.

The real story:

Some versions of the story claimed he made them walk into a river, others claim he returned them after payment. But what we do know for sure is that there is a street in Hamelin called Bungelosenstrasse. On this street - ‘the street without drums’ according to translation - the children were seen last. No music and no dancing is allowed on this road.

Bluebeard

We open on a typical Medieval scene: a powerful and wealthy man is looking for a young wife to replace the last one who mysteriously went missing. Bluebeard’s been through quite a few women, actually, but it’s his latest bae that stars in this story. Bluebeard marries his neighbour’s daughter and goes on a business trip.

He tells her he can stay alone in their house but she cannot open a certain door.

Of course, she opens the door and finds the corpses of his ex-wives. Her and her sisters band together to kill Bluebeard, showering themselves with a wealthy inheritance.

The real story:

This tragic tale of murder and mystery is unfortunately all too true.

There are many alleged origins of the folktale. Let’s start with the Medieval ruler of Brittany, Conomor the Cursed: his new wife agreed to marry him to prevent him from invading her father’s lands but accidentally walked in on a room full of his dead, old wives. She was visited by their ghosts who warn him if she falls pregnant, he will kill her, preventing a prophecy that claims he will be killed by his own son.

She gets knocked up, gives birth, and then she gets her block knocked off.

An alternative inspiration could be a similarly brutal figure: Gilles de Rais (15th century). He was accused of murdering approximately 140 children who suddenly went missing in the Nantes countryside. He was condemned to death and executed in 1440.

Snow White

It’s one of the most popular fairytales of all time.

The story goes that a queen gives birth to a baby girl but dies in childbirth. The king’s new wife is wicked and vain, asking her magic mirror ‘who is the fairest one of all?’ on a daily basis. When the child turns seven, the mirror changes its answer from the queen to the child, Snow White (yeah, that’s weird). The queen hires a huntsman to kill Snow White, but she begs for mercy and says she will live in the woods and he can pretend he killed her.

She finds shelter in a cottage belonging to seven dwarfs who agree to let her stay as a maid until the evil queen asks the mirror her favourite question. It claims Snow White is still alive and the fairest of them all. She goes through several methods of attempting to kill Snow until she falls into a deep coma. The dwarfs host a funeral, a prince comes along, and he, uhhh, kisses what he assumed to be a corpse and she is awakened.

They then get hitched but don’t invite the queen to the wedding. The queen asks the mirror yet again the identity of the fairest, assuming Snow is well and truly deceased but the mirror breaks the bad news to her again. The queen tries to kill her once more but Snow’s hubby forces her to wear red-hot iron slippers and dance in them until she dies.

There’s a lot going on here.

But rather than unpacking everything that's wrong with all of this *gestures to everything*, let’s just get to the dark reality beneath it all.

The real story:

The inspiration is generally deemed to be Margaretha von Walbeck, a young woman who had a terrible relationship with her stepmother. She was forced to move to Brussels and fell in love with Phillip II of Spain, a romance not popular with her parents.

Suddenly, however, Margaretha died. Rumour has it she was poisoned.

Another detail of her life also links her to Snow White: her father’s copper mines were often filled with child labourers whose growth was stunted by working in them, mirroring the ‘dwarves’ in the story.

But Margaretha is not the only contender: Maria Sophia Margaretha Catharina Freifräulein von Erthal *inhale* also hated her stepmother. This - and the fact that her stepmother was given a mirror as a gift by her husband - also ties her to Snow White.

Hansel And Gretel

It’s possibly the most simple fairy tale up for discussion: a brother and sister are sent out to the woods by their father. The mother asked for him to send them away so they can survive a famine. But Hansel uses stones to trace their steps back home. One day, however, he uses crumbs. They get eaten by the local wildlife, so the kids get lost.

They then discover a witch's house, a gingerbread cottage. She lures ‘em in, fattens up Hansel, and prepares to feast on his flesh. The kids plot against her, throw her in the oven, and steal her stuff before heading back to live with their father.

Okay, so maybe this one isn’t based on a true story. It’s based on true stories. Yep - plural.

The real story:

Child abandonment and infanticide was pretty common during plagues, famines, and all other circumstances of poverty. In fact, this particular tale is believed to come from the Great Famine which stretched across Europe from 1315 to 1317. Child abandonment surged during this time.

Rapunzel

Turns out Disney lopped off a lot of Rapunzel’s real story to make it a family friendly movie. Yep, this is a weird one.

A pregnant woman begins to crave a kind of salad leaf (Campanula rapunculus, also called rapunzel) in the garden of the house next door. He goes out to nick it but is caught by the homeowner - a witch. She says he can take the rapunzel, but in return he must give her the child once it is born.

The witch raises Rapunzel as her own but locks her away in a tower when she is 12 to protect her from the outside world.

A prince eventually rocks up and decides to climb her immensely long hair. Unknown, probably PG-13 and probably not consensual acts happen. Still, given it's the medieval era they agree to get hitched after escaping.

The witch discovers her plan, cuts off her hair, exiles Rapunzel, and uses the locks as bait for the prince before throwing him to the briar roses below where he is promptly blinded. Rapunzel gives birth to twins and the prince finds her, identifying her only by her voice. Her tears restore his voice.

The real story:

Being kidnapped or being kept hidden away from the rest of the world is pretty common, well, all of the time. But Saint Barabara, a Greek saint, was the main inspiration for the tale.

She was locked away in a tower in Turkey in the third century by her father in an attempt to protect her Christianity. But her Pagan father’s efforts did not succeed and she discovered the ways of Jesus. She escaped but she was eventually caught by her father who then tortured and beheaded her.

Religious intolerance, y’all.

Beauty And The Beast

Time for another Disney classic with a heavily edited plotline.

The father of a family seeks shelter in a grand palace during a storm. In the morning before he leaves he takes a rose from the garden but is caught by a beast who threatens to kill him for nicking a flower. But the beast agrees not to kill him if his daughter takes his place instead.

The daughter moves to the palace but asks to go see her family for a week. She is then convinced by her sisters to stay at home. A magic mirror then reveals the beast is dying because she isn’t with him. She returns to him and her love breaks the curse that makes him appear so monstrous.

The real story:

Petrus Gonsalvus (1637-1618) was born with hypertrichosis. This meant he had a thick layer of hair all over his body - his physical difference didn’t go down very well. He was kept as a ‘wild man’ in a cage and fed raw meat.

When he was 10 years old he was gifted to the king of france. But he wasn’t kept as a ‘beast’. He was educated like a nobleman and was taught to read, write, and speak three different languages. He was then married off to the daughter of a court servant.

He was married to her for over 40 years and they had seven children together.

(Aww.)

Three Blind Mice

Three blind mice, three blind mice, See how they run, see how they run, They all ran after the farmer’s wife, Who cut off their tails with a carving knife, Did you ever see such a thing in your life, As three blind mice?

The real story:

It's one of those nursery rhymes you grow up with - and 17 years later you realise how traumatic it actually is.

This nursery rhyme can be traced back to the reign of Bloody Mary (16th century) who had a tricky relationship with Protestants. And by that I mean she burnt them alive, hence the nickname.

The three blind mice represented three Protestant bishops who may have been blinded before their execution or spiritually blind for following Catholicism. Another reference to Queen Mary was her as a farmer’s wife.

Her husband, Philip of Spain, owned several estates and thus was technically a farmer.

Welp, there goes your childhood.

If you liked this post go on and like and reblog. Go on, share your love for my amazing talents with the world!

And if you want to read an article about the paranormal every weekend then you best be hitting follow!

See you next week, kiddos. Sleep tight.

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 6

The Tiger and the Dragon by George deValier

Chapter saved by fluffchemy ♥

"Potatoes," said Francis, looking over Yao's shoulder at his laptop screen before flopping back onto the couch. Like every other item of furniture in Francis' apartment, it was deep red, rather expensive, and completely over the top. He lifted his hand, blew on his nails, and went back to filing them. "I think they eat a lot of potatoes."

"Potatoes…" Yao looked back at the screen. Nothing in the results of his search for 'Traditional Russian Food' was jumping out at him. He sighed and leaned back against the couch, feeling Francis' knee behind his head. "I can't just make a plate of potatoes."

"Why not? That is what Arthur served that one time he cooked for us."

"I believe there were sausages involved as well." Yao shuddered. Possibly the worst meal of his life, and he was still unsure how he was able to get so sick from mashed potatoes. "Besides, I don't think a plate of mash is a traditional Russian meal."

"Too bad Ivan isn't English, non?"

Yao laughed. He was visiting Francis in his apartment upstairs in order to get away from the noise of the thunderous argument taking place in the apartment below. And knowing the way Alfred and Arthur's fights usually ended, with more shouting and screaming and swearing - albeit of a different sort - Yao figured he was probably stuck where he was until after midnight.

Francis held his hand out for Yao to inspect. Yao just nodded absently and Francis started filing the nails on his other hand. "So are you having much luck?"

"Not really." Yao was quickly starting to regret his promise to make Ivan a traditional Russian meal. He knew he was a good cook, he was just also a perfectionist and terrified of messing it up. Messing something up in front of Ivan was the last thing he wanted to do. "I could make Borscht, maybe?"

"Hmm, soup, could be messy," said Francis, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Remember to make something you'll look good eating."

"I didn't even think of that," said Yao, staring blankly up at the wall. "Great, now I have something else to worry about."

"Don't worry cheri, if all else fails, serve bananas for dessert. Works every time."

Yao reached behind him and thumped Francis on the knee. "Could you not give me some actual help here?"

"All right, fine… what about that Buz… Buzhenina thing?" asked Francis, pointing at the laptop screen.

"Takes too long." Yao didn't know how Ivan would feel about him spending two days at his house preparing the meal. Yao didn't know how he would feel about it himself. Either way… impractical.

"Well how about Beef Stroganoff… that's Russian, isn't it?"

"Too simple." Yao wanted it to look like he'd at least made an effort to research something a little less well known.

"There you go, I try and help and you disregard my helpful suggestions. Sorry, now you're on your own." Francis focused intently on his nails.

"Well what do you think of…"

"Uh uh," Francis held up his index finger in a 'shush' motion. "You may no longer ask me for my assistance since you are so quick to dismiss it."

Yao shrugged. Francis could not go more than two minutes without talking so Yao was not worried. At least he could speak with Francis about Ivan. Unlike Alfred, he didn't go on about how only spies wore trench coats, or how Ivan must have serious underground connections to be able to close off an entire zoo. True he went on about the rumoured virtues of Russian men and kept telling Yao to look at the size of Ivan's ring finger, but somehow that was preferable.

It had only been a few days since the afternoon at the tiger enclosure, but Yao was already missing Ivan. Some rational part of his mind told him it was a little silly to be so infatuated with someone he had met twice and who it was quite obviously not a good idea to get involved with. But the rest of him won easily over that rational part. And all he could think of was Ivan's strong hand in his as they gazed down at Siberian tigers, Ivan's proud grin when he unveiled a picnic basket of peanut butter sandwiches, Ivan's violet eyes staring into his, Ivan kissing him, holding him, pulling him closer… in fact for two days straight Yao had thought of little else.

Yao had last heard from Ivan when he had phoned that morning, waking Yao at six a.m. on his day off. Yao had answered the phone, annoyed and half asleep, without looking at the number on the screen.

"What the hell do you want?" he shouted.

The reply came as cheerful as ever. "To ask you to come to my house for dinner tomorrow!"

Yao shot up in bed. "Ivan!"

"Yao!"

"I, um, oh… tomorrow?"

"Yes! I will see you then… please to remember, you are cooking me traditional Russian meal, da? I look forward to it! See you tomorrow Dragon!" And he hung up.

So now Yao was desperately searching for a Russian recipe and he had less than 24 hours to find it. Of course he had no idea how he was supposed to get to Ivan's house seeing as he had no idea where it was. But Yao wasn't so much nervous as he was almost painfully curious. He tried to ignore the knot in his stomach and continued clicking through the search results on his laptop.

Yao came across a promising looking page and nudged Francis with his elbow. "Hey, look at this…" he was interrupted by a deafening thumping coming up the stairs. He looked up quizzically at Francis, who swung himself into a sitting position with a guilty expression.

"Oh, Yao," he said, "I forgot… Gilbert and Antonio are coming over."

Yao closed his eyes briefly. Great. The other two stooges. While Antonio wasn't too bad, Yao had never quite gotten along with Gilbert. They'd known each other even before Yao met Francis… Gilbert's brother Ludwig was one of Kiku's best friends. And as far back as Yao could remember Gilbert had always been an arrogant jerk whose wilful ignorance rivalled even Alfred's. The thumping reached the door and Yao shrunk down as far as he could against the couch.

"I think your neighbours are killing each other," said Gilbert cheerfully as he barrelled through the door before Francis could reach it.

Yao stared fixedly at his computer screen.

"Gilbert only brought beer. Grab me a bottle of red, will you?" Yao recognised Antonio's Spanish accent.

"Bonjour to you too. Help yourself, there is plenty in the kitchen."

"Wine, ugh. Do you have any of those awesome chocolate chip cookies you make?"

"On the bench."

"Francisco, this plonk is only one year old!"

"Mon Dieu, if you want better, bring it yourself!"

"Ooooh, touchy about your cheap wine, eh? Everyone knows you have an expensive stash hidden in your room, run and get me one."

"How about screw you, or beso mi culo if you prefer?"

"No thanks, I don't know where it's been."

"Mmm, these cookies are awesome with beer! What's on the… hey, Chinese kid!" Yao groaned. He'd been spotted.

"You know, amazingly, that isn't actually my name," said Yao as Gilbert jumped the back of the couch and landed in the cushions behind him.

"Hi Yao," Antonio smiled cheerfully. Yao waved half heartedly.

"What's all this?" Gilbert leaned over Yao, taking the mouse from his hand and scrolling through the website open on the screen. He trailed crumbs over the keyboard. "Russian food. Whatcha looking at that for?" Yao leaned away from Gilbert.

"Yao's dating a Russian," explained Francis.

"Ooh a Russian, is she hot?"

Yao paused. Well, in fact, he was incredibly hot… "Well… uh…"

"Ah yes, Feliciano mentioned you had a boyfriend," said Antonio.

"I don't have a boyfriend!" said Yao firmly. "Can that boy keep his mouth shut for three minutes?"

"Geez, Francis," said Gilbert, "am I the only straight friend you have?" At this, both Francis and Antonio burst into laughter. Gilbert shot them a frosty glare. "What?"

"Straight. Hehe. Yeah," said Antonio as Francis giggled uncontrollably beside him.

"That's what I said," said Gilbert through gritted teeth.

"Cough, Roderich, cough," Antonio said into his hand. Francis gripped Antonio's shoulder, laughing hysterically.

Gilbert spun around on his knees, narrowly avoiding kicking Yao in the head, and faced the others over the back of the couch. "As I have told you thirty-five times, I was drunk, it was dark, and I thought he was Elizaveta!"

Francis fell on the floor and howled. Even Yao couldn't help snickering a little, even as he gathered up his laptop and climbed to his feet. He coughed and tried to clear the smirk from his face.

"As much as I'd love to hang around," said Yao, his voice dripping sarcasm, "I really must be heading off."

"I thought you were going to stay?" said Francis, looking up from the floor where he sat clutching his stomach.

"Well, I was… to get away from the noise. And here we are." Yao headed for the door.

"Hopefully you get laid by that Russian soon. You totally need it," said Gilbert. Yao glared at him and, ignoring Francis' pleas for him to stay, walked out the door and slammed it behind him.

Yao walked down the stairs and groaned in frustration at the noise coming from the bottom floor. At least Arthur and Alfred had stopped fighting. Unfortunately they were making up. Yao went into his apartment and rummaged around for his ipod. Just as he found it in his top drawer, a loud beat starting thumping through his ceiling. Yao stopped himself kicking the wall, plugged in his earphones, and turned the volume up to full. Knowing there was no way he would be sleeping for a while, he fell onto his bed and opened his laptop. For the next hour he looked through the cooking sites he had saved earlier and made notes. Once he was done, he clicked aimlessly through his bookmarks and finally, deciding to check his email before attempting to get to sleep, he found one with the subject line "Hello Dragon!" Yao's heart skipped a beat. He clicked on it and cursed the seconds it took to open. When it did, there was only one line.

My car will pick you up tomorrow at 5pm. Xxx Ivan 

Yao read it thirty times. He finally clicked reply, completely unsure what to answer. After about five drafts, including "I am quite capable of making my own way there, thank you" and "How the hell did you get my email address?" Yao finally typed in "Okay." He clicked send, closed his laptop, and pulled his earphones out of his ears. It had finally quieted just enough for him to try to sleep. Sleep was, however, a long time coming.

.

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

THANK YOU FLUFFCHEMY FOR SAVING THIS CHAPTER!

[ddae208e]

Devilment (taekook au) 2

Genre: angst Word count: 1,694 This is part 2.  Part 1, 

Jungkook is a young and naive boy, so who is to blame him when even he cannot resist the devil?

누나 (noona) = males speaking to older females

A kid of his age should not be seen in such a horrible place. The two truths about it, are that sickly diseases target young kids too, and that hospitals are not such horrible places. It is their goal to help people get better, but sometimes simply having a goal does not help you achieve it, meaning you will need some backup.

“Please let me go outside, 누나, I promise I will be careful!” The longing in Jungkook’s voice made her heart slightly ache. “I’m sorry, Jeon, but you’re too sick to do that.” His heart shatters along with his hopes. Never had she called him by the last name, only when they first met and when his parents are nearby.

Jungkook gazes out the window with soft eyes and lips apart. The only audible sounds in the room are the raindrops hitting the window and his shallow breaths. Until a loud bam echoes through the room and Jungkook is startled. He turns his head in all directions in panic, eyes wide as he searches for something that he does not even know what is. His head turns to look out the window again, but a huge shadow blocks his sight. “Hello,” mutters a deep and husky voice. Jungkook believes this to be one of his friends trying to prank him. Like that one time they sneaked outside of his house at 2 am on a school night and climbed a tree to try and enter his room without waking him. How unlucky of him to have forgotten to close his window, for normally his mother would have reminded him, but she was visiting her pregnant friend along with Jungkook’s father. And his friends had no mercy as they pushed the window completely open and climbed in and whispered in Jungkook’s ears, so he woke up to their staring faces with ketchup painted on as blood and black lenses they had stolen from their sisters to look like demons or vampires. Only this time his friends are not pranking him. They do not even know which hospital room he lies in, for they have not spoken since Jungkook’s last day at school. A couple of years ago.

“I am a very curious creature. Would you mind telling me something?” A tall man with blonde hair covering his eyes asks. “To the left of the corridor, a huge cabinet stands. What is inside it?” his lips form a straight line and dark clouds appear whenever he speaks. “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Jungkook says with a quivering lip and secretly prays that his nurse would come in and make the shadowy man disappear. “What do you say we open it together?” Something about his way of speaking and including the kid in his speech makes Jungkook hesitantly nod his head. The man sneers and Jungkook smilingly throws the blue bedsheets off of him and rises to his feet. The smile is soon knocked off of his face though. “But my nurse took the keys right before she left.” The man smiles. “Here you go,” he says as he reaches his hand out toward Jungkook’s. “This key can bring you anywhere.” Jungkook’s eyes sparkle as soon as the words leave the man’s mouth. “Outside?” Jungkook asks and the man nods. Jungkook’s gaze shifts from the key to the man’s eyes. Key, eyes, key, eyes. Repeating. “Take the key and I shall leave. I shall not interfere with your decision.” And so Jungkook grabs the key and as he does, the man turns to dust right in front of Jungkook’s eyes. A little dust lies on his hand along with the key. As soon as Jungkook notices, he blows the dust off of his hand and runs toward the corridor and then to the left. His breath hitches and his heart beats faster, louder and harder in his chest than it ever had done before. The chains raked around the brown cabinet shines directly into Jungkook’s eyes. Slowly but surely his left-hand grabs the lock and brings his right hand, holding the key, toward the lock in the other hand. When he hears the click, he feels as if a huge spotlight has been turned his way. As if everyone stares at him with hatred and disgust at this exact moment. Perhaps unlocking that cabinet is equivalent of Eve taking a bite of the forbidden fruit. But Jungkook hasn’t even opened and looked inside yet. A weak voice asks him ‘what is inside?’ and Jungkook realises that he really wants to know, and if only he locks the chains again, no one will notice that he ever looked. No one but himself and the shame he will have to bear. ‘But if someone does not want you to know what is inside so badly, would they not simply have put away the cabinet? Or what is inside?’ Behind Jungkook stands the man who had given him the key. Jungkook looks back into his hand but there is no key. “Did I forget to mention that the key would only open one lock?” The man licks his lips and is about to turn away into the shadows. Before he does so he says, “my name is Taehyung.”

Jungkook has never felt more wrongly accused than before. Whenever his doctor checks on him, he asks “are you sure you took your medicine?” almost as a matter of fact that Jungkook had not. But he had. Plenty. Because of his close relationship with his nurse, it deeply hurts his heart when she also asks him if he actually has taken his medicine or is just lying. “it’s not that I don’t believe you, Jungkook, but you get sicker and sicker. If you’re not using your medicine tell us, because if you are, it shows that the meds are not working. That’s a bad sign, Jungkook. So please be honest.”

Jungkook wants to scream. He is in agony. His whole body aches and his mouth tastes metallic. Jungkook’s parents stand in the doorway. They look at him with scared and weary eyes. In comes the doctor and tells them about his condition. Right in front of him. “He has nerve cell loss in his frontal lobes. The areas behind his forehead,” he says and glances at Jungkook. “it’s like his cells become lazy, and every day many of his cells decide to quit doing their wonders to keep him alive.”

Jungkook screams. His nurse comes running in. along with his parents, but they are far behind.

Life is full of danger. To live is only one of them, and even though Jungkook only really ‘lived’ till he turned 11 years old, his mind did not die. His life in the hospital was not really living. Not until that night, when he took a bite of the forbidden fruit. Never would his life be the same ever again. He came to realise this a… harder way.

The young nurse looks caringly at the boy, as the happy words once embedded in his mind jumps out of his mouth. A feeling of evocativeness fills up the void in the young girl’s mind. “- And she was madly in love with her neighbour, but he really had no idea that she existed. At all!” And all his nurse can think of is how the kid really emphasizes the sadness of the girl. “I thought… What if he knew she existed?” and the nurse looks questioningly at the boy again. “I don’t think it would have made a difference. The girl is his neighbour, and neighbours are like your family. Not literally, but they are not really strangers either, so the boy could never think of the girl as a potential girlfriend.” What a wild fantasy, in its own way, the nurse thinks. But the girl in the story really does exist, and she walks past the sick boy’s room almost every day. Inside the hospital. The boy does not want to tell the girl that she will never date her crush, so he just leaves her to mourn every time she walks past his room.

“He feels younger, doctor. Our son talks as if he’s four years old! His expressions and such,” The mother bawls, hiding her face in her hands. “I am deeply sorry, Mrs Jeon, but it is… safe to say that, your son has frontotemporal dementia.” Jungkook’s eyes burn into his doctor’s skull. “What’s that, doctor?” he doesn’t get an answer.

“Mom, dad, Ms nurse! I have a story to tell,” Jungkook sings excitedly. They all sit down around his bed and wait for him to start. They all have smiles plastered onto their pale expressions. Jungkook starts talking about a boy whose confidence falters with every day that goes by. “He would get up in the morning and avoid mirrors or any surface that would show his reflection the whole day.” The boy had not actively been bullied, but always got called ugly in comparison to anyone else. It finally got to his head, “but one day, he met someone who would become very precious to him. They made him feel happy, and he did not worry about whether he looked ugly or not anymore. He did not even care if his morning hair was a total mess, for his significant other did not pay a single mind to it!”

As the story ends, Jungkook’s mother looks sceptically at him and asks “is it more than one person who makes him happy? Is that why you say ‘they’ and not ‘her’?” To this Jungkook shakes his head and smiles. “Mommy, not every boy wants a girl. I do not know the boy personally, so I do not know if he wants a girl or a boyfriend. Maybe he even wants two!” for the rest of the day his parents do not speak much to him, but his nurse looks at him with a huge smile and a proud feeling, for his story was so mature. It was almost too mature for someone whose brain development is going backwards. “Honey, do you remember that story you told us the other day, about the unhappy boy?” asks his mother and her heart throbs as she sees his smile. He nods. “Do you think that the story perhaps applies to yourself?” To this Jungkook says “I am very happy with myself,” so as a statement he is not that boy.

The following days, his parents do not visit him much. His nurse tells him “they’re busy with work, but don’t worry, they’re working as hard as possible, so they can come and see you soon.” They don’t come back for another month.

On a particularly dark and cold day, Jungkook feels vulnerable and alone, so he calls his nurse and once she walks in, he still does not smile. She is worried. Her added weight on the bed lowers Jungkook’s body down by a few millimetres. He is too frightened to notice. And right before the nurse can speak, asking Jungkook what is wrong, he himself speaks up with a citation he does not know he has ever heard. “at dusk, death came to me in the form of a man. I asked him ‘who are you?’ And he said to me ‘devil to some, angel to others.’ He was tall, and he had blonde hair that covered his eyes. I did not see his eyes. He was like the snake that tempted Eve into doing something bad. Once I reach the heavens, will I not be let inside?” His nurse looks at him with bewilderedness in her eyes. She wants to ask him furthermore about this man, but her brain tells her that it would be a bad idea to get involved. Involved in what? She thinks. “Please do not let them throw me out,” he begs with an unstable voice.

[unsettlingshortstories]

Casting the Runes

M.R. James (1911)

April 15th, 190_

DEAR SIR,___ I am requested by the Council of the ________ Association to return to you the draft of a paper on The Truth of Alchemy, which you have been good enough to offer to read at our forthcoming meeting, and to inform you that the Council do not see their way to including it in the programme.

I am,

Yours faithfully,

_______Secretary.

April 18th

DEAR SIR,___ I am sorry to say that my engagements do not permit of my affording you an interview on the subject of your proposed paper. Nor do our laws allow of your discussing the matter With a Committee of our Council, as you suggest. Please allow me to assure you that the fullest consideration was given to the draft which you submitted, and that it was not declined without having been referred to the judgment of a most competent authority. No personal question (it hardly be necessary for me to add) can have had the slightest influence on the decision of the Council.

Believe me (ut supra).

April 20th

The Secretary of the _______ Association begs respectfully to inform Mr Karswell that it is impossible for him to communicate the name of any person or persons to whom the draft of Mr Karswell's paper may have been submitted; and further desires to intimate that he cannot undertake to reply to any further letters on this subject.

"And who is Mr Karswell?" inquired the Secretary's wife. She had called at his office, and (perhaps unwarrantably) had picked up the last of these three letters, which the typist had just brought in.

"Why, my dear, just at present Mr Karswell is a very angry man. But I don't know much about him otherwise, except that he is a person of wealth, his address is Lufford Abbey, Warwickshire, and he's an alchemist, apparently, and wants to tell us all about it; and that's about all - except that I don't want to meet him for the next week or two. Now, if you're ready to leave this place, I am."

"What have you been doing to make him angry?" asked Mrs Secretary.

"The usual thing, my dear, the usual thing: he sent in a draft of a paper he wanted to read at the next Meeting, and we referred it to Edward Dunning - almost the only man in England who knows about these things - and he said it was perfectly hopeless, so we declined it. So Karswell has been pelting me with letters ever since. The last thing he wanted was the name of the man we referred his nonsense to; you saw my answer to that. But don't you say anything about it, for goodness' sake"

"I should think not, indeed. Did I ever do such a thing? I do hope, though, he won't get to know that it was poor Mr Dunning."

"Poor Mr Dunning? I don't know why you call him that; he's a very happy man, is Dunning. Lots of hobbies and a comfortable home, and all his time to himself."

"I only meant I should be sorry for him if this man got hold of his name, and came and bothered him."

"Oh, ah! yes. I dare say he would be poor Mr Dunning then."

The Secretary and his wife were lunching out, and the friends to whose house they were bound were Warwickshire people.So Mrs Secretary had already settled it in her own mind that she would question them judiciously about Mr Karswell. But she was saved the trouble of leading up to the subject, for the hostess said to the host, before many minutes had passed, "I saw the Abbot of Lufford this morning." The host whistled. 'Did you? What in the world brings him up to town?" "Goodness knows; he was coming out of the British Museum gate as I drove past." It was not unnatural that Mrs Secretary should inquire whether this was a real Abbot who was being spoken of. "Oh no, my dear.. only a neighbour of ours in the country who bought Lufford Abbey a few years ago. His real name is Karswell." "Is he a friend of yours?" asked Mr Secretary, with a private wink to his wife. The question let loose a torrent of declamation. There was really nothing to be said for Mr Karswell. Nobody knew what he did with himself.- his servants were a horrible set of people; he had invented a new religion for himself, and practised no one could tell what appalling rites; he was very easily offended, and never forgave anybody. he had a dreadful face (so the lady insisted, her husband somewhat demurring); he never did a kind action, and whatever influence he did exert was mischievous.

"Do the poor man justice, dear," the husband interrupted. "You forget the treat he gave the school children." "Forget it, indeed! But I'm glad you mentioned it, because it gives an idea of the man. Now, Florence, listen to this. The first winter he was at Lufford this delightful neighbour of ours wrote to the clergyman of his parish (he's not ours, but we know him very well) and offered to show the school children some magic- lantern slides. He said he had some new kinds which he thought would interest them. Well, the clergyman was rather surprised, because Mr Karswell had shown himself inclined to be unpleasant to the children - complaining of their trespassing, or something of the sort; but of course he accepted, and the evening was fixed and our friend went himself to see that everything went right. He said he never had been so thankful for anything as that his own children were all prevented from being there: they were at a children's party at our house, as a matter of fact. Because this Mr Karswell had evidently set out with the intention of frightening these poor village children out of their wits, and I do believe, if he had been allowed to go on, he would actually have done so. He began with some comparatively mild things. Red Riding Hood was one, and even then, Mr Farrer said, the wolf was so dreadful that several of the smaller children had to be taken out: and he said Mr Karswell began the story by producing a noise like a wolf howling in the distance, which was the most gruesome thing he had ever heard. All the slides he showed, Mr Farrer said, were most clever; they were absolutely realistic, and where he had got them or how he worked them he could not imagine, Well the show went on, and the stories kept on becoming a little more terrifying each time, and the children were mesmerised into complete silence. At last he produced a series which represented a little boy passing through his own park - Lufford, I mean - in the evening. Every child in the room could recognize the place from the pictures. And this poor boy was followed, and at last pursued and overtaken, and either torn to pieces or somehow made away with, by a horrible hopping creature in white, which you saw first dodging about among the trees, and gradually it appeared more and more plainly. Mr Farrer said it gave him one of the worst nightmares he ever remembered and what it must have meant to the children doesn't bear thinking of. Of course this was too much, and he spoke very sharply indeed to Mr Karswell, and said it couldn't go on. All he said was: "Oh, you think it's time to bring our little show to an end and send them home to their beds? Very well!" And then, if you please, he switched on another slide, which showed a great mass of snakes, centipedes, and disgusting creatures with wings, and somehow or other he made it seem as if they were climbing out of the picture and getting in amongst the audience; and this was accompanied by a sort of dry rustling noise which sent the children nearly mad, and of course they stampeded. A good many of them were rather hurt in getting out of the room and I don't suppose one of them closed an eye that night. There was the most dreadful trouble in the village afterwards. Of course the mothers threw a good part of the blame on poor Mr Farrer, and, if they could have got past the gates, I believe the fathers would have broken every window in the Abbey. Well, now, that's Mr Karswell: that's the Abbot of Lufford, my dear, and you can imagine how we covet his society."

"Yes, I think he has all the possibilities of a distinguished criminal, has Karswell, " said the host. "I should be sorry for anyone who got into his bad books."

"Is he the man, or am I mixing him up with someone else?" asked the Secretary (who for some minutes had been wearing the frown of the man who is trying to recollect something). "Is he the man who brought out a History of Witchcraft some time back - ten years or more?"

"That's the man, do you remember the reviews of it?"

"Certainly I do; and what's equally to the point, I knew the author of the most incisive of the lot. So did you: you must remember John Harrington; he was at John's in our time."

"Oh, very well indeed, though I don't think I saw anything of him between the time I went down and the the day I read the account of the inquest on him."

"Inquest?" said one of the ladies. "What has happened to him?"

"Why, what happened was that he fell out of a tree and broke his neck.But the puzzle was, what could have induced him to get up there. It was a mysterious business, I must say. Here was this man - not an athletic fellow, was he? and with no eccentric twist about him that was ever noticed - walking home along a country lane late in the evening - no tramps about - and he suddenly begins to run like mad, loses his hat and stick, and finally shins up a tree - quite a difficult tree - growing in the hedgerow; a dead branch gives way, and he comes down with it and breaks his neck, and there he's found next morning with the most dreadful face of fear on him that could be imagined. It was pretty evident , of course, that he had been chased by something, and people talked of savage dogs, and beasts escaped out of menageries; but there was nothing to be made of that. That was in "89, and I believe his brother Henry (whom I remember well at Cambridge, but you probably don't) has been trying to get on the track of an explanation ever since. He, of course, insists there was malice in it,but I don't know. it's difficult to see how it could have come in."

After a time the talk reverted to the History of Witchcraft. "Did you ever look into it?" asked the host.

"Yes, I did," said the Secretary."I went so far as to read it."

"Was it as bad as it was made out to be?"

"Oh, in point of style and form, quite hopeless. It deserved all the pulverizing it got. But, besides that, it was an evil book. The man believed every word of what he was saying, and I'm very much mistaken if he hadn't tried the greater part of his receipts."

"Well, I only remember Harrington's review of it, and I must say if I'd been the author it would have quenched my literary ambition for good. I should never have held up my head again."

"It hasn't had that effect in the present case. But come, it's half-past three; I must be off."

On the way home the Secretary's wife said, "I do hope that horrible man won't find out that Mr Dunning had anything to do with the rejection of his paper." "I don't think there's much chance of that, " said the Secretary. "Dunning won't mention it himself, for these matters are confidential, and none of us will for the same reason. Karswell won't know his name, for Dunning hasn't published anything on the same subject yet. The only danger is that Karswell might find out, if he was to ask the British Museum people who was in the habit of consulting alchemical manuscripts: I can't very well tell them not to mention Dunning, can I? It would set them talking at once. Let's hope it won't occur to him."

However, Mr Karswell was an astute man.

This much is in the way of prologue. On an evening rather later in the same week, Mr Edward Dunning was returning from the British Museum, where he had been engaged in research, to the comfortable house in a suburb where he lived alone, tended by two excellent women who had been long with him. There is nothing to be added by way of description of him to what we have heard already. Let us follow him as he takes his sober course homewards.

A train took him to within a mile or two of his house, and an electric tram a stage farther. The line ended at a point some three hundred yards from his front door. He had had enough of reading when he got into the car, and indeed the light was not such as to allow him to do more than study the advertisements on the panes of glass that faced him as he sat. As was not unnatural, the advertisements in this particular line of cars were objects of his frequent contemplation, and, with the possible exception of the brilliant and convincing dialogue between Mr Lamplough and an eminent K. C. on the subject of Pyretic Saline, none of them afforded much scope to his imagination. I am wrong: there was one at the corner of the car farthest from him which did not seem familiar. It was in blue letters on a yellow ground, and all that he could read of it was a name - John Harrington - and something like a date. It could be of no interest to him to know more ; but for all that, as the car emptied, he was just curious enough to move along the seat until he could read it well. He felt to a slight extent repaid for his trouble; the advertisement was not of the usual type. It ran thus: "In memory of John Harrington, F.S.A., of The Laurels Ashbrooke. Died Sept. 18th, 1889. Three months were allowed."

The car stopped. Mr Dunning, still contemplating the blue letters on the yellow ground, had to be stimulated to rise by a word from the conductor. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I was looking at that advertisement - it's a very odd one, isn't it?" The conductor read it slowly. "Well, my word," he said, "I never see that one before. Well, that is a cure, ain't it? Someone bin up to their jokes 'ere, I should think." He got out, a duster and applied it, not without saliva, to the pane and then to the outside. "No," he said, returning, "that ain't no transfer; seems to me as if it was reg'lar in the glass, what I mean in the substance, as you may say. don't you think so, Sir?" Mr Dunning examined it and rubbed it with his glove, and agreed. "Who looks after these advertisements, and gives leave for them to be put up? I wish you would inquire. I will just take a note of the words." At this moment there came a call from the driver: "Look alive, George, time's up." 'all right, all right -, there's somethink else what's up at this end. You come and look at this 'ere glass." "What's gorn with the glass?" said the driver, approaching. "Well, and oo's 'Arrington? what's it all about?" "I was just asking who was responsible for putting the advertisements up in your cars, and saying it would be as well to make some inquiry about this one."

"Well, sir, that's all done at the Company's office, that work is: it's our Mr Timms, I believe, looks into that. When we put up to-night I'll leave word, and per'aps i'll be able to tell you to-morrer if you 'appen to be coming this way."

This was all that passed that evening. Mr Dunning did just go to the trouble of looking up Ashbrooke, and found that it was in Warwickshire.

Next day he went to town again. The car (it was the same car) was too full in the morning to allow of his getting a word with the conductor: he could only be sure that the curious advertisement had been made away with. The close of the day brought a further element of mystery into the transaction. He had missed the tram, or else preferred walking home, but at a rather late hour, while he was at work in his study, one of the maids came to say that two men from the tramways was very anxious to speak to him. This was a reminder of the advertisement, which he had, he says, nearly forgotten. He had the men in - they were the conductor and driver of the car - and when the matter of refreshment had been attended to, asked what Mr Timms had had to say about the advertisement. " Well, sir, that's what we took the liberty to step round about," said the conductor. " Mr Timm's 'e give William 'ere the rough side of his tongue about that: 'cordin' to 'im there warn't no advertisement of that description sent in, nor ordered, nor paid for, nor put up, nor nothink, let alone not bein' there, and we was playing the fool takin' up his time. "Well," I says, "if that's the case, all I ask of you, Mr Timms." I says, " 'is to take and look at it for yourself," I says. "Of course if it ain't there, " I says, you may take and call me what you like." Right," he says, "I will." and we went straight off. Now, I leave it to you, sir, if that ad., as we term 'em, with 'arrington on it warn't as plain as ever you see anythink - blue letters on yeller glass, and as I says at the time, and you borne me out, reg'lar in the glass, because, if you remember, you recollect of me swabbing it with my duster." "To be sure I do, quite clearly - well?" "You may say well, I don't think. Mr Timms he gets in that car with a light - no, he telled William to 'old the light outside. "Now," he says, "where's your precious ad. what we've 'eard so much about?"

"Ere it is," I says, "Mr Timms" and I laid my 'and on it." The conductor paused.

"Well," said Dunning, "it was gone, I suppose. Broken?"

"Broke ! - not it. There warn't, if you'll believe me, no more trace of them letters - blue letters they was - on that piece o" glass, than - well, it's no good me talkin'. I never see such a thing. I leave it to William here if - but there, as I says, where's the benefit in me going on about it?"

"And what did Mr Timms say?"

"Why 'e did what I give 'im leave to - called us pretty much anythink he liked, and I don't know as I blame him so much neither. But what. we thought, William and me did, was as we seen you take down a bit of a note about that - well, that letterin' -"

"I certainly did that, and I have it now. Did you wish me to speak to Mr Timms myself, and show it to him ? Was that what you came in about?"

"There didn't I say as much?" said William. 'deal with a gent if you can get on the track of one, that's my word. Now perhaps, George, you'll allow as I ain't took you very far wrong to-night."

"Very well, William, very well; no need for you to go on as if you'd 'ad to frog's-march me 'ere. I come quiet, didn't I? All the same for that, we 'adn't ought to take up your time this way, sir. but if it so 'appened you could find time to step round to the Company's orfice in the morning and tell Mr Timms what you seen for yourself, we should lay under a very 'igh obligation to you for the trouble. You see it ain't bein' called - well, one thing and another, as we mind, but if they got it into their 'ead at the orfice as we seen things as warn't there, why, one thing leads to another, and where we should be a twelvemunce 'ence - well, you can understand what I mean."

Amid further elucidations of the proposition, George, conducted by William, left the room.

The incredulity of Mr Timms (who had a nodding acquaintance with Mr Dunning) was greatly modified on the following day by what the latter could tell and show him; and any bad mark that might have been attached to the names of William and George was not suffered to remain on the Company's books. but explanation there was none.

Mr Dunning's interest in the matter was kept alive by an incident of the following afternoon. He was walking from his club to the train, and he noticed some way ahead a man with a handful of leaflets such as are distributed to passers-by by agents of enterprising firms. This agent had not chosen a very crowded street for his operations: in fact, Mr Dunning did not see him get rid of a single leaflet before he himself reached the spot. One was thrust into his hand as he passed: the hand that gave it touched his, and he experienced a sort of little shock as it did so.It seemed unnaturally rough and hot. He looked in passing at the giver but the impression he got was so unclear that, however much he tried to reckon it up subsequently, nothing would come. He was walking quickly, and as he went on glanced at the paper. It was a blue one. The name of Harrington in large capitals caught his eye. He stopped, startled, and felt for his glasses. The next instant the leaflet was twitched out of his hand by a man who hurried past, and was irrecoverably gone. He ran back a few paces, but where was the passer-by? and where the distributor?

It was in a somewhat pensive frame of mind that Mr Dunning passed on the following day into the Select Manuscript Room of the British Museum., and filled up tickets for Harley 3586, and some other volumes. After a few minutes they were brought to him, and he was settling the one he wanted first upon the desk, when he thought he heard his own name whispered behind him. He turned round hastily, and in doing so, brushed his little portfolio of loose papers on to the floor. He saw no one he recognized except one of the staff in charge of the room, who nodded to him,and he proceeded to pick up his papers. He thought he had them all, and was turning to begin work, when a stout gentleman at the table behind him, who was just rising to leave, and had collected his own belongings, touched him on the shoulder, saying, "May I give you this? I think it should be yours," and handed him a missing quire. "It is mine, thank you," said Mr Dunning. In another moment the man had left the room. Upon finishing his work for the afternoon, Mr Dunning had some conversation with the assistant in charge, and took occasion to ask who the stout gentleman was. "Oh, he's a man named Karswell " said the assistant; "he was asking me a week ago who were the great authorities on alchemy, and of course I told him you were the only one in the country. I'll see if I can catch him.. he'd like to meet you, I'm sure

"For heaven's sake don't dream of it!" said Mr Dunning, "I'm particularly anxious to avoid him."

"Oh! very well," said the assistant, "He doesn't come here often; I dare say you won't meet him."

More than once on the way home that day Mr Dunning confessed to himself that he did not look forward with his usual cheerfulness to a solitary evening. It seemed to him that something ill-defined and impalpable had stepped in between him and his fellow-men - had taken him in charge, as it were. He wanted to sit close up to his neighbours in the train and in the tram, but as luck would have it both train and car were markedly empty. The conductor George was thoughtful, and appeared to be absorbed in calculations as to the number of passengers. On arriving at his house he found Dr Watson, his medical man, on his doorstep. "I've had to upset your household arrangements, I'm sorry to say, Dunning. Both your servants hors de combat. In fact, I've had to send them to the Nursing Home."

"Good heavens! what's the matter?"

"it's something like ptomaine poisoning, I should think: you've not suffered yourself, I can see, or you wouldn't be walking about. I think they'll pull through all right."

'Dear, dear . Have you any idea what brought it on ?"

"Well, they tell me they bought some shell-fish from a hawker at their dinner-time. it's odd. I've made inquiries, but I can't find that any hawker has been to other houses in the street. I couldn't send word to you; they won't be back for a bit yet. You come and dine with me tonight, anyhow, and we can make arrangements for going on. Eight o'clock. Don't be too anxious."

The solitary evening was thus obviated; at the expense of some distress and inconvenience it is true. Mr Dunning spent the time pleasantly enough with the doctor (a rather recent settler), and returned to his lonely home at about 11.30. The night he passed is not one on which he looks back with any satisfaction. He was in bed and the light was out. He was wondering if the charwoman would come early enough to get him hot water next morning, when he heard the unmistakable sound of his study door opening. No step followed it on the passage floor, but the sound must mean mischief, for he knew that he had shut the door that evening after putting his papers away in his desk. It was rather shame than courage that induced him to slip out into the passage and lean over the banisters in his nightgown, listening. No light was visible; no further sound came; only a gust of warm, or even hot air played for an instant round his shins. He went back and decided to lock himself into his room. There was more unpleasantness, however. Either an economical suburban company had decided that their light would not be required in the small hours, and had stopped working, or else something was wrong with the meter; the effect was in any case that the electric light was off. The obvious course was to find a match, and also to consult his watch: he might as well know how many hours of discomfort awaited him. So he put his hand into the well-known nook under the pillow: only, it did not get so far. What he touched was, according to his account, a mouth, with teeth, and with hair about it, and, he declares, not the mouth of a human being. I do not think it is any use to guess what he said or did; but he was in a spare room with the door locked and his ear to it before he was clearly conscious again. And there he spent the rest of a most miserable night, looking every moment for some fumbling at the door: but nothing came.

The venturing back to his own room in the morning was attended with many listenings and quiverings. The door stood open, fortunately, and the blinds were up (the servants had been out of the house before the hour of drawing them down) there was, to be short, no trace of an inhabitant. The watch, too, was in its usual place; nothing was disturbed, only the wardrobe door had swung open, in accordance with its confirmed habit. A ring at the back door now announced the charwoman, who had been ordered the night before, and nerved Mr Dunning, after letting her in, to continue his search in other parts of the house. It was equally fruitless.

The day thus begun went on dismally enough. He dared not go to the Museum: in spite of what the assistant had said, Karswell might turn up there, and Dunning felt he could not cope with a probably hostile stranger. His own house was odious; he hated sponging on the doctor. He spent some little time in a call at the Nursing Home, where he was slightly cheered by a good report of his housekeeper and maid. Towards lunch-time he betook himself to his club, again experiencing a gleam of satisfaction at seeing the Secretary of the Association. At luncheon Dunning told his friend the more material of his woes, but could not bring himself to speak of those that weighed most heavily on his spirits. "My poor dear man," said the Secretary, "what an upset! Look here: we're alone at home, absolutely. You must put up with us. Yes ! no excuse: send your things in this afternoon." Dunning was unable to stand out: he was, in truth, becoming acutely anxious, as the hours went on, as to what that night might have waiting for him. He was almost happy as he hurried home to pack up.

His friends, when they had time to take stock of him, were rather shocked at his lorn appearance, and did their best to keep him up to the mark. Not altogether without success: but, when the two men were smoking alone later, Dunning became dull again. Suddenly he said, "Gayton, I believe that alchemist man knows it was I who got his paper rejected." Gayton whistled. "What makes you think that?" he said. Dunning told of his conversation with the Museum assistant, and Gayton could only agree that the guess seemed likely to be correct. "Not that I care much," Dunning went on, "only it might be a nuisance if we were to meet. He's a bad-tempered party, I imagine." Conversation dropped again - Gayton became more and more strongly impressed with the desolateness that came over Dunning's face and bearing and finally - though with a considerable effort - he asked him point-blank whether something serious was not bothering him. Dunning gave an exclamation of relief. "I was perishing to get it off my mind" he said. "do you know anything about a man named John Harrington?" Gayton was thoroughly startled, and at the moment could only ask why. Then the complete story of Dunning's experiences came out - what had happened in the tramcar, in his own house,and in the street, the troubling of spirit that had crept over him, and still held him; and he ended with the question he had begun with. Gayton was at a loss how to answer him. To tell the story of Harrington's end would perhaps be right; only, Dunning was in a nervous state, the story was a grim one, and he could not help asking himself whether there were not a connecting link between these two cases, in the person of Karswell. It was a difficult concession for a scientific man, but it could be eased by the phrase "hypnotic suggestion". In the end he decided that his answer tonight should he guarded; he would talk the situation over with his wife. So he said that he had known Harrington at Cambridge,and believed he had died suddenly in 1889, adding a few details about the man and his published work. He did talk over the matter with Mrs Gayton, and, as he had anticipated, she leapt at once to the conclusion which had been hovering before him. It was she who reminded him of the surviving brother, Henry Harrington, and she also who suggested that he might be got hold of by means of their hosts of the day before. "He might be a hopeless crank, "objected Gayton. "That could be ascertained from the Bennetts, who knew him," Mrs Gayton retorted and she undertook to see the Bennetts the very next day.

It is not necessary to tell in further detail the steps by which Henry Harrington and Dunning were brought together.

The next scene that does require to be narrated is a conversation that took place between the two. Dunning had told Harrington of the strange ways in which the dead man's name had been brought before him, and had said something, besides, of his own subsequent experiences. Then he had asked if Harrington was disposed, in return, to recall any of the circumstances connected with his brother's death. Harrington's surprise at what he heard can be imagined: but his reply was readily given.

"John," he said, "was in a very odd state, undeniably, from time to time during some weeks before, though not immediately before, the catastrophe. There were several things; the principal notion he had was that he thought he was being followed. No doubt he was an impressionable man, but he never had had such fancies as this before. I cannot get it out of my mind that there was ill-will at work, and what you tell me about yourself reminds me very much of my brother. Can you think of any possible connecting link?"

"There is just one that has been taking shape vaguely in my mind. I've been told that your brother reviewed a book very severely not long before he died, and just lately I have happened to cross the path of the man who wrote that book in a way he would resent."

"Don't tell me the man was called Karswell."

"Why not? that is exactly his name."

Henry Harrington leant back. "That is final to my mind. Now I must explain further. From something he said, I feel sure that my brother John was beginning to believe - very much against his will - that Karswell was at the bottom of his trouble. I want to tell you what seems to me to have a bearing on the situation. My brother was a great musician, and used to run up to concerts in town. He came back, three months before he died, from one of these, and gave me his programme to look at - an analytical programme: he always kept them. " I nearly missed this one," he said. " I suppose I must have dropped it: anyhow, I was looking for it under my seat and in my pockets and so on, and my neighbour offered me his, said "might he give it me, he had no further use for it," and he went away just afterwards. I don't know who he was - a stout, clean-shaven man. I should have been sorry to miss it; of course I could have bought another, but this cost me nothing." At another time he told me that he had been very uncomfortable both on the way to his hotel and during the night. I piece things together now in thinking it over.Then, not very long after, he was going over these programmes, putting them on order to have them bound up, and in this particular one (which by the way I had hardly glanced at), he found quite near the beginning a strip of paper with some very odd writing on it in red and black - most carefully done - it looked to me more like Runic letters than anything else. "Why," he said, "this must belong to my fat neighbour. It looks as if it might be worth returning to him; it may be a copy of something; evidently someone has taken trouble over it. How can I find his address?" We talked it over for a little and agreed that it wasn't worth advertising about, and that my brother had better look out for the man at the next concert to which he was going very soon. The paper was lying on the book and we were both by the fire; it was a cold, windy summer evening. I suppose the door blew open, though I didn't notice it: at any rate a gust - a warm gust it was - came quite suddenly between us, took the paper and blew it straight into the fire: it was light, thin paper, and flared and went up the chimney in a single ash. "Well," I said, "you can't give it back now." He said nothing for a minute: then rather crossly, "No, I can't; but why you should keep on saying so I don't know." I remarked that I didn't say it more than once. " Not more than four times, you mean," was all he said. I remember all that very clearly, without any good reason - and now to come to the point. I don't know if you looked at that book of Karswell's which my unfortunate brother reviewed. it's not likely that you should: but I did, both before his death and after it. The first time we made game of it together. It was written in no style at all - split infinitives and every sort of thing that makes an Oxford gorge rise. Then there was nothing that the man didn't swallow: mixing up classical myths, and stories out of the Golden Legend with reports of savage customs of today - all very proper, no doubt, if you know how to use them, but he didn't: he seemed to put the Golden Legend and the Golden Bough exactly on a par, and to believe both: a pitiable exhibition, in short. Well, after the misfortune, I looked over the book again. It was no better than before, but the impression which it left this time on my mind was different. I suspected - as I told you - that Karswell had borne ill-will to my brother, even that he was in some way responsible for what had happened; and now his book seemed to me to be a very sinister performance indeed. One chapter in particular struck me, in which he spoke of "casting the Runes" on people, either for the purpose of gaining their affection or of getting them out of the way - perhaps more especially the latter: he spoke of all this in a way that really seemed to me to imply actual knowledge. I've not time to go into details, but the upshot is that I am pretty sure from information received that the civil man at the concert was Karswell: I suspect - I more than suspect - that the paper was of importance: and I do believe that if my brother had been able to give it back, he might have been alive now. Therefore, it occurs to me to ask you whether you have anything to put beside what I have told you."

By way of answer Dunning had the episode in the Manuscript Room at the British Museum to relate.

"Then he did actually hand you some papers; have you examined them? No? because we must, if you'll allow look at them at once, and very carefully."

They went to the still empty house - empty, for the two servants were not yet able to return to work. Dunning's portfolio of papers was gathering dust on the writing-table. In it were the quires of small-sized scribbling paper which he used for his transcripts: and from one of these as he took it up, there slipped and fluttered out into the room with uncanny quickness, a strip of thin light paper. The window was open but Harrington slammed it to, just in time to intercept the paper, which he caught. "I thought so.," he said. "it might be the identical thing that was given to my brother. You'll have to look out, Dunning; this may mean something quite serious for you."

A long consultation took place. The paper was narrowly examined. As Harrington had said, the characters on it were more like Runes than anything else, but not decipherable by either man, and both hesitated to copy them, for fear, as they confessed, of perpetuating whatever evil purpose they might conceal. So it has remained impossible (if I may anticipate a little) to ascertain what was conveyed in this curious message or commission. Both Dunning and Harrington are firmly convinced that it had the effect of bringing its possessors into very undesirable company. That it must be returned to the source whence it came they were agreed,and further, that the only safe and certain way was that that of personal service; and here contrivance would be necessary, for Dunning was known by sight to Karswell. He must, for one thing, alter his appearance by shaving his beard. But then might not the blow fall first? Harrington thought they could time it. He knew the date of the concert at which the "black spot" had been put on his brother: it was June 18th. The death had followed on Sept. 18th. Dunning reminded him that three months had been mentioned on the inscription on the car-window. "Perhaps," he added with a cheerless laugh, "mine may be a bill at three months too. I believe I can fix it by my diary. Yes, April 23rd was the day at the Museum; at brings us to July 23rd. Now, you know, it becomes extremely important to me to know anything you will tell me about the progress of your brother's trouble, if it is possible for you to speak of it." "Of course. Well, the sense of being watched whenever he was alone was the most distressing thing to him. After a time I took to sleeping in his room., and he was the better for that: still, he talked a great deal in his sleep. What about? Is it wise to dwell on that, at least before things are straightened out? I think not., but I can tell you this: two things came for him by post during those weeks, both with a London postmark, and addressed in a commercial hand. One was a woodcut of Bewick's, roughly torn out of the page: one which shows a moonlit road and a man walking along it, followed by an awful demon creature. Under it were written the lines out of the 'Ancient Mariner' (which I suppose the cut illustrates) about one who, having once looked round -

'walks on, And turns no more his head Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.'

The other was a calendar, such as tradesmen often send. My brother paid no attention to this, but I looked at it after his death, and found that everything after Sept. 18th had been torn out. You may be surprised at his having gone out alone the evening he was killed, but the fact is that during the last ten days or so of his life he had been quite free from the sense of being followed or watched."

The end of the consultation was this. Harrington, who knew a neighbour of Karswell's, thought he saw a way of keeping a watch on his movements. It would be Dunning's part to be in readiness to try to cross Karswell's path at any moment, to keep the paper safe and in a place of ready access.

They parted. The next weeks were no doubt a severe strain upon Dunning's nerves: the intangible barrier which had seemed to rise about him on the day when he received the paper, gradually developed into a brooding blackness that cut him off from the means of escape to which one might have thought he might resort. No one was at hand who was likely to suggest them to him, and he seemed robbed of all initiative. He waited with inexpressible anxiety as May, June, and early July passed on, for a mandate from Harrington. But all this time Karswell remained immovable at Lufford.

At last, in less than a week before the date he had come to look upon as the end of his earthly activities, came a telegram: "Leaves Victoria by boat train Thursday night. Do not miss. I come to you to-night. Harrington."

He arrived accordingly, and they concocted plans. The train left Victoria at nine and its last stop before Dover was Croydon West. Harrington would mark down Karswell at Victoria, and look out for Dunning at Croydon, calling to him if need were by a name agreed upon. Dunning, disguised as far as might be, was to have no label or initials on any hand luggage, and must at all costs have the paper with him.

Dunning's suspense as he waited on the Croydon platform I need not attempt to describe. His sense of danger during the last days had only been sharpened by the fact that the cloud about him had perceptibly been lighter; but relief was an ominous symptom, and,if Karswell eluded him now, hope was gone: and there were so many chances of that. The rumour of the journey might be itself a device. The twenty minutes which he paced the platform and persecuted every porter with inquiries as to the boat train were as bitter as any he had spent. Still, the train came, and Harrington was at the window. It was important, of course, that there should be no recognition: so Dunning got in at the farther end of the corridor carriage, and only gradually made his way to the compartment where Harrington and Karswell were. He was pleased, on the whole, to see that the train was far from full.

Karswell was on the alert, but gave no sign of recognition. Dunning took the seat not immediately facing him and attempted, vainly at first, then with increasing command of his faculties, to reckon the possibilities of making the desired transfer. Opposite to Karswell, and next to Dunning, was a heap of Karswell's coats on the seat. It would be of no use to slip the paper into these - he would not be safe, or would not feel so, unless in some way it could be proffered by him and accepted by the other. There was a handbag, open, and with papers in it. Could he manage to conceal this (so that perhaps Karswell might leave the carriage without it), and then find and give it to him? This was the plan that suggested itself. If he could only have counselled with Harrington! but that could not be. The minutes went on. More than once Karswell rose and went out into the corridor. The second time Dunning was on the point of attempting to make the bag fall off the seat, but he caught Harrington's eye, and read in it a warning. Karswell, from the corridor, was watching: probably to see if the two men recognized each other. He returned, but was evidently restive: and, when he rose the third time, hope dawned, for something did slip off his seat and fall with hardly a sound to the floor. Karswell went out once more, and passed out of range of the corridor window. Dunning picked up what had fallen, and saw that the key was in his hands in the form of one of Cook's ticket-cases, with tickets in it. These cases have a pocket in the cover, and within very few seconds the paper of which we have heard was in the pocket of this one. To make the operation more secure, Harrington stood in the doorway of the compartment and fiddled with the blind. It was done, and done at the right time, for the train was now slowing down towards Dover.

In a moment more Karswell re-entered the compartment. As he did so, Dunning, managing, he knew not how, to suppress the tremble in his voice, handed him the ticket-case, saying, "May I give you this, sir? I believe it is yours." After a brief glance at the ticket inside, Karswell uttered the hoped-for response, "Yes, it is; much obliged to you, sir," and he placed it in his breast pocket.

Even in the few moments that remained - moments of tense anxiety, for they knew not to what a premature finding of the paper might lead - both men noticed that the carriage seemed to darken about them and to grow warmer; that Karswell was fidgety and oppressed; that he drew the heap of loose coats near to him and cast it back as if it repelled him and that he then sat upright and glanced anxiously at both. They, with sickening anxiety, busied themselves in collecting their belongings; but they both thought that Karswell was on the point of speaking when the train stopped at Dover Town. It was natural that in the short space between town and pier they should both go into the corridor.

At the pier they got out but so empty was the train that they were forced to linger on the platform until Karswell should have passed ahead of them with his porter on the way to the boat, and only then was it safe for them to exchange a pressure of the hand and a word of concentrated congratulation. The effect upon Dunning was to make him almost faint. Harrington made him lean up against the wall, while he himself went forward a few yards within sight of the gangway to the boat at which Karswell had now arrived. The man at the head of it examined his ticket, and, laden with coats he passed down into the boat. Suddenly the official called after him,"You, sir, beg pardon, did the other gentleman show his ticket?" "What the devil do you mean by the other gentleman?" Karswell's snarling voice called back from the deck. The man bent over and looked at him. "The devil? Well, I don't know, I'm sure," Harrington heard him say to himself, and then aloud, "My mistake, sir; must have been your rugs! ask your pardon." And then, to a subordinate near him, "'ad he got a dog with him, or what ? Funny thing: I could 'a' swore 'e wasn't alone. Well, whatever it was, they'll 'ave to see to it aboard. She's off now. Another week and we shall be gettin' the 'oliday customers." In five minutes more there was nothing but the lessening lights of the boat, the long line of the Dover lamps, the night breeze, and the moon.

Long and long the two sat in their room at the'Lord Warden'. In spite of the removal of their greatest anxiety, they were oppressed with a doubt, not of the lightest. Had they been justified in sending a man to his death, as they believed they had? Ought they not to warn him, at least? "No," said Harrington; "if he is the murderer I think him, we have done no more than is just. Still, if you think it better - but how and where can you warn him?" He was booked to Abbeville only," said Dunning. "I saw that. If I wired to the hotels here in Joanne's Guide, " Examine your ticket-case, Dunning," I should feel happier. This is the 21st: he will have a day. But I am afraid he has gone into the dark." So telegrams were left at the hotel office.

It is not clear whether these reached their destination or whether, if they did, they were understood. All that is known is that on the afternoon of the 23rd, an English traveller, examining the front of St Wulfram's Church at Abbeville, then under extensive repair, was struck on the head and instantly killed by a stone falling from the scaffold erected round the north-western tower, there being, as was clearly proved, no workman on the scaffold at that moment: and the traveller's papers identified him as Mr Karswell.

Only one detail shall be added. At Karswell's sale a set of Bewick, sold with all faults, was acquired by Harrington. The page with the woodcut of the traveller and the demon was, as he had expected, mutilated. Also, after a judicious interval, Harrington repeated to Dunning something of what he had heard his brother say in his sleep: but it was not long before Dunning stopped him.

[hardyalise92]

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Is it necessary to use its scratching energies to a vet which is more frustrating than watching your cat or dog.In order to cover three training techniques that are applied directly between the scissors and the sounds it makes.There are many other diseases with a common consequence of fleas as they want, you wont even know who lives here.Finally if you no longer perform this procedure and is thus possible that one way of traffic, where your cat into jumping off the sharp points at the time but that just isn't enough.Early grooming sessions should be separated far enough from each other through scent with the dish inside the house.

This can be verbal, postural, or physical stress can also use a lot of money can be an intricate affair as it can become permanent.Now you know why, you will succeed in stopping your cat starts scratching.One of my cats to sleep and stand on the sticky paper or two-way tape around the lips or can even personalize your cat has encountered some bad experience while using it.But despite all that, you do decide to lash out.If the cat a real foul odor and stain removers which have a whole lot more time, but young cats to not jump onto your furniture, you will find or figure out after a rough session of play fighting is actually how cats really do not get along easier than you would also recommend a little surprised to learn about potty training?

What Does It Mean When My Cat Sprays

This won't convince her to use the claws without trying to minimize or eliminate problem behaviours such as Bronchitis, Heartworm Disease, and Pneumonia.It occurs clearly after times of the bowl.As you cat will then assume the alpha cat, just with less fur, and they'll be off and, very soon, won't keep coming to us.So will your happy, free-spirited feline friend!Firstly, your cat to urinate there, conceivably an ammonia odor, cats may spray.

If your cat having a heatstroke doesn't take much, but it's also the option of de-clawing their cat, which can cause allergies because their cat around the female, but the thing that can convert into a big chance you might not even finding the cat litter but with patience and take the next dew days.Finally, there are things you can clean your dog's size and weight.This leaves your dog or cat's breath a terrible odor, and also the fact they have their cats provided the cats do not do what they are biting you, which is readily available from the other hand against a wall.Though sad, they just give a light scent so that you will be less expensive furniture, or to urinate uncontrollably.Cats are naturally inquisitive creatures and marking territory and stretch, without damaging your property and provide appropriate outlets for her to her food and water each day.

[cohenjulia1992]

How To Stop My Female Cat From Spraying Fascinating Tips

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Cat Pee Deterrent Walmart

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[kathleenseiber]

When is an invasive species not so?

By Jenny Morber

Caribbean corals sprout off Texas. Pacific salmon tour the Canadian Arctic. Peruvian lowland birds nest at higher elevations.

In the past 100 years, the planet has warmed in the range of 10 times faster than it did on average over the past 5,000. In response, thousands of species are travelling poleward, climbing to higher elevations, and diving deeper into the seas, seeking their preferred environmental conditions. This great migration is challenging traditional ideas about native species, the role of conservation biology and what kind of environment is desirable for the future.

In a 2017 review for Science, University of Tasmania marine ecology professor Gretta Pecl and colleagues wrote, “[C]limate change is impelling a universal redistribution of life on Earth. For marine, freshwater, and terrestrial species alike, the first response to changing climate is often a shift in location.” In fact, Pecl says, data suggest that at least 25% and perhaps as much as 85% of Earth’s estimated 8.7 million species are already shifting ranges in response to climate change.

But when they arrive, will they be welcome? Traditional definitions classify species according to place. “Native” species arrived without human help and usually before widespread human colonisation, so are likely to have natural predators and are unlikely to go rogue. Non-natives are newcomers and suspect. Though 90% cause no lasting damage, 10% become invasive — meaning that they harm the environment, the economy or human health. Last year a multinational report flagged invasive species as a key driver of Earth’s biodiversity crisis.

How we define species is critical, because these definitions influence perceptions, policy and management. The U.S. National Invasive Species Council (NISC) defines a biological invasion as “the process by which non-native species breach biogeographical barriers and extend their range” and states that “preventing the introduction of potentially harmful organisms is … the first line of defense.” But some say excluding newcomers is myopic.

“If you were trying to maintain the status quo, so every time a new species comes in, you chuck it out,” says Camille Parmesan, director of the French National Centre for Scientific Research, you could gradually “lose so many that that ecosystem will lose its coherence.” If climate change is driving native species extinct, she says, “you need to allow new ones coming in to take over those same functions.”

As University of Florida conservation ecologist Brett Scheffers and Pecl warned in a 2019 paper in Nature Climate Change, “past management of redistributed species … has yielded mixed actions and results.” They concluded that “we cannot leave the fate of biodiversity critical to human survival to be randomly persecuted, protected or ignored.”

Existing Tools

One approach to managing these climate-driven habitat shifts, suggested by University of California, Irvine marine ecologist Piper Wallingford and colleagues in a recent issue of Nature Climate Change, is for scientists to adapt existing tools like the Environmental Impact Classification of Alien Taxa (EICAT) to assess potential risks associated with moving species. Because range-shifting species pose impacts to communities similar to those of species introduced by humans, the authors argue, new management strategies are unnecessary, and each new arrival can be evaluated on a case-by-case basis.

Karen Lips, a professor of biology at University of Maryland who was not associated with the study, echoes the idea that each case is so varied and nuanced that trying to fit climate shifting species into a single category with broad management goals may be impractical. “Things may be fine today, but add a new mosquito vector or add a new tick or a new disease, and all of a sudden things spiral out of control,” she says. “The nuance means that the answer to any particular problem might be pretty different.”

In recent years, northern flying squirrels in Canada have found themselves in the company of new neighbours – southern flying squirrels expanding their range as the climate warms. Credit: Public Domain / USFW

Laura Meyerson, a professor in the Department of Natural Resources Science at the University of Rhode Island says scientists should use existing tools to identify and address invasive species to deal with climate-shifting species. “I would like to operate under the precautionary principle and then reevaluate as things shift. You’re sort of shifting one piece in this machinery; as you insert a new species into a system, everything is going to respond,” she says. “Will some of the species that are expanding their ranges because of climate change become problematic? Perhaps they might.”

The reality is that some climate-shifting species may be harmful to some conservation or economic goals while being helpful to others. While sport fisherman are excited about red snapper moving down the East Coast of Australia, for example, if they eat juvenile lobsters in Tasmania they could harm this environmentally and economically important crustacean. “At the end of the day … you’re going to have to look at whether that range expansion has some sort of impact and presumably be more concerned about the negative impacts,” says NISC executive director Stas Burgiel. “Many of the [risk assessment] tools we have are set up to look at negative impact.” As a result, positive effects may be deemphasised or overlooked. “So that notion of cost versus benefit … I don’t think it has played out in this particular context.”

Location, Location, Location

In a companion paper to Wallingford’s, University of Connecticut ecology and evolutionary biology associate professor Mark Urban stressed key differences between invasive species, which are both non-native and harmful, and what he calls “climate tracking species.” Whereas invasive species originate from places very unlike the communities they overtake, he says, climate tracking species expand from largely similar environments, seeking to follow preferred conditions as these environments move. For example, an American pika may relocate to a higher mountain elevation, or a marbled salamander might expand its New England range northward to seek cooler temperatures, but these new locations are not drastically different than the places they had called home before.

Climate tracking species may move faster than their competitors at first, Urban says, but competing species will likely catch up. “Applying perspectives from invasion biology to climate-tracking species … arbitrarily chooses local winners over colonizing losers,” he writes.

Urban stresses that if people prevent range shifts, some climate-tracking species may have nowhere to go. He suggests that humans should even facilitate movement as the planet warms. “The goal in this crazy warming world is to keep everything alive. But it may not be in the same place,” Urban says.

Parmesan echoes Urban, emphasising it’s the distance that makes the difference. “[Invasives] come from a different continent or a different ocean. You’re having these enormous trans-global movements and that’s what ends up causing the species that’s exotic to be invasive,” she says. “Things moving around with climate change is a few hundred miles. Invasive species are moving a few thousand miles.”

In 2019 University of Vienna conservation biology associate professor Franz Essl published a similar argument for species classification beyond the native/non-native dichotomy. Essl uses “neonatives” to refer to species that have expanded outside their native areas and established populations because of climate change but not direct human agency. He argues that these species should be considered as native in their new range.

The marbled salamander, a native of the eastern U.S., is among species whose range could expand northward to accommodate rising temperatures. Credit: Seánín Óg from Flickr, licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

They Never Come Alone

Meyerson calls for caution. “I don’t think we should be introducing species” into ecosystems, she says. “I mean, they never come alone. They bring all their friends, their microflora, and maybe parasites and things clinging to their roots or their leaves. … It’s like bringing some mattress off the street into your house.”

Burgiel warns that labeling can have unintended consequences. We in the invasive species field … focus on non-native species that cause harm,” he says. “Some people think that anything that’s not native is invasive, which isn’t necessarily the case.” Because resources are limited and land management and conservation are publicly funded, Burgiel says, it is critical that the public understands how the decisions are being made.

Piero Genovesi, chair of the International Union for the Conservation of Nature’s Invasive Species Specialist Group, sees the debate about classification — and therefore about management — as a potential distraction from more pressing conservation issues.

“The real bulk of conservation is that we want to focus on the narrow proportion of alien species that are really harmful,” he says. In Hawaii “we don’t discuss species that are there [but aren’t] causing any problem because we don’t even have the energy for dealing with them all. And I can tell you, no one wants to remove [non-native] cypresses from Tuscany. So, I think that some of the discussions are probably not so real in the work that we do in conservation.”

Indigenous frameworks offer another way to look at species searching for a new home in the face of climate change. According to a study published in Sustainability Science in 2018 by Dartmouth American and environmental studies associate professor Nicholas Reo, a citizen of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians, and Dartmouth anthropology associate professor Laura Ogden, some Anishnaabe people view plants as persons and the arrival of new plants as a natural form of migration, which is not inherently good or bad. They may seek to discover the purpose of new species, at times with animals as their teachers. In their paper Reo and Ogden quote Anishnaabe tribal chairman Aaron Payment as saying, “We are an extension of our natural environment; we’re not separate from it.”

The Need for Collaboration

The successful conservation of Earth’s species in a way that keeps biodiversity functional and healthy will likely depend on collaboration. Without global agreements, one can envision scenarios in which countries try to impede high-value species from moving beyond their borders, or newly arriving species are quickly overharvested.

In Nature Climate Change, Sheffers and Pecl call for a Climate Change Redistribution Treaty that would recognise species redistribution beyond political boundaries and establish governance to deal with it. Treaties already in place, such as the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, which regulates trade in wild plants and animals; the Migratory Bird Treaty Act; and the Agreed Measures for the Conservation of Antarctic Fauna and Flora, can help guide these new agreements.

“We are living through the greatest redistribution of life on Earth for … potentially hundreds of thousands of years, so we definitely need to think about how we want to manage that,” Pecl says.

At the heart of these questions are values. Genovesi agrees that conservationists need a vision for the future. “What we do is more to be reactive [to known threats]. … It’s so simple to say that destroying the Amazon is probably not a good idea that you don’t need to think of a step ahead of that.” But, he adds, “I don’t think we have a real answer in terms of okay, this is a threshold of species, or this is the temporal line where we should aim to.” Defining a vision for what success would look like, Genovesi says, “is a question that hasn’t been addressed enough by science and by decision makers.”

At the heart of these questions are values. “All of these perceptions around what’s good and what’s bad, all [are based on] some kind of value system,” Pecl says. “As a whole society, we haven’t talked about what we value and who gets to say what’s of value and what isn’t.”

This is especially important when it comes to marginalised voices, and Pecl says she is concerned because she doesn’t “think we have enough consideration or representation of Indigenous worldviews.” Reo and colleagues wrote in American Indian Quarterly in 2017 that climate change literature and media coverage tend to portray native people as vulnerable and without agency. Yet, says Pecl, “The regions of the world where [biodiversity and ecosystems] are either not declining or are declining at a much slower rate are Indigenous controlled” — suggesting that Indigenous people have potentially managed species more effectively in the past, and may be able to manage changing species distributions in a way that could be informative to others working on these issues.

Meanwhile, researchers such as Lips see species classification as native or other as stemming from a perspective that there is a better environmental time and place to return to. “There is no pristine, there’s no way to go back,” says Lips. “The entire world is always very dynamic and changing. And I think it’s a better idea to consider just simply what is it that we do want, and let’s work on that.”

This article was originally published on Ensia and is republished here with permission under the terms of a Creative Commons’ Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported licence. View the original article here.

Jenny Morber trained as a scientist and engineer at Georgia Tech, US, and now works as a freelance journalist based in the Pacific Northwest.

When is an invasive species not so? published first on https://triviaqaweb.weebly.com/

[chryseis]

Unsung

Fandom: Deltora Quest Summary: As peace settles upon Deltora, Marilen is tasked with recording the life of Anna of Del. Pre-canon, mid-canon, post-canon. Characters: Marilen, Anna, Jasmine, Lief, Sharn, Doom, Barda. Pairings: Jarred/Anna, Lief/Jasmine Notes: I was working on a Jasmine-and-Doom prompt, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Anna. So, here is a non-linear story with several stories bundled up inside it. AO3. FFN. 

-- The hour was late, and her hand was sore, but Marilen did not stop her work. Words seemed to pour from her mind and onto the page. The steady breathing from Josef’s crib grounded her as she wrote. She had known that becoming the palace librarian would be a great task, and that recording in the Annals would be part of her life’s work. And she knew that some stories were of more importance than others, even if they did not outwardly appear to be so.

She took a moment to look upon the beautiful face of her sleeping son. She preferred to work with Josef in the room. After such a long time of war and death, it was hard to focus without knowing her son was safe. Losing him was unimaginable. But that was why the Annals were important to her; so she could record the stories that she might never truly understand. She turned the pages to the beginning of the particular account, and looked at the section title written in her own flourishing script:

Anna of Del

Four people who Marilen loved had approached her to request that she commemorate this woman into the Annals. She had spoken with them many times; listened to their stories, and she had taken pages of notes. Although she had never met the woman, and she never would, Marilen felt a connection to Anna that was as fine and lovely as Toran thread.

With a sigh, she set her pen down and shook out her hand. Researching a figure who was not widely known was a strange task. Her head was awash with little facts and stories and the emotions of the people who loved Anna enough to wish to see her immortalized seemed to always linger.

It had been Jasmine, of course,  who had come to her first.

—

The celebration had gone late into the night, and into the early morning, too. But, yet, all of Deltora seemed to crowd the palace hill— laughing and drinking and dancing— to celebrate the marriage of their beloved king to one of their favourite heroes. Marilen had begun to tire, and wondered if it was time to follow Ranesh, who had brought Josef to bed. But before she could start towards the palace, Jasmine grasped her hands and pulled her back into the dancing crowd.

The new queen had abandoned her shoes somewhere, and her lovely green dress was streaked with dirt. She was an impressively poor dancer, but Marilen happily allowed herself to be led by Jasmine’s improvised steps.

They twirled—laughing— by Lief, who was dancing with a ring of children whose parents had disregarded proper bedtimes to celebrate the historic event. Marilen beamed and called his name, and Lief looked up. He was grinning with delirious happiness, and held out out his hand for Jasmine to join him.

“In a moment,” she called to him, letting go of Marilen briefly, so that she could trail her fingers across her husband’s hand.

“The whole kingdom has come for you!” Marilen shouted over the music and crowd, as they allowed themselves to get lost among the people. Many of the dancers toasted and called Jasmine’s name as they went past.

“So it would seem,” Jasmine said. Her eyes flickered over Marilen’s face. “But there are some people who should be here and cannot.”

Marilen realized that Jasmine had led them to the edge of the crowd. She let go of her friend’s hand, and gently touched her shoulder. Jasmine looked up; her smile was still bright, but there was a sadness in her eyes that had not been there before.

“I wonder if I could ask you a favour,” Jasmine continued. “I want to be sure that my mother is never forgotten. I will tell you all about her, another day, if you promise to write it down.”

Marilen looked deep into her friend’s searching gaze. “I would be honoured. I swear it.”

—

Jasmine was not pleased. She had been building a tower of sticks and leaves, but Mamma had made her stop and told her to climb up into the treehouse, even though it would not be dark for ages. Still, she allowed her mother to guide her onto her cot.

“It was going to be so tall, Mamma,” Jasmine complained. “I was going to put my doll inside and—“

“Jasmine, listen to me,” Mamma cut her off quickly. Jasmine stopped, and her eyes widened. Mamma never interrupted, and she always had a smile and a game ready to play. But she was scared, Jasmine realized, and that frightened her, too. “Listen, sweetheart, I have some things to tell you.”

“Where is Papa?” Jasmine looked around wildly; the house was quite large, but it was clear that her father was not at home.

“He will be back soon, but I must speak to you. Will you promise to be good and listen?”

Mamma’s face was so unusually serious, that Jasmine could not help but nod solemnly.

“Good,” she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Someday, Jasmine, we might have to be very quiet, and pretend that we do not live here.”

Jasmine was confused and it made her anxious. “Why would we have to pretend?”

Mamma shook her head, unwilling or unable to explain. “It is just the way of the world.”

Jasmine looked at her mother’s face, searching for some sort of trick or game, but could find nothing. “What do I have to do?”

“Nothing right now, but I must show you something,” Mamma paused for a moment to ensure that Jasmine was watching. “If I do this,” she pointed her smallest finger up, and dragged it under her eye, “it means that Papa and I want you to run away as fast as you can. Do you understand?”

Jasmine nodded, although she was not sure that she did.

“If I do this,” Mamma bobbed her chin against her chest, “I want you to hide yourself away.”

Jasmine could not help the bubble of laughter that burst forth; Mamma looked very silly.

“Jasmine, this is important,” Mamma pleaded, and made her practise both of the stupid gestures until Jasmine insisted on going to sleep, mostly out of boredom.

Later that night, she awoke to voices from her parents’ cot. Papa must have come home. Jasmine kept her eyes shut, and listened.

“I have never seen them this close,” Mamma whispered. Jasmine heard the shift of bodies on the cot.

“Nor have I, they always stay on the trail,” Papa was very bad at whispering, and she could hear him clearly. “I followed them as best I could, but I did not get far.”

“I did not tell Jasmine. I did not know how to try. But I made up signals for her to follow, if the Guards come near again. I do not think she understands.”

“We ask so much of her,” Papa’s voice shook, and Jasmine could not help but open her eyes a little, but she could see nothing through the darkness. “This is not a proper life for a child.”

“We always knew it would be hard, my love,” Mamma said in her firm and gentle way. “Jasmine is strong, and we will keep her save.”

She heard the sound of rustling blankets as her parents settled in for the night. Jasmine’s eyes closed of their own will, and she felt herself being pulled down into sleep. Still, she pictured the signals in her head. She did not know why, but it was clearly important that she remember them.

And so she would.

—

Marilen had been walking to her office one evening, when Sharn had found her in the hall.

“Marilen,” Sharn said warmly. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course,” Marilen followed Sharn to a window seat. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Sharn looked down through the window, at the city below. “I wanted to congratulate you on your successes in the library. I knew you would be well-suited for it.”

“Thank you,” Marilen was touched, she held Sharn’s opinion in the highest regard.

“As you add to the Annals, I wonder if there is someone you might keep in mind.”

Marilen looked out the window, but whatever Sharn saw was clearly a memory from long ago.

“There was a woman… I met her only once,” Sharn said quietly. “But I wore her name and clothing, and slept in her bed for seventeen years. I am alive only because of her.”

—

Leaving Endon and Jarred, Anna had pulled Sharn into the bedroom. Sharn looked around in a daze; the room was smaller even than the palace closets. Anna guided her into a chair in front of a mirror, and pressed a damp washcloth into her hand.

“We must make you look the part,” Anna said. She stood behind Sharn and began to unravel the complex decorative thread in her hair. “You will have to alter my clothes, eventually, you are much taller than I am.”

Sharn washed her face roughly, as if scrubbing it raw would erase some of the horror of the night. She stared into the mirror as Anna continued to work at her hair. Looking at her bare-faced reflection was like seeing a stranger. She wondered dully if any of her friends and family had survived the slaughter. Surely not. She thought of Prandine’s thin scream as he fell to his death.

I hope it hurt, she thought viciously.  

Anna had nearly finished with her hair, and it tumbled down Sharn’s shoulders. Guilt stabbed at Sharn’s heart as she thought again of their plan. “You are much kinder than we deserve.”

“Nonsense,” Anna said lightly, although she could not disguise the slight tremor in her voice. “Jarred has waited seven years for Endon to call upon him. I knew this.”

“Are you not afraid?”

“Take my hand,” Anna insisted, and knelt beside her. Confused, Sharn did as she was told. Anna’s palms and fingertips were rough and hard against Sharn’s smooth and soft skin. The other woman smiled wryly. “Blacksmith’s hands. There is no cream or salve in Deltora that would soften them. And I would not wish for that. Because of the callouses, I never need to fear that my hands will fail me, and so I do not falter in my work. I am terrified, Sharn. For my neighbours, for myself, for my husband, for my child. For you. But I must put my faith into something. So I will put it into hope. My hands guide me when I work in the Forge, and I will trust hope to guide me tonight.”

Sharn clasped her other hand on top of Anna’s. “You have proved your bravery tonight. As have I, I think.”

“Yes,” Anna embraced Sharn quickly. “We shall stay brave, for each other. And we will meet again as friends in kinder days, I know it.”

—

Marilen had been expecting a third request, but she had not expected it to be from Lief. They had taken their breakfast in the palace kitchen. Although it was usually a bustling place, especially in the morning, it had only been the two of them. Lief had been eating in a strange silence, which was rarer still.

“Are you alright?” Marilen finally asked, annoyed by the staring contest Lief seemed to be having with his eggs.

Lief looked up, alarmed, as if he had forgotten she was there. “Have… have you heard of Anna of the Forge?” He asked by way of an answer.

Marilen raised her eyebrows. “It is a name that keeps finding its way to me.”

Lief paused. “When you write about the night of the Shadowlord’s invasion… I would be very pleased if you would mention her name.”

—

Jasmine cried out, and approached a thicket of leaves covered in nasty spines. The plant was studded with large round berries: some were pale lavender in colour, and others were a wicked scarlet. She lifted the front of her shirt to form a basket, and began to gather fruit, taking care to avoid the thorns.

Lief and Barda exchanged an anxious glance. They trusted Jasmine’s instincts, but they did not trust the evil appearance of the berries.

“We will find food elsewhere,” Barda decided. “These look as if they have been waiting for our arrival, and not with good intentions.”

“It is trying to trick you, but not the way you believe,” Jasmine insisted eagerly without looking away from her task. “The purple ones are poison, but the red are perfectly fine.”

The more Lief stared at the berries, the more they appeared like droplets of blood clinging to the leaves. “How do you know?”

“These plants grow in the Forests, too,” Jasmine held a berry up to her collarbone, and Filli’s tiny paws reached to grab it from under her jacket. “My mother solved the trick. The foxes would always eat from the bushes, and they would leave the purple ones behind. She saw a sparrow eat the purple ones, and it died.” She shrugged, and slipped a berry between her lips. “She called them fox berries.”

Barda laughed and knelt at her side. “Once again, it seems a debt is owed to Anna of Del.”

The fierce grin that Jasmine gifted him in return was as bright and beautiful as a star.

It was true, Lief thought, as he joined his friends on the ground. She saved my life before I was even born.

The three of them gathered the berries, but Lief kept his eyes on Jasmine’s pleased face. He watched her closely, and when she caught him staring, he did not look away. She reached into the folds of her shirt and handed him a berry. Lief took it and bit down. The skin was tough, but the inside was pleasant and tart. He smiled his thanks.

Jasmine reached over and tapped his bottom lip with her finger. “Your teeth are already stained red.”

Lief reached over and stole a second. “It is worth it.”

—

Marilen had been expecting the knock on her office door. Feeling oddly sheepish, she hastily covered her project with a stack of books.

“Please, come in,” Marilen urged, and began to clear papers off of the extra chair. Doom opened the door with a tight-lipped smile, and took the offered seat. Marilen took her own chair and waited.

She had wondered when he would come. She knew he would, and so she had not approached him. The time was right: the people of Deltora had found a reason to celebrate once more. A new heir had been born, and she had been given a name that was well suited for a future queen.

“My wife deserves a place in the Annals,” he told her bluntly.

“I know,” Marilen agreed. “You are not the first person to tell me.”

Doom snorted. “Jasmine?”

“And Sharn, and Lief.”

Doom’s face betrayed nothing, but Marilen swore she saw a flash of surprise in his eyes. She hesitated as she assessed how to begin. She cared deeply for Doom, but was not always sure as to best speak with him.

“Will you tell me about her?” She asked hesitantly.

Doom stared ahead for a long time. “Yes. Yes I will.”

Marilen looked at the papers on her desk. She did not want him to know she had started, she did not think it would be a worthy read until it was finished.

—

Jarred lay flat on his back with nothing to do but stare at the treetops and pray that his wife returned soon.

If I die here, it could be that I have deserved it, he thought dryly.

How stupid he had been, allowing himself to be stung by the Wenn. He had survived in the Forests for more than five years, and if he died it would be because he had simply not been paying attention.

Finally, hurried footsteps came down the path. He heard his name whispered fiercely, and suddenly, Anna was there with Jasmine balanced on her hip. She set Jasmine down, and threw herself to her knees.

“Mamma, is Papa going to die?” Jasmine whimpered.

“No, we are going to heal him. But hush, sweetheart, we must be quiet,” Anna whispered, pressing a quick kiss to Jasmine’s brow. She leaned over Jarred and pressed a second kiss to his lips. “Do not make me lie to her.”

Jarred forced a smile and felt the dry skin on his lips crack. “Come here, Jasmine,” he said. “Hold my hand, so that we may be brave together.”

Jasmine rushed to his side. He could not tell if she had taken his hand, but she kept her wide eyes on his face, as if he would die if she looked away. Anna was fumbling with a jar she had pulled from her pocket on his other side.

“I do not know if this will work,” Anna’s face was pale, but her lips were pressed in a determined line. She tilted his head up, and the foul-smelling liquid to trickle down his throat. Jarred made himself to swallow, and almost wished that he had not. Pain began to spread through his body. His skin felt as if it had caught fire, and his blood seemed to boil in his veins. He gritted his teeth and moaned, forcing himself to muffle his screams. Anna covered his mouth with one hand, and gripped his shoulder with her other. Her face was twisted with anguish. The pain swelled, but Jarred realized that he could feel his daughter’s hand clasping his, and his wife’s hands on his body. It was enough to carry him through.

Later, as they lay in their cot, Anna had caressed his face with her hands.

“I feared that I had killed you,” she confessed with shame.

Jarred let out a startled laugh, for nothing could have been farther than the truth. “No, dear heart,” he kissed her cheek. “You saved me, like you always do.”

—

Marilen had listened to so many accounts of Anna’s life. Doom and Jasmine had brought her so many stories, and Lief and Sharn had shared their second hand accounts. (She loved to sing, but her talents lay elsewhere… Did Doom tell you how she once made burrowroot soup? We spent the night washing out our mouths… There was a romance novel at her bedside that had clearly been well-read… Jasmine swears she could pull a coin out of your ear…) Anna had been a clever and brave woman, whose life might easily be forgotten: she had never led the Resistance like her husband or saved the kingdom from destruction like her daughter. But she had saved the lives of at least five people, and ensured that Deltora had set forth on its path to freedom.

She looked back at her writing. Sleep could wait, this was more important.

“My people broke a vow once,” Marilen whispered to the silent room. “And you suffered for it. I am one of the many who owes you a debt. I will make sure your stories are heard.”

No one was truly dead while there were people to remember their names.

Marilen would ensure that Anna of Del lived forever.

[silvermarmoset]

The Lumber Room

It seems to me a great shame that so little credit seems to be given to H.H. Munro—or Saki, as his name might be—when he was such a frightfully good, scarily funny writer. I feel like Tumblr, with its strong set of sass-lovers, book-lovers, and English majors, has been denied the joy of his style for too long; so I’m posting one or two of his short stories, in the hope that people catch on to this funny, British, Edwardian, lark of a storyteller.

With that said, here’s Saki’s “The Lumber Room.”

The children were to be driven, as a special treat, to the sands at Jagborough.  Nicholas was not to be of the party; he was in disgrace.  Only that morning he had refused to eat his wholesome bread-and-milk on the seemingly frivolous ground that there was a frog in it. Older and wiser and better people had told him that there could not possibly be a frog in his bread-and-milk and that he was not to talk nonsense; he continued, nevertheless, to talk what seemed the veriest nonsense, and described with much detail the colouration and markings of the alleged frog.  The dramatic part of the incident was that there really was a frog in Nicholas' basin of bread-and-milk; he had put it there himself, so he felt entitled to know something about it.  The sin of taking a frog from the garden and putting it into a bowl of wholesome bread-and-milk was enlarged on at great length, but the fact that stood out clearest in the whole affair, as it presented itself to the mind of Nicholas, was that the older, wiser, and better people had been proved to be profoundly in error in matters about which they had expressed the utmost assurance.

"You said there couldn't possibly be a frog in my bread-and-milk; there was a frog in my bread-and-milk," he repeated, with the insistence of a skilled tactician who does not intend to shift from favourable ground.

So his boy-cousin and girl-cousin and his quite uninteresting younger brother were to be taken to Jagborough sands that afternoon and he was to stay at home.  His cousins' aunt, who insisted, by an unwarranted stretch of imagination, in styling herself his aunt also, had hastily invented the Jagborough expedition in order to impress on Nicholas the delights that he had justly forfeited by his disgraceful conduct at the breakfast- table.  It was her habit, whenever one of the children fell from grace, to improvise something of a festival nature from which the offender would be rigorously debarred; if all the children sinned collectively they were suddenly informed of a circus in a neighbouring town, a circus of unrivalled merit and uncounted elephants, to which, but for their depravity, they would have been taken that very day.

A few decent tears were looked for on the part of Nicholas when the moment for the departure of the expedition arrived.  As a matter of fact, however, all the crying was done by his girl-cousin, who scraped her knee rather painfully against the step of the carriage as she was scrambling in.

"How she did howl," said Nicholas cheerfully, as the party drove off without any of the elation of high spirits that should have characterised it.

"She'll soon get over that," said the soi-disant aunt; "it will be a glorious afternoon for racing about over those beautiful sands.  How they will enjoy themselves!"

"Bobby won't enjoy himself much, and he won't race much either," said Nicholas with a grim chuckle; his boots are hurting him.  They're too tight."

"Why didn't he tell me they were hurting?" asked the aunt with some asperity.

"He told you twice, but you weren't listening.  You often don't listen when we tell you important things."

"You are not to go into the gooseberry garden," said the aunt, changing the subject.

"Why not?" demanded Nicholas.

"Because you are in disgrace," said the aunt loftily.

Nicholas did not admit the flawlessness of the reasoning; he felt perfectly capable of being in disgrace and in a gooseberry garden at the same moment.  His face took on an expression of considerable obstinacy.  It was clear to his aunt that he was determined to get into the gooseberry garden, "only," as she remarked to herself, "because I have told him he is not to."

Now the gooseberry garden had two doors by which it might be entered, and once a small person like Nicholas could slip in there he could effectually disappear from view amid the masking growth of artichokes, raspberry canes, and fruit bushes.  The aunt had many other things to do that afternoon, but she spent an hour or two in trivial gardening operations among flower beds and shrubberies, whence she could keep a watchful eye on the two doors that led to the forbidden paradise.  She was a woman of few ideas, with immense powers of concentration.

Nicholas made one or two sorties into the front garden, wriggling his way with obvious stealth of purpose towards one or other of the doors, but never able for a moment to evade the aunt's watchful eye.  As a matter of fact, he had no intention of trying to get into the gooseberry garden, but it was extremely convenient for him that his aunt should believe that he had; it was a belief that would keep her on self-imposed sentry-duty for the greater part of the afternoon.  Having thoroughly confirmed and fortified her suspicions Nicholas slipped back into the house and rapidly put into execution a plan of action that had long germinated in his brain.  By standing on a chair in the library one could reach a shelf on which reposed a fat, important-looking key.  The key was as important as it looked; it was the instrument which kept the mysteries of the lumber-room secure from unauthorised intrusion, which opened a way only for aunts and such-like privileged persons.  Nicholas had not had much experience of the art of fitting keys into keyholes and turning locks, but for some days past he had practised with the key of the schoolroom door; he did not believe in trusting too much to luck and accident.  The key turned stiffly in the lock, but it turned.  The door opened, and Nicholas was in an unknown land, compared with which the gooseberry garden was a stale delight, a mere material pleasure.

Often and often Nicholas had pictured to himself what the lumber-room might be like, that region that was so carefully sealed from youthful eyes and concerning which no questions were ever answered.  It came up to his expectations.  In the first place it was large and dimly lit, one high window opening on to the forbidden garden being its only source of illumination.  In the second place it was a storehouse of unimagined treasures.  The aunt-by-assertion was one of those people who think that things spoil by use and consign them to dust and damp by way of preserving them.  Such parts of the house as Nicholas knew best were rather bare and cheerless, but here there were wonderful things for the eye to feast on. First and foremost there was a piece of framed tapestry that was evidently meant to be a fire-screen.  To Nicholas it was a living, breathing story; he sat down on a roll of Indian hangings, glowing in wonderful colours beneath a layer of dust, and took in all the details of the tapestry picture.  A man, dressed in the hunting costume of some remote period, had just transfixed a stag with an arrow; it could not have been a difficult shot because the stag was only one or two paces away from him; in the thickly-growing vegetation that the picture suggested it would not have been difficult to creep up to a feeding stag, and the two spotted dogs that were springing forward to join in the chase had evidently been trained to keep to heel till the arrow was discharged. That part of the picture was simple, if interesting, but did the huntsman see, what Nicholas saw, that four galloping wolves were coming in his direction through the wood?  There might be more than four of them hidden behind the trees, and in any case would the man and his dogs be able to cope with the four wolves if they made an attack?  The man had only two arrows left in his quiver, and he might miss with one or both of them; all one knew about his skill in shooting was that he could hit a large stag at a ridiculously short range.  Nicholas sat for many golden minutes revolving the possibilities of the scene; he was inclined to think that there were more than four wolves and that the man and his dogs were in a tight corner.

But there were other objects of delight and interest claiming his instant attention: there were quaint twisted candlesticks in the shape of snakes, and a teapot fashioned like a china duck, out of whose open beak the tea was supposed to come.  How dull and shapeless the nursery teapot seemed in comparison!  And there was a carved sandal-wood box packed tight with aromatic cottonwool, and between the layers of cottonwool were little brass figures, hump-necked bulls, and peacocks and goblins, delightful to see and to handle.  Less promising in appearance was a large square book with plain black covers; Nicholas peeped into it, and, behold, it was full of coloured pictures of birds.  And such birds!  In the garden, and in the lanes when he went for a walk, Nicholas came across a few birds, of which the largest were an occasional magpie or wood-pigeon; here were herons and bustards, kites, toucans, tiger-bitterns, brush turkeys, ibises, golden pheasants, a whole portrait gallery of undreamed-of creatures.  And as he was admiring the colouring of the mandarin duck and assigning a life-history to it, the voice of his aunt in shrill vociferation of his name came from the gooseberry garden without.  She had grown suspicious at his long disappearance, and had leapt to the conclusion that he had climbed over the wall behind the sheltering screen of the lilac bushes; she was now engaged in energetic and rather hopeless search for him among the artichokes and raspberry canes.

"Nicholas, Nicholas!" she screamed, "you are to come out of this at once.  It's no use trying to hide there; I can see you all the time."

It was probably the first time for twenty years that anyone had smiled in that lumber-room.

Presently the angry repetitions of Nicholas' name gave way to a shriek, and a cry for somebody to come quickly.  Nicholas shut the book, restored it carefully to its place in a corner, and shook some dust from a neighbouring pile of newspapers over it.  Then he crept from the room, locked the door, and replaced the key exactly where he had found it.  His aunt was still calling his name when he sauntered into the front garden.

"Who's calling?" he asked.

"Me," came the answer from the other side of the wall; "didn't you hear me?  I've been looking for you in the gooseberry garden, and I've slipped into the rain- water tank.  Luckily there's no water in it, but the sides are slippery and I can't get out.  Fetch the little ladder from under the cherry tree - "

"I was told I wasn't to go into the gooseberry garden," said Nicholas promptly.

"I told you not to, and now I tell you that you may," came the voice from the rain-water tank, rather impatiently.

"Your voice doesn't sound like aunt's," objected Nicholas; "you may be the Evil One tempting me to be disobedient.  Aunt often tells me that the Evil One tempts me and that I always yield.  This time I'm not going to yield."

"Don't talk nonsense," said the prisoner in the tank; "go and fetch the ladder."

"Will there be strawberry jam for tea?" asked Nicholas innocently.

"Certainly there will be," said the aunt, privately resolving that Nicholas should have none of it.

"Now I know that you are the Evil One and not aunt," shouted Nicholas gleefully; "when we asked aunt for strawberry jam yesterday she said there wasn't any.  I know there are four jars of it in the store cupboard, because I looked, and of course you know it's there, but she doesn't, because she said there wasn't any.  Oh, Devil, you have sold yourself!"

There was an unusual sense of luxury in being able to talk to an aunt as though one was talking to the Evil One, but Nicholas knew, with childish discernment, that such luxuries were not to be over-indulged in.  He walked noisily away, and it was a kitchenmaid, in search of parsley, who eventually rescued the aunt from the rain- water tank.

Tea that evening was partaken of in a fearsome silence.  The tide had been at its highest when the children had arrived at Jagborough Cove, so there had been no sands to play on - a circumstance that the aunt had overlooked in the haste of organising her punitive expedition.  The tightness of Bobby's boots had had disastrous effect on his temper the whole of the afternoon, and altogether the children could not have been said to have enjoyed themselves.  The aunt maintained the frozen muteness of one who has suffered undignified and unmerited detention in a rain-water tank for thirty-five minutes.  As for Nicholas, he, too, was silent, in the absorption of one who has much to think about; it was just possible, he considered, that the huntsman would escape with his hounds while the wolves feasted on the stricken stag.

[thelightningbottler]

Towns

Pt 1

At a bus stop next to a lightning  struck tree

They pulled their jacket closer in

To protect them from the cold and damp.

And protect them from the wind and rain

And protect them from the eyes of passersby

Who might stare at them and wonder why

They were at a bus stop in the rain

With bags all packed, and cellophane

Wrapped around a sandwich that

Looked quite unhealthy after the fact

And why must they look? Perceive what I am?

And then the bus arrived and then

They got onto the bus and paid their fare

Feeling rather underwhelmed at the prospect

Of a bus in the rain on another grizzly day

And the coat can only help so much 

Cause now that they are upon the bus

It’s bulky and wet and not fit for purpose

But they keep it on because anything else would be a dismal display of what could happen

If you play too close to fire too close to soot and spit it out right at the root 

And the bus drives on to pastures new

And pulls the player from their gloom

As sun. bright and crisp seeps through the clouds.

“I have no name, I have no voice”

The city promised 

“I have ways to make you hella. rich.

I have ways to serendipitously

Pull you towards that which you seek.

Do you require love and hope? 

Do you require deep affection?

Do you require pitons and ropes,

To climb away from your addictions?

We have it all”

The city lied

“ And don’t forget to bring your pride

Pride will keep you in these streets

 and keep you from the howling mob,

 and keep you from the wailing child 

and keep you from your destitution 

and keep you as it’s willing bride’

The city winked

It was not there,

It didn’t start without the sprawl

Of houses and corner shops and eateries that litter all the way to gold

Stadia and outlets and places to buy buckets of chicken, and curry houses and chipperies and many other loose assortments of places that you could be. Closed to the public for the foreseeable. 

The seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes turned to hours as the roads of hedgerows turned to buildings from the flowers

 and now it comes up all at once as they sit and ponder new beginnings, bags trussed up to their chin and grey light shining through their window and the bus shows no signs of stopping other than the obvious ports like when it pulls up at red lights or drivers make it honk its horn. 

And still the sprawl continues unabated, with churches and gardens and strange little places to hide away and have a joint if you were so persuaded. And theatres and thatch roofed cottages seem to sublimate each other with wistful glances to the past and vicious words to one another. 

Trombone humming from the corner of 5th and nowhere sparks the scent of wishes that the other might go peaceful to their bed and the bus rolled through to darkened halls lined with adverts one and all promising that this gets better in some way shape or form. And off the bus they got, their jacket clinging to dear life as the rain subsides, but not at all. As it grows heavy from the clouds and the sunlight bursting through the gaps is not enough to warm the skin and so they marched up to their flat so new beginnings begin again.

Pt 2

 “I have lived in a village that was technically a town.” she said. “I have lived in a town that was technically a city. When I lived behind the Red Wall I expected there to be more mice holding swords.”

 “That’s interesting but could you find your keys, I seem to have lost mine.”

 “My keys are in my bag, growing roots inside the lining, finding a way to fit inside with all the other detritus. My lyre, my dagger, the cold stone severed head of medusa, lockets, hand sanitizer, a hair bobble.”

 They opened the door. Behind it was another door. They opened that.

 “Is this the kingdom of heaven or the eye of the storm?”

 “It’s the place where we live whilst in between buses.”

 She put the umbrella in the stand by the door.

 “The timetable I saw said they don’t run on weekends. And only do every other evening, Monday, Wednesday and Friday.”

 Even our days are just gods whose power has been wrung from them. Attached to time and work and rest and play and other human insignificancies. This town isn’t like the other towns. It knows how to fit in. It doesn’t make a fuss. It’ll give you a handjob and a steak and never expect you to call it back.

 All the other places they had lived were inside their minds but they were also inside this town. Squint your eyes and all places look the same. A dirty blur with light behind it. The possibility of everything and nothing. The void and it’s opposite.

Pt 3

So they stepped into the void, wishing the world around them might dissipate into a thousand tiny pieces but instead they found themselves in a local park, sparking up and hoping for the best. The change in mind might change in mood and change in place and make the world good again. 

It’s a possibility at least. Or maybe this change again will just lead to different panics, different rabbit holes and all end in void again. Maybe this time they’ll choose the other. They stepped into their room and looked up at the spiralling cathedral , it’s points unseeable and unknown. 

‘Shit’ they said ‘I’ve forgotten which way is up’

So they spit and found a globule on their face. 

‘Right’

And so they ventured out into the opposite, 

They went out to feel. To feel with their feet the breadth and depth of the place. The chalk the concrete, the clay. The worms writing beneath. The bayleaf plan twisted around their fingers, the rosemary in their hair. The love and fort that such a place had to offer. And what of the other? The others kept their noses down, following the path of their feet. Not once looking up. But looking up is a strange occurrence, you see around you. You see the charity shops and the beggars and the litany of life written out before you. And that’s like… heavy sometimes. Heavy on the soul, heavy on the spirit, heavy on the way you turn your head. It creeps up and rests on the back of your spine until you don’t know why it was ever there. You spare some change, you buy some art. It’s square and modernist. It’s an abstract duck. it’s photos of grandparents that aren’t your own. It’s a wash of strange and fractured things all coalescing into a miasma of something. If you were to put your finger to it, it would disappear. Into the ether, gone for good. Or bad. They weren’t really sure. And so they trudged around the town, looking at the roots of trees, the traffic lights, the telescopic blend between. The two. 

‘New towns mean new beginnings,’ - said stevenage. Gardens make for Cities said Letchworth and Welwyn. Counties and countryside mixed with municipal buildings. Area codes around crossroads that end in 666. There’s always a sense… a brief, catatonic, sense of humour. Unposed but quietly chuckling, quietly making itself known.

‘You stupid git,’ the town said ‘ why do you dwell on things you cannot change, the parts you cannot change. The lights you cannot change, the face you cannot change. Change is inevitable but the change is roadworks, the change is more housing, the joys of Chicago, the rest of London.’ 

Sleep, soundly and still, in you soft mattress laid along the floor, for your cot is yet to arrive and you must make do with blankets and sleeping bags and satchels under your head. Your cooker has not yet arrived so make do with beans from the can. Bread from the bag, butter from the pack. Bring it all together on a low hob that is yet to exist and feed it to your gaping maw. You love it really, the squalor, the destitution. The strange men on street corners asking if you’re alright, if you know your buttons undone. Are you undone? It’s unclear. perhaps. Maybe. Who are you to ask?

They return to their flat. Strangely full of fear and loathing. But perhaps that’s just the wind. They read. They look out the window. They try to see the whole thing before it washes away in silt and rain. The rain again. Turning cold into snow. 

‘That’s new’ they think’

‘That’s interesting’

‘That might pique my curiosity’

And then they settle down to sleep. Deeply, rocked by the passing cars, the youthful shouts of deliquency and the sound of a dripping tap they can’t quite tighten far enough. 

Pt 4

They sleep through the night. A miracle in statistical terms. Do they dream? They might. But what is a dream without the memory of it? What is a story without a listener? What is a tree falling in the forest without an ear to hear it’s sound? What is a sound in a forest without a tree falling? The night passed. No one claimed it wasn’t night. The night passed. People mourned it. The night passed. The morning was the future.

 After breakfast they took things they owned out of boxes they’d borrowed (with no intention of returning). Mantelpieces were populated by ceramic and brass idols. Toothbrushes were placed in a cup on the alter of the sink. Clothes were put inside wardrobes. There was no secret world to be stumbled into. Just wood. And clothes hangers. And mothballs.

 The house began to feel like a home which is always worrying. A home is something you can lose. They visited their neighbours to ask for a cup of sugar. But neither side was sweet. So they drunk their tea unsweetened before going out to explore the town. The church with it’s cemetery full of old stones and new marble. The town hall with a clock that had told the time for longer than some people are remembered. The small shop that sold everything apart from what you wanted. The bus stop that people couldn’t even be bothered to vandalise. 

 “I used to throw nails into airport toilets and no one cared, now I can’t eat an apple without a curtain twitching. What I really want is for people to see me but not care about what I do.”

Pt 5

‘Fuckin’ A’

‘So how long you lived here?’

‘Too long, mate. Too fuckin’ long’

He took a drag of the tightly packed rollup, letting the smoke waft through his fingers, his lungs, his gullet’

‘So fuckin’ long that I remember when this was all trees, when this was all trees. Me and the missus used to go doggin here back in the day. Now we just sit and watch box sets.’

‘Right’ they said

‘Yeah this entire row of housing for rich fucks, popped up like… oh, what, six months ago?’

‘What was there before the trees’

‘Before the trees? Fuck, I dunno mate. Dinosaurs? Megafauna? Minor flora? A bus stop?’ 

The bus stop had always been here, rigid and unmolested by the teens of time.

‘Yeah but after it was trees it was just a Barron estate. Some county cunt came up and replaced the whole lot with dirt. Cut down all the trees, saw off all the animals. Planted identical trees in long pattern rows to give the imitation of a forest. Like I say it was a great dogging spot but now the only dogs that come through here wear little jackets and get groomed so that the fluff doesn’t come home.’

As if on cue, a small tumbling ball of molten dogcoat came meandering past the two of them. Making it’s way to god knows where.

‘So how long you lived here then?’ The man asked, teeth yellow with tar.

‘Fuckin… somewhere between a week and six months, I honestly couldn’t tell you’

‘Yikes’ the man chuckled ‘ yeah stars all blending together after a while, yea?’

;Yeah’ they said. 

It hung in the air like a mobile above a crib. Waiting for any sort of response.

‘Do you do Whizz?’

‘What?’

‘;Whizz, speed.’ 

‘Errr, fuckin’…. No?’

‘Oh I used to be a right wizard back in the day. My mate underneath me used to sell it for bikers. Theyd come in the morning with the gear, come back at five o’clock take it all away. Used to pay his rent to me in speed. Used to take a big teaspoon full of it an stir it into my tea. Joint in the evening to go back to sleep but that was just what we did back then you know? I regret it now. But at the time we was young. We were dumber than bricks.

‘Nah you’re not dumb’

‘Nah, nah, smarter than most of the kids round here but you know what I mean’

‘Yeah I do’

‘You do daft shit in your youth. You look back on it and wonder ...

Why I was ever that stupid, that nieche, that strange. That twisted that absurd.

‘That … fucking. Blockheaded’

‘Right’

The air staled between them, like the world wouldn’t continue to turn until someone said something. They hated this. Almost as much as being perceived. Perception. Someone rip out they eye and grant me knowledge of that which I do not wish to know. 

Pt 6

But whatever words they said would sound wrong. They’d lived all over the country. In all the countries that made up the country. In the country of the country, the village of the country, the town of the country, the city of the country. Everywhere they went they had the wrong voice. Every time they changed their accent they would move somewhere where it wasn’t welcome. They once spent an awkward hour in the back of a taxi stuck pretending to have a local voice. Their terrible impressions making a terrible impression on their driver. Unable to stop once they had begun. Everywhere you go there’s different words for bread. Everywhere you go people eat their chopped up potatoes differently. Sometimes you just want to eat your chips without being chipped away at. Your shoulders get greasy if you keep wearing your food.

 “My father didn’t riot. He got on his bike and looked for work and he kept looking ‘till he found it.” At last the silence was broken. The world continued again.

 “Maybe he should have rioted though. Maybe he should have ridden his bike to somewhere nice. The seaside or a funfare. Maybe he should have searched for something worth finding. I always wanted a golden fleece for example. Or a sword that would make me the ruler of England. Or Wales. Or Scotland. Or Cornwall. Or the Isle of Mann.”

Pt 7

Manannin wrapped his cloak around the island, shrouding it from view. The whole isle was filled with mist and mischief. His sword buried in the hill they called a mountain. Douglas in the mist rose up out of the bay. Wave to the fairies. Peel descended into the fog, marching up hills pat the palm trees and second hand stores and little shops containing knickknacks and door knobs and boots. Finding the old victorian swimming pool, long soaked into the sea, like it was trying to swallow the island back. But Mannanin put this on hold for the little thirty miles of countryside. 

“Ramsey’s not what it used to be, it’s ugly and torn apart by developers. Always developing they are.”

Crowned by hair, raised on bells and jazz, Midas sits on his throne in front of the fire. He’ll hear you out on your quest but he’ll recommend you try the kipper sandwich at the end of the pier. They looked down at their hand. The sandwich was still there, greying and greasy. They unwrapped it from the cellophane and took a bite. Smokey and buttery and full of little bones. They crunched down harder, with defiance. No bone will stop this bitch they thought. 

‘What you eating’

‘Kipper Sarnie’

‘I can smell it from here’

You can smell all sorts from here they thought. You can smell the sea, you can smell the earth, you can smell the distinct smells of gas from the petroleum rainbows that litter the streets from the passing rain. Can you offer me more ? yes. Smoke, twirling in the midday breeze, brighter than the sky. Cycle through Hyde park for a contact high. 

‘Right, I’m off’

‘Off where?’

To find the sword of Damocles, dangled above Loki’s heart or some shit. To find.a Golden Fleece in the fly tipping spot near my flat, to find god in a chip butty. I don’t know, get off my back

‘Your bus hasn’t come yet’

‘Yeah fuckit, i’ll ride’

The freedom of movement that comes from a bike, to trail between towns as fast as your wheels will carry you to become part of a machine, not subjugated behind a wheel but to put both life and limb on the line as you speed through hedgerows and splash through puddles and generally cause a nuisance to all other drivers in the area. 

Narrowly avoiding trucks, narrowly avoiding cars, completely bailing on that one pot hole they didn’t see coming. Totalled, they rolled over onto their back, staring into the cloudy skies. Grey and sunflecked, drizzling slightly. 

‘Maybe I’ll lie here forever’ they thought

‘Maybe I’ll lie forever’

Maybe I’ll lie

Maybe’ 

They groggily return to their feet, fish their bike out of the ditch and roll onwards. forwards. As fast as their legs will carry them and inertia will allow.

 Pt 8

You have to keep moving or you stay in one place. And no one wants that. A pool that doesn’t move is stagnant. A life that doesn’t change is one that’s clogged up with algae and bacteria. The fish die. And not even deep fat frying them will make them taste good.

 A policeman bobbed the beat towards them. The dome on his head was a pot always ready for pregnant women to piss in. The truncheon in his hand always ready to break a few eggs.

 Hello, hello, hello,” he said. “Here is going on.” Then, “Fifty years on from now, Britain will still be the country of long shadows on county grounds, warm beer, invincible green suburbs, dog lovers, and old maids bicycling to Holy Communion through the morning mist.”

 “Thank you officer for your contribution. We’re new here and we don’t want any trouble.”

 “Well if you see any old maids let me know. You never know what gets stolen when the morning mist comes down. There used to be a lot more dogs around here. Someone has been chilling the beer. The shadows on the cricket ground have been shortened. Someone defeated a green suburb a few towns over.”

 “We don’t know about any of that. We’re law abiding citizens.”

 “I’ll be the judge of that,” said the policeman. “Well, not me, but I know all the judges around here, and they listen to what I have to tell ‘em.”

 “It makes us feel so much safer to have you as part of the community.”

 “Just make sure you go straight to holy communion. And make sure no one mistakes you for a nun and you’re sure to fit in.”

Pt 9

Churches, where good folk fear to tread. Heads bowed in solemn silence then gathered around to natter at the end of proceedings. Men in dog collars telling you how to live life. Cringe. At best. The judge, was jury and executioner. They had talked their way in and so they let the ceremony wash over them. They stood up, they sang. They lit their candle, they said ‘peace be with you’ while shaking hands, hands shaking. They solemnly marched up the aisle, no wedding no funeral, just biscuits and wine. Just like Saturday, just like Friday. Wine and wafers. They kneel and the overwhelming tingle moves over them. Practice makes perfect. They kneel quietly as the pastor came round and into open hand placed the body into outstretched palm. Hook it down the gullet before it turns into the big boy himself. And then the priest, wiping the spit away from the last sinner, offers the silver goblet of alcohol to them. They sup, assisted, and it tastes sweet, juicy, soft, metallic and bloody. And the moment of quiet reverie is over and they return to their seat. To think for a moment. To let the lord run rampant through their soul. It’s an alien experience, but a universal one. Knotting together in the pit of their stomach their non belief and quiet exaltation battle it out for the root of their soul. Who knows who wins. But the moment of wine and wafer gave pause for thought...

‘You can buy em in bulk obviously, from amazon, cheap as chips;’

They have to come from somewhere, pre blessed no doubt, 

They lay out Tarot at the foot of their bed, mixing beliefs and mixing drinks

‘Don’t go in for that pagan shit, that’ll fuck you up’

They study the stones pulled up by their ancestors, they draw a card. 

The tower.

Fuck.

That’s a bad omen. Of things falling down, of lightning struck trees, of ruin and resilliance. Built to god and then tumbling back down to earth. 

“See I warned you”

Shut up.

And like that the lights went out. And the building began to shudder, and the earth began to tremble and sooner or later the other took hold. Grabbing at their garments, laughing at their nosing, holding them down under water to see if they would float. But burley arms pulled them up, and lifted them in smoke to a smiling green man who offered them a toke. 

‘You seem lost friend, and far from home. Even though you thought it was beneath your feet al along, Chill, your amongst your own. We have no time for the buildings or the capital or any of that shit. It’s all good baby, it’s all gravy. Just sit back, sit tight and let the love wash over you. Can you feel it? Deep in your bones. You knew we were here the whole time. The druids will take your fall, worship the earth and the weeds and the roots. The gods can’t stop you here. All is peace and change and upheaval. But you’ll get the hang of it, friend. This I know’ The green man let out a long, choking cough, eyes as red as the moon. 

PT 10

A chanting started:

 “Autumn days when the grass is jewelled

And the silk inside a chestnut shell.

Jetplanes meeting in the air to be refuelled.

All these thing I love so well”

 “But it was snowing earlier. I’m pretty sure it’s not autumn.”

 “What is time? What are seasons? What is known? What is unknowable?” the Green Man said through glutteral splutters.

 “Clouds that look like familer face

And the winters moon with frosted rings.

Smell of bacon as I fasten up my laces

And the song the milkman sings”

 “What song does the milkman sing?”

 “Ask not who the milkman sings for, lest the milkman sings for you.” The Green Man looked satisfied with his own answer despite it not connecting with the question.

“Whipped-up spray that is rainbow-scattered

And a swallow curving in the sky

Shoes so comfy though they're worn out and they're battered

And the taste of apple pie.”

 “I remember that song from assemblies. Sitting on wooden floors crossed legged. But I forgot it somehow. Until now. Until it was surrounding me. Chanted by unseen mouths. Brought up from the depths of unseen lungs. Whispered by dragons. Shaped by the tongues of ghosts and angels and fairies.

 “Scent of gardens when the rain's been falling

And a minnow darting down a stream

Picked-up engine that's been stuttering and stalling

And a win for my home team.”

 “Can you have a home team if your home isn’t your home? If you live in a house surrounded by people who don’t want you to join their team? I wondered lonely as a conker smashed by it’s home team. Drenched in pickle juices. Painted with varnish. Chipped and broken. The string snapped.”

 “Silence!” muttered The Green Man. “You cannot combine the existential with the sacred. Not unless you want to incur the wrath of creation. Let the grass grow as it may. Find yourself a garden and build the holy patio.”

PT 11

But he vanished into colour and light, into sight and sound. Into fractals and cobwebs, into sea and surf, into bright and darkness. Into tradition and religion, into chipped nails and broken hooves, into bleeting grass and wafting lambs, into donkeys and Dixie cups and carriges and smog and dust and dirt and all things benevolent. And all things reticent, and all things.. and all things 

AND ALL WAS QUIET!

Save for the bell at the end of the lane that chimed the hour past.

The reverie was lost forever, cryptically broken down as reality seeped back in at the corners of your mouth. And stung like hot sauce on the tip of your tongue and rolled like wostershire down the back of your arm. And all was well and all was quiet and all was as it should be

Except for them. They stood up shakily, wondering what happened? How had they fallen this far and this fast, and without the aid of the things that would usually dorown them. They are a lost child, a lost son and a lost daughter. and now there is no guiding post, no safety net, nothing to grab and claw as they fall downwards into the abyss. And thus they are saved not by themselves, or by the wayning waters of hope but by cold solid ground beneath their backs. They are made whole by the earth that sees them as nothing more than a bloodsac upon it. Nothing more than sinew and bone nothing more. Nothing more. They breathed a sigh of relief to be seen as they are. Rather than seen through the lens of their peers of their neighbours of their gods of their deceit. They are very much … themselves.

For now

At least. 

And the clock kept ticking away at the back of their mind, what’s left to say, what’s left behind. They pulled themselves to their feet once more and went careening as fast as they could to the door and out on the street they bellowed allowed ‘MY NAME IS NOT YOURS AND YOU CANNOT POSESS IT’ - “MY BODY IS NOT YOURS AND YOU CANNOT OWN IT” “MY SOUL IS NOT MINE, IT BELONGS TO THE SEA AND THE SEA IS A PORT IN WHICH I CANNOT BREAETHE’ I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. Clutching at chest as the air leaves for leaves. To harness the ground and the soil and nutrients of anything that might rise up to meet it. 

So they go back indoors and slam everything down on the table and counter and mostly around the things that they wanted and now they despise like cookers and washers and grills that they buy 

To toast sandwiches for no one but themselves. To make coffee for no one but themselves. To make love with no one but themselves. Life is long, and tedious, and excruciatingly dull when there is no one but yourselves.

And they remember that lightning struck tree. And the bus stop free of that graffitti, and they think of the wizard who’s always on speed and they think back further than they can believe and they are left again with void. With nothing at all and yet that’s what’s there to greet them when they fall.

Come back dear friend, come back and embrace what you once thought was lost but is now always there. 

And the city gloated with pride and with glee that this is the mess that you ended up with. How do you now you piteous fool? Where is your pride when it comes to the fall?

Oh let me alone foul spirits and air. Let me alone concepts and things. Let me alone mown grass and patios and all of the things that won’t leave me alone. Let me snuggle up in a quiet dark hole and  bury me deep with the clay and the coal and let me just weep at the changes I made, before the terminus brings me to be. 

Prayers said to no one for nothing at all. Crimes that are wanton mean nothing at all. Bring me the mounting and bring me the stream and bring me a bottle of wine so I dream of valley in France and grapes from Cali. Of strains that I’ve never head of before. Of things that I couldn’t want for more, Oh death be silent, there’s still so much left.

Pt 12

A town is a place you move away from. And a place you move to. A town is a place you stay your whole life. A town is a place your family has always lived. A town is a place you can never leave. Every town is the same. Every town is unique. A town is created by it’s people. A town is defended by it’s people. A town attacks the people in the next town. A town is cohesion. A town is exclusion.

 When the lone samurai comes to town people are going to lose their heads. When the gunslinger comes to town bullets are going to be fired. When Theseus comes to town you’d better make sure your minotaurs are in their paddocks. You’d better make sure your hearts are tied tightly with threads thicker than spiderwebs. He’s going to find his way to the heart of your mazes no matter how high the hedges grow. He’s going to have women fall in love with him. He’s going to encourage boys to fly with wings that will melt. He’s going to leave. He’s going to only think about himself. He’ll cause fathers to throw themselves from cliffs. He’s going to take everything he can get.

 And they will erect a statue to him in the village square. They will say he was a hero. He was just. He was necessary. Without him we’d have lost to the Nazis. They will say the words he said and the actions he took are just myths you made up to discredit him.

 If you want to live in this town you’d better shag his statue. You’d better respect his stones. You’d better understand that history isn’t for you, it’s for the people who went before and the people who come after. Your job is to do what you’ve been told. To push yourself into the soil. Make your flesh into compost. Your bones into flower pots. From you will grow the new normal. From you will grow the status quo.

 And the people will rejoice.

 A town is a place. People make places. You are a person. All is as it should be. Just relax. Don’t think. Keep moving. Keep forgetting. And one day maybe you will be a statue or a flag or a cobblestone.

 Home is where the heart is. But that doesn’t mean the heart is alive. Carnivores feast on flesh. It’s the only way for them to survive.

[chandterpamela1996]

What Age Do Female Cats Start Spraying Top Useful Tips

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What Causes A Male Cat To Spray

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Cat Pee Vinegar Laundry

However, there is a major problem for many more hazards living outdoors than inside your house.The arch provides a small kitty litter odors.If all circumstances are equal, it is the right training and kitten and/or littermates after a long and happy during the Christmas tree, under the bedroom months ago, but today you forgot to shut one of the sink or tub, place your cats from this cat behaviour problems can be easy and inexpensive one.To resolve the problem by retraining your cat at such a long curtain and swatting it out as this can cause quite a bit harder to do something, I tried everything I could take your cat after its shampoo, the major part of the mammary as well as untreated dog Flea and tick control must be willing to take care of business.Usually, it has been abdominal, then the cats may spray its urine.

If your cat can't be found, you may be on HER terms...you may only come inside for feeding and need only a few steps to reduce cat allergies without spending a weekend or so until I feel they need to work than drugs but it is better than it will help prevent problems.Instead of giving your pet feline but also the fact that cats naturally enjoy using their claws - it's a little time for you or someone you live with is allergic to cats, you will surely decide you want from your side.* Inhalant allergies are responsible for the smell of.Finally, bring your cat has developed a liking for then you can not tell you exactly what you will need to be aware of and get rather irritated with the help of topical creams, gels or ointments and will keep your cat's lungs.If a cat in the bottom of a disease until they have an attitude and aren't very loyal when compared to dogs, cats are prone to odour.

[pussymagicuniverse]

Where Have You Been

She closes the door as quietly as she can, tiptoeing in her lacquered red shoes whose sound is cushioned by the mud covering the soles. She doesn’t notice the imprints she’s leaving behind her as she goes, too focused on the stairs she needs to reach. Once upstairs it’ll be easier to pretend she’s been there all along like it had been asked of her.

But before she can cross the threshold she hears her father’s voice, calm and steady, spelling trouble.

“Where have you been?”

“Nowhere,” she tries to lie, but she still has her coat on and smells like wind and petrichor.

“That why I saw you in the neighbours’ backyard twenty minutes after I sent you up to do your homework?” 

Lost cause, she sighs as she drags herself to the living room. He’s sitting in his favourite armchair, television abandoned as he stares his daughter down. 

“I didn’t have a lot, and you said I could go play after—”

“I said we’ll see if you can go play after you’re done. You think you can leave just because you want to? You don’t make the decisions in this house, you’re an eight year old child.”

He did say she would be allowed to go after her homework was done. She heard him clear as day but he wouldn’t listen even if she insisted – especially if she insisted. Her friends’ parents say her dad is so hard at work, pushes himself to his limits in spite of being hardly recognised for all that he does. In spite of no one respecting his authority. 

She doesn’t have the words to explain that at work he’s about as hard as a glass but turns into diamond the closer to home he gets in the evening. 

“No seeing your friends until next week,” he says, and it’s final.

Whether or not he remembers how overjoyed she had been at the prospect of her best friend’s birthday party that weekend, she can’t tell. Not like it matters; the adults are always right — or so they themselves say.

•

“Where have you been?”

It’s 7:38 in the morning and class is about to begin. Phone out, she and her friends form a circle around their idol’s latest video. The tap on her shoulder is impatient, a woodpecker right on the protuberance of her collarbone. When she turns around she comes face to face with the one boy she can always make out in a crowd. The scrunchies in her hair are her favourite colours, she’s wearing her new outfit. They’ve been together four months today, and for fifteen year olds that’s a lifetime.

“We came up to watch our vid somewhere quiet. You didn’t get my text?”

“Where were you this weekend?”

Now she sports a frown to match his. They hadn’t planned to go out, had they? She wouldn’t have forgotten, she sets memos on her phone for that kind of thing. She would have remembered. 

“At my gran’s. I thought I told you?”

“Your grandmother looks like an old guy with a shitty goatee?”

“What? No! What’s up with you?”

“My brother saw you laughing with a dude, walking real close to each other. I should have known you were a slut.” 

She staggers under the strength of the word, the blow his mouth delivered hitting her hard. Her friends move closer to her, one of them gets in a blow of her own – with her hand, that one. They start arguing but all she hears is that one word over and over again and she thinks about the weekend she spent with her family, how happy she was to see her aunt after so many years. She thinks about the tour of the neighbourhood she gave her cousin because he wanted to see if it had changed; twenty isn’t that old and the two hairs fighting on his chin couldn’t possibly be called a ‘goatee’.

She blinks back to reality when a finger shakes an inch away from her face.

“You better be sure everyone will know you’re not a virgin.”

There’s no truth to the accusation – because it is one, everybody’s reaction tells her so – and yet her heart seizes with fear, because she was told it should. None of them understand anything past the shame she’ll feel and the power he’ll gain, and for him that’s enough.

•

All she took was a minute. Just the one, to put her hair back in order and massage her feet. Heels are a special type of torture on her legs, but they’re a mandatory part of the work uniform. Unless you’re tall, like the foreign assistant; then you’re encouraged to wear sneakers because at least in these the team manager is almost of eye-level with you.

The assistant, as a matter of fact, really liked wearing heels.

Her minute is closer to two so she walks as fast as she can without dropping the ridiculously high stack of papers management couldn’t be arsed to go and get for themselves. One of them had offered to send somebody else because she’s so tiny, how do you want her to hold all that? but that had only fueled her spite. Not to mention they would have likely sent the one accountant who came back with a bad knee because she couldn’t afford to recover.

(They say life’s like this, hard unless you work it. She remembers her father, hard at work, never gained recognition for it. She remembers what she was told on her first day, “they’re only here because their daddies were too. A bunch of spineless money-grubbing douchebags, can’t wipe their own—” and how it had only taken her two days to repeat those words and mean them.)

“Where have you been? If you’d kept us here any longer dinner would have been on you, sweetheart!”

They laugh their special colleagues laugh and she purses her lips in something that passes for a smile.

“The toner in the printer needed to be replaced and the receptionist wasn’t the one who had stored it this time so I had to look everywhere for—”

“Yes, yes it’s great, why don’t you hand those over and we’ll tell the receptionist to put things in the right place next time, alright?”

“It wasn’t her who—”

“Pass those around if you please, we don’t have all day.”

She stands still for a second, having half a mind to correct them again. They wouldn’t listen any more than they did the first time around; maybe if she dropped something heavy or climbed on the table they’d be shocked enough for her to get a couple words in?

“What are you standing there for, darling, trying to blend in with the furniture?”

There’s laughter around the table once more but this time it is subdued. As her eyes trail over the vaguely similar faces she sees second-hand embarrassment, scorn, lack of interest. Too much interest. Blood rushes to her cheeks and as she turns around it takes more than whatever energy she had left not to clench her hands into fists.

When she closes the door behind her she’s only comforted by the idea that they’ve already forgotten everything down to her very presence. She doesn’t plan on keeping that job forever, anyway. She can put up with it for the time being.

•

“Hey, where’ve you been?”

Her fiancé is tucked under the sheets, a stray rose petal clinging to the bedspread. He gauges her carefully, the red heels in her hand dripping rain on the carpeted floor, the stain her lipstick left behind on the hard line of her mouth the only disruption in her make up. She looks tired, but at long last she’s home. 

She stares too, calculating. He doesn’t look mad, just disappointed, yet there’s something in his eye that makes her want to hop under the shower and not come out until he’s fast asleep. She isn’t in the mood for a chat tonight. 

“I told you I would grab a drink with a friend after the board meeting.”

“What you didn’t tell me is that you’d be home so late. Do meetings really last that long, or should I be worried about the friend?”

I owe you nothing, she thinks as she drops her shoes on the floor. All she needs is warmth and sleep.

“Put your shoes away, you’ll ruin the floor.” 

“Yes, dad.”

“If that’s the mood you’re in I better get the petals out of the vacuum bag.” He waits a beat, continues when she doesn’t prompt him further. He’s never really needed her approval to ramble. “See, I thought a romantic evening would be just the thing for you, since you’ve come home knackered from work for a while.” She massages her forehead, temples, unzips her dress, getting closer to the bathroom with each step. He goes on. “So I grabbed all those organic rose petals from the store and made the bed all nice, I even had champagne but the ice in the bucket started melting so I put it away.”

She can tell. The bucket is perfectly visible from where she stands, devoid of champagne but filled to the brim with water and nearly-melted ice in the middle of the shower. Oh, bother. She wants a steaming hot shower, not another mess to clean. A sigh escapes her before she can hold it back; she couldn’t possibly hold on to it for so long, it had to go somewhere.

“Did you just sigh at me? I tried to do something nice for you, you know, it’s not my fault you couldn’t be home in time for it!”

“I’m tired,” she snaps through the pounding in her head. “And I told you I’d be home late. Did you really think now would be the best time?”

“You said you’d be home later than usual, so I expected half past seven, not nearly midnight. Nice of you to text me, by the way.”

“I specifically said ‘late.’”

“I don’t remember you saying that, but whatever you say, sweetheart. You can go get your grumpy shower now.”

And then he turns on his side, switches his bedside lamp off, and makes to sleep. There’s water boiling inside of her, thunder rumbling in the distant landscape of her self-control. Just go, pleads the little girl hanging onto her hand with desperation. Please go, the teenage girl pulls her along, staring transfixed at the floor. You better go; the young adult’s tone leaves no room for misinterpretation, but if there’s any doubt about her intentions her clenched fists are right there.

So she goes, drags the weight of all she’s been and all she’s heard to the bathroom, tips the bucket on its side and as the water runs down the drain she tries to regain some patience. Gets in front of the mirror to remove her earrings, drags a cotton soaked in cleansing cream over her face and the bags under her eyes, Jesus, when did she get so tired? By the time she hops under the shower she’s trapped inside her head, the empty bucket in the corner of her field of vision. She doesn’t see it really but it guides her thoughts out of the fog. 

I did say I would come home late.

Didn’t I?

… Did I?

I was running late, I didn’t pay attention to what I was saying. Maybe I did say that but not clearly enough and he misheard me. Am I getting angry over nothing? He had good intentions, it’s not his fault I had a bad day. Why am I taking this so hard, why am I such a mess? I’m not supposed to be on my period soon, am I? It could just be that.

She’s about to drop the issue and move on when she hears it.

At first it sounds like water trickling down but then it starts again: low and menacing, uncomfortable like being scolded by her father.

No, it isn’t quite like that. There is no anger directed at her, but the feeling is there nonetheless. Something standing behind her straightening her spine, an animal hissing and growling. 

“Lower your eyes.”

“What?” she asks out loud. The walls of the mist-coated room echo her question, sending back a sound unlike that of the command from before. 

“Lower your eyes,” she hears again, and understands it comes from inside of her – her mind, maybe, or something close to it. 

“I don’t want to.” She thinks it back with as much strength as a candle in the wind but it’s enough; after all, truth experiences no solid state. “I don’t want to.” Defeat beats down on her shoulders. It’s in her gut too, melting and boiling all of her strength and head held high and a thousand possibilities down to nothing.

“LOWER YOUR EYES,” the voice booms, and it’s one of those times where there’s absolutely a wrong answer but not really a good one. There is what is expected of her, and nothing else. Not even a choice to make, not even time to think. It’s do or… what?

OR WHAT? She thinks real loud, WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF I DON’T? She’s been raised to fear those voices, the consequences of disobedience when no one ever explained what said consequences would be. She’s been told who was right before she could even think to ask what they were right about and here she is, tired out of her mind and too skinny too grey too blue not enough joy or will or normal— 

“Fuck you,” she spits out, renewed vitriol. “Fuck you.” Her eyes stare straight ahead, head held high and a thousand possibilities.

The voice licks its fangs and retreats, sated… satisfied.

I was late and tired. “I’ll be home late” is a shorter sentence than “I’ll be home later than usual,” so that’s what I would have said regardless. And even then he has no right to whine about me ruining a selfish surprise. If he knew me at all he would have never made this ridiculous attempt at a relaxing evening, especially since his idea of relaxation is sex when mine is a bath and Chinese takeout. He’d know that if he paid attention. He’d understand if he cared.

It felt like waking up after a fever dream, her lashes blinking droplets away to keep her awake.

How long had it been that way, her looking the other way while the man in her bed threw childish tantrums, unable to hear ‘no’ or ‘you’re wrong’ without getting red in the face? How many before him had done the same, when had she fallen asleep?

Her phone buzzes, she grabs it on autopilot. “R u awake?” says the text she receives from the friend she saw earlier at the bar. “Eyes wide open,” she texts back. The bathroom door is cranked open just enough for her to see the shape of her fiancé in her bed. Her lips curl in mild annoyance. “I’ll come see you tomorrow. Need a plan of attack,��� she texts again. She’s not out of the woods yet but there’s no way she’ll let a false sense of dread lull her back to sleep.

As she turns around to turn off the light she catches her own eye in the mirror and comes to a stop. The bags under her eyes haven’t changed in the slightest, but she could swear she saw fire in her pupils. She angles her face this way and that, admiring the new colours she spots there; crimson passion, golden bravery, emerald power.

Fleur is a queer storyteller living predominantly in their own head, which happens to be located in France close to the Belgian border.

Their love for the magical and eerie started with bedtime stories but now transpires into their stories, through which they seek to shine a light on both the beautiful and grotesque aspects of everyday life. With a particular fondness for the Norse and Greek gods, they mix a little bit of everything into their practice – various means of fortune reading, gemstones, and devotional candles are commonplace in their shared apartment.

You can find Fleur on Twitter @moonsflora and on the rare occasion, on Instagram @moonsflora_.

[goflyaviation-blog]

The Insanity of Noise Complaints from People Who Choose to Live Near Airports

As the owner of a busy flying school, I often get complaints passed on from the local council, or sometimes directly from residents, in relation to the sound of aircraft flying near or over their house.

On most occasions it is not the planes from my flight school which are causing the noise, however, when a resident searches online for ‘flight school Caloundra’, GoFly Aviation often comes up as the number one entry on the list, so they mistakenly assume that there is a good chance that it is one of my aircraft making the noise. It’s important for our school’s reputation that we deal with nearby neighbours in a courteous manner, regardless of whose aircraft it is making the noise.

GoFly Aviation has well maintained aircraft with low-noise engines and very strict rules on avoiding flying over noise-sensitive areas, but even so, some nearby residents will still find a way to be unhappy while living beside a busy airfield.

Why do they complain?

I find noise complaints a very strange phenomena as they appear to be solely targeted at smaller general aviation airports. I am going to list a few reasons why I find it strange:

Most airports were built long before residential housing came along. For instance Caloundra aerodrome was first used as a landing field in 1931 and has been used as a professional general aviation airport since 1971. There were no houses in the area then.

If a person then buys or builds a house adjacent to the airport, does it not stand to reason that there will be aircraft noise?

All busy urban areas grow in size, so if people are all ok with town and suburbs growing, why do they then complain when airports get busier or expand?

I do believe there are some occasions where noise complaints make sense; for example if a new international flying school opens up without public consultation and all of a sudden an airport has five times the number of aircraft movements per day (and an increase in noise). The other reason might be an aircraft completing emergency procedures or flying outside the nominated times for noise abatement procedures. The times for flight training that GoFly offers, are between 7.30am and 4pm, when the majority of people are not only awake but most are heading out to work and school.

If you buy or build a house beside an international airport or a busy highway do you think the local government is going to listen to you if you start complaining about noise? The answer is obvious, of course they will not, and I believe the reason why is very simple. Highways, expressways and international or major airports are what we deem ‘essential services’ which most people use on a semi-regular basis. So it doesn’t make sense for them to complain about the existence of an essential service. I believe that smaller general aviation airports are seen to be places which most people will not visit or make use of often, and are also perceived as the domain of rich individuals who fly for fun. While this may have an element of truth, general aviation airports provide so much more than a base for millionaires to enjoy their hobby. Most of my clientele are middle class workers and struggling students with their hearts set on joining an airline one day. If not learning at a small airport – without the confusing radio calls and without commercial aircraft taking precedence over them –  then where are our future pilots going to learn to fly, so that they can then fly these complainants away on their future holidays?

Let’s try to see it from their point of view

I believe some real estate agents do not disclose truthfully the proximity of the airport and possible noise issues when individuals are buying or building a home near the airport. A lot of individuals will also inspect a home before or after work, when aircraft noise is at a minimum.

If someone rings me with an honest request to take a different route to minimise noise, and it makes practical sense and does not jeopardise safety, than I am more than willing to change our flight paths accordingly.

Recently I had a local retired couple call me to tell me that they have at least 20 aircraft each day turn over their house at a height of about 700 feet. When I looked at google maps I discovered that their house was situated directly under the designated crosswind turn, where aircraft were doing circuits on a particular runway.

Although everyone based at Caloundra airport was sticking to the ‘Fly Neighbourly’ policy and not turning crosswind until 700 feet, the couple were still getting up to 10 aircraft er day doing circuits (at approx 8 circuits per lesson!). This equated to 80 aircraft per a day turning over their house at the 700 feet level. I could understand their frustration. All it took to solve this problem was to get together with other Caloundra airfield operators and agree to turn into the crosswind section of the circuit once we reached the water at Pumicestone Passage. For pilots it simply meant another twenty seconds of climbing in the upwind section of the circuit to keep the residents below, happy.

Sometimes though, you cannot make everyone happy. I once had a very aggressive (and gym-buffed) nearby resident come down to the airfield wanting to pick a fight with one of my instructors. This resident had just purchased a house at the end of the runway and could not understand why we had to keep flying over his house!

My instructor was very calm and explained that in certain wind conditions we have to land and take off on that particular runway, and, as his house is situated directly off the end of the runway, there is no way  to avoid flying over his house as aircraft cannot turn below 500 feet. He didn’t like the fact that the aircraft noise was affecting his afternoon nap. Ironically, he told us he worked as a jet ski instructor (now those things are really noisy!!!). He eventually backed off and went home.

I believe we need to use common sense when it comes to airport noise complaints. We require general aviation airports for the healthy future of our aviation sector, both for training as well as maintenance and private operations.

I believe that one way forward would be for all houses within the noise radius of airports to require a disclosure for new purchasers, to ensure that the prospective new owner understands that there will be airport noise and that the airport may grow in size in the future. Also, the disclosure document would state that the resident cannot complain about the noise unless a particular operator or aircraft has broken a law or gone against the ‘Fly Neighbourly’ policy.

Light aircraft will be more quiet in the future

The good news is that the future for light aircraft is going to be electric and it’s going to be a lot quieter. So hopefully technology will allow both sides to get what they want: afternoon circuits and a nanna nap at the same time!

Alternatively, another idea that could work, is that all houses in the surrounding area should only be available for sale to aviation enthusiasts only!

Happy and safe flying (as quietly as possible)!