#the only other person he recognized was lois and that was after a fair few moments of digesting her appearance/voice/scent/etc

[brodinsons]

sometimes i think about the fact that clark kent, in a state of complete amnesia rendering him unable to remember even his own name, saw bruce wayne for 1/10th of a second in the midst of a bunch of superpowered strangers trying to subdue him and remembered him instantly...and i go completely apeshit

[flaminpumpkin]

Happy birthday, Jordan

It wasn’t even 4am when Hal woke up to the gentle green glow of his ring announcing a new message from the Corps. They really couldn’t leave him alone, even on his birthday now, could they? 

He had half a mind to pretend not to notice and go back to sleep. His last mission had been short but exhausting, leaving him completely drained. His dark circles had dark circles at this point, even though he had slept basically all day the day before, waking up only to go to the bathroom and eat half an apple and a toast. 

Unfortunately for him – and fortunately for the Corps – Hal Jordan was a devoted man and an Honor Lantern so he kind of had to. 

With a loud groan, he straightened a bit so he could prop his chin in his hand, not moving from his position on the bed where he was sprawled on his stomach, pillow still half under him. He had been Earth-side for barely two days, if they were expecting from him to look decent, they could fuck right off. 

But when he ordered his ring to open the message, he was greeted by a short and simple: Happy birthday, Hal! Just this. It made him smile (and also breathe a bit more easily, he really didn’t want to go back to space this quickly.) 

Then his ring pinged again and there was a little hologram of his fellow Green Lanterns. He could see Kilowog and Tomar, Jess and Simon. John and Kyle, the younger man grinning like a five year old as he held a notepad with a caricature of Hal drawn on it and come on Kyle, my head is not that big. There was also Guy. Who was… Hal sighed, shaking his head. Guy was harboring a shit eating grin while flipping him off. Typical. 

Before going back to sleep, he sent back a simple thank you note to all of them and then, for good measure, he sent another one to Guy with a hologram of himself flipping the bird. 

He swore he could hear him laugh all the way to earth. That asshole. 

*    *    *

The second time he woke up, around three o’clock in the afternoon, Hal felt a lot less like a zombie. He probably still had a few hours of sleep to catch up on but it was nothing he couldn’t survive without. He had to be up in a couple of hours for monitor duty anyway, so might as well wake up a bit earlier and enjoy some peace before going back to work. 

There was a little cardboard box on his kitchen counter when he emerged from the shower, with a fancy little ribbon and a card. He didn’t even need to open the card to know who it was. 

Firstly, because Carol was the only one, with Barry, who had a spare key to his apartment in case he had an emergency call from the Corps and, secondly, because it just had her name written all over it. He recognized the design on the box being from that fancy French bakery close to her apartment and knew that when he would open it, he’d find a generous slice of their famous lemon meringue pie. 

He ate it in silence with some coffee, responding to the different birthday wishes he had received. Some were from Tom and a bunch of coworkers. There were also several audio messages from his nephew and niece trying to figure out how to work around the feature until their parents probably had had enough and had decided to take family photos instead. Six in total, all of them blurry. But at least Hal could somehow guess what was written on the sign his niece was holding. It made him laugh and he decided to call his brother, just to tease him.

They ended up talking for a while. It felt good, this small bit of normalcy.

*    *    *

Hal was on his way for the monitor room, two cups of coffee in hands, when he heard someone call his name. Ah. He had hoped no one would catch him before monitor duty. He was already on the brink of running late and god knew Batman disliked lateness. But hey, after all it was his birthday. 

“Hal! Hang on!”

He turned around just when Clark arrived at his level. The other man was smiling widely at him, holding a small plate with a cupcake on it in his big hands and looking like an oversized golden retriever puppy.

“Lois made enough cupcakes for an army because she was bored at home yesterday – I’m starting to think that forced leave really wasn’t our boss’ greatest idea but anyway. She told me to bring it here for everyone,” he said before Hal could even ask anything. “There’s a whole plate in the lounge but with Barry around I thought I’d give you one for your birthday before he wolfs them down.”

He snorted at that because, honestly, that was fair. Because of his powers, Barry was basically a walking stomach and everybody knew he had a giant sweet tooth. 

“Thanks, Clark.”

“You’re welcome. And happy birthday!” he said, floating away.

Hal had given up on trying to balance the plate and his two cups in his hands, using a construct instead, when Dinah pounced on him, quickly followed by Oliver and Barry. She was the first one to hug him, kissing his cheek gently.

“Happy birthday, hot stuff.”

“Thanks, Di.”

“Hal, my man! Happy birthday!” Oliver shouted before squishing Hal’s cheek between two big, callous hands, not even waiting for Dinah to be out of his arms.

In retrospect, he should have expected it – it was Oliver after all, the guy didn’t know what “inhibition” meant – but, he couldn’t stop his eyes from going wide as saucers as the blond placed a resounding kiss right on his lips.  

“So? How’s that for a birthday present?” he asked, smug, earning himself an eye roll from both Barry and Dinah. 

“That was my present?”

“Yes. Wonderful isn’t?”

“Truly. I’m delighted. Such a generous present.”

“I’m a generous man.”

“So charitable.”

All eyes turned on Barry.

“Was that sarcasm, Bear?”

The speedster fixed Oliver with a blank stare. He looked even more exasperated than usual, which made Hal snicker. People assumed way too often that Barry was a goody two shoes but Hal had witnessed firsthand how quick witted he really was. “A snarky little shit” Oliver had called him once. And he was right.

“Happy birthday, Harold,” Barry said after a few seconds of silent judgement, opening his arms to embrace Hal.

He returned the hug good heartedly.

“Bear, you can’t wish me happy birthday and then call me Harold. That’s not legal, buddy.”

“Just say thank you.”

Hal simply squeezed him one last time before letting him go, winking at the group as he started to walk down the corridor again.

“Gotta go. Don’t want Bats to be mad at me on my birthday.”

“Like that would bother you!”

“Well yes, actually,” he almost said but he didn’t want to spend the next thirty minutes explaining to Oliver why so he pretended he hadn’t heard.

Truth was, Hal and Bruce were friends. Good friends, even. Recently, the pilot had even caught himself hoping for them to become more than that. They still had disagreements of course, they were both stubborn but they were past that now. Most of the time, it felt more like some weird kind of aggressive flirting than a real fight.

Hal enjoyed the other man’s company, especially now that he was comfortable enough with him to talk about more personal matters, like his family and boy did Bruce had things to say about the weird little clique that was his family. The fond look on his face just made it all the more worth it.

He cherished those hours spent together on the Watchtower, sometimes wishing they could do this outside of their hero work. Maybe he could pretend to need help on the Javelin’s new update to see him. She needed one and the only other person who knew her as well as Hal did was Bruce. He could buy him dinner too. 

Sounds like a plan, he thought, entering the monitor room. 

Bruce was already there, of course. His cowl was pulled back like every time when they were paired up, his hair looking ridiculously good even mussed. The man was always so effortlessly pretty, it was revolting.

“You’re late, Jordan.”

He didn’t even glance in Hal’s direction but it wasn’t like he needed to check that it was him.

“Better late than never, Spooks.”

That earned him a huff and then he saw Bruce slide a cup of coffee towards him on the desk.

Oh.

“It’s probably cold now.”

Lukewarm was probably more accurate – Hal wasn’t that late. But he refrained from mentioning it to the other man, instead grabbing the two still steaming cups from his tray construct and handing his to Bruce. 

“I thought about preparing some too, so lucky us, I guess.”

He smirked at the Bat, oddly proud when Bruce smiled back, even just slightly. 

“Miss Lane’s?” Bruce asked, nodding in direction of his construct while taking a sip of his coffee.

Hal looked back at the still floating, green glowing tray and reached out to retrieve the plate Clark had given him.

“Yep. Wanna share? It was your birthday yesterday after all. And happy belated birthday. By the way.”

It wasn’t lost on Hal that he had completely forgotten to even text him for his birthday but, like he had said, better late than never. He knew it probably hadn’t bothered Bruce, maybe hadn’t even registered with him that Hal hadn’t said anything but it sure did bother the pilot that he had forgotten. Bruce smiled again anyway, something small and secretive. Something just for him to see. Hal could feel an unusual blush creep up his cheeks.

“No, thank you,” Bruce said, turning back towards the screens in front of them, the cup Hal had given him cradled in his gauntleted hands. “Clark actually flew all the way to Gotham yesterday to bring us some. I left it for the kids. Too sweet.”

Hal had to laugh at that.

“Says the guy who takes his coffee with a metric ass load of sugar and cream in it.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

Bruce side-eyed him, half hiding a smirk behind the rim of his cup and Hal laughed again. 

They focused on the monitors after that, a companionable silence between them, and Hal regretted not sleeping those two extra hours earlier. He could feel the bone deep tiredness take over him after a mere half an hour, his body sagging in his chair and relaxing into it despite his best efforts to stay alert. 

He was nodding off, barely even conscious anymore, when he felt Bruce take his cup from his lax fingers.

“Idiot,” he heard him whisper and Hal wanted to retort something but he was too far gone to even form a coherent thought at this point. 

Then he felt fingers graze his forehead, brushing away wild strands of hair, followed by a pair of slightly chapped lips pressing there. He automatically leaned into the gentle touch, sighing long and deep. The lips stayed there a second longer, lingering and warming up his skin, his whole body. 

Hal wanted to wake up, to say something cheeky or, even better, just kiss Bruce. Properly. On the lips. Like he had been longing to do. But all he managed was a weak little whine as he turned his head towards the other man.

“Happy birthday, Jordan,” was the last thing he heard before drifting off completely.

(A few seconds later. Training room. Watchtower.

“Hey, Ollie?”

“What is it, Barry?”

“I think I just saw Bruce kiss Hal.”

“WHAT?!”)

[ask-de-writer]

LOST TIME (part 2 of 3) A fantasy of Flocking Bay.

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LOST TIME

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5556 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

written 2003 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.

Reproduction  in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the  express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

//////////////

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Users  of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may  reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in  my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical  compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge  for their images.

All sorts of Fan Activity, fiction, art, cosplay, music or anything else is ACTIVELY encouraged!

///////////////////////

Morton Hewitt did not last. He bought the house for back taxes in 1944. He lived there for a week. He painted the hardwood floors and then hanged himself in the garage the next day.

Byron Thomas bought the house from Hewitt’s estate. He was a grave digger for Trinity Graveyard. He updated the plumbing and lived there quietly for several years. Apparently he liked his work a little too well. He buried two people who were not yet dead. One of them lived. He was adjudged sane at his trial and hanged for his crime.

Mark Altman bought the house next. He was a reclusive sort and lived there for a quite a number of years before it was discovered that he’d had some visitors who had never left. He died in prison while awaiting trial. There was an interesting hand written note attached to the autopsy report which stated that the coroner had ruled out both suicide and homicide but refused to pronounce the death natural.

Dora Greene got the place next. She was Mark’s sister. Like Mark, she lived there quietly for years. One day she walked into town and set fire to the school, killing five and maiming six more. She spent her last years in a lunatic asylum, setting three more fires and killing two more people. She herself died in her last fire.

While she was in the asylum, one Tony Fisk, age twelve, urged on by several other urchins, had thrown some stones at the windows of the Vekin place. He had missed. Becoming angry, he took careful aim and they all watched the flight of the stone. In the young malefactor’s words, “It went away without falling.”

It would not have been worthy of a news story, except for the fact that each of the children who had watched the stone had gone severely and permanently cross-eyed. In a small town like Flocking Bay, that many kids going cross-eyed at once could not be hidden.

George Abbot bought the house and rented it at a very low price to a Michael Farley. The two had been feuding, down-state, and the house was supposed to have been a peace offering. Farley stayed only a few weeks. He went out and dynamited Abbot’s automobile. Farley was quite mad and lived out his life in an asylum for the criminally insane. The county coroner ruled Abbot’s death to be suicide. After all, he had known the history of the house and had knowingly rented that house to an enemy.

Cornelius Baker took the house next. He upgraded the kitchen and installed modern wiring. He lived there quietly and apparently got on well for about five years. He was a long-haul truck driver. Bodies followed him about the country. Finally, he was caught with one in his truck. He drove his truck into a bridge abutment at over ninety miles per hour rather than be taken alive.

Now, I had the place. I mentally withdrew my blessing. He had not been a good man at all.

Lois saw that I was finished with the file and making good inroads on my sandwich. She asked, “Did you sleep there, last night?”

“Yes, I did. Most restful sleep I have had in years.”

“What is your full name?”

“Vandervekken,” I replied, getting out my driver’s license. I was used to this. “No first name or middle initial. Just Vandervekken.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know, at least seventy.”

“You don’t know how old you are? Seventy? You look like you’re in your early twenties,” she said incredulously. “I told you that things connected with the Vekin place get interesting.”

“I got a head-wound during the war. Traumatic amnesia.”

“Viet Nam wasn’t that long ago. It would only make you in your fifties.”

“Not Viet Nam, Lois. WW II. Apparently, I was helping the French Underground.” I handed her the military fingerprint record. Her eyes widened as she realized that I was serious. “The amnesia’s been permanent, so far. I have language skills . . . too many. I’m a fluent, accentless polyglot. I even speak Basque. I know how to do an amazing number of things . . . no trace of name or personal past. No ID either.”

“Couldn’t they trace you by these fingerprints or something?”

“They tried. I was found among the bodies of a wiped-out unit of the French Underground during the German withdrawal from Paris in 1944. Someone from another unit was able to say that I was an American volunteer with a name that he could neither remember nor pronounce ... something sort of Dutch. That inspired my current name. I got back with a temporary ID and that military fingerprint record, which I still carry.”

“That’s sad, and eerie, too. What’s it feel like?”

“I’ve thought about that a lot. I think the best way to describe it is like a house that’s furnished but nobody is home. Empty. Alone.”

“So, how does that relate to your choice of name? You must know what having only one name does to our systems for indexing things and people.”

“True. I want to stand out, in case somebody recognizes who I am. As for Vandervekken, he was the Flying Dutchman, who swore that he would take his ship around the Cape of Good Hope, against a gale, if it took until Judgment Day. That was in the Seventeenth Century and he is still sailing. His ghost is seen as a Dutch East India Co. galleon with all sails set, sailing into the teeth of a gale. He can’t get home either.”

“I see,” Lois said, adding to her notes. “What brought you to Flocking Bay?”

“I was just passing through. I like small towns, so I avoid the main highways and big cities whenever I can. I liked the atmosphere of Flocking Bay enough to inquire about the possibility of settling here.”

“Look, we both know that small towns are dying. You could have had your pick from any of a dozen houses. Why the Vekin place?”

“I was shown fourteen places, actually. I know that it seems a bit forbidding at first, but it felt good. Like a warm glove on a cool morning. Have you ever actually been there?”

She shuddered, “No, and before you, I have never heard of anyone who said that the Vekin place felt good ... You say that you are a writer. What have you written?”

“Charles said it very well, ’Pseudonyms are great for privacy.’ My own writing aside, I do translations but you won’t find my name on most of them. Archaeologists like to take credit for their finds. I mentioned that I’m a polyglot? I sight read ancient languages as well as modern.”

I extended my hand to Lois and invited, “Would you like to come and see for yourself this house of dark history? I promise that you will find it worth your while. In all of those stories, not once was the interior of Vekin House described. Do come.”

“I have to return the file and get my camera,” she responded gamely.

“I shall await you in my auto, in front of the Voice,” I answered. As I walked her back across the street, I had the pleasure of seeing her stare at Lilitu.

“If that’s what I think its, I’ll ride with you anywhere!” she called over her shoulder as she entered the Voice’s office. True to her word, she emerged in a few minutes with a camera. Not one of those tiny little cameras that have become fashionable, but a business-like press camera. I opened the car door and gave her a hand up.

As I got into the driver’s seat, she asked, wonder in her voice, “Is this really a Packard V-12 Touring Car?”

We pulled away with the almost uncannily quiet, vibration-free ride that the car was famous for. I replied, “You bet she is. Lois, meet Lilitu. Lilitu, meet Lois. After the war, there were still quite a few of them to be had, and I liked both the ride and the durability, so I hunted one down and had it fixed up like new. I’ve kept her that way ever since. She’s only had two owners in over two-million miles. The first owner only put on about sixty-thousand of them.”

“You drive a lot,” she stated.

“I was looking for something ... I think that Flocking Bay has it. My turn for a few questions , if you don’t mind.”

“Fire away. If I don’t like the question, I won’t answer it.”

“What did you do before you took up the Voice?”

“The same thing that I still do. The stock and futures markets. I’m good at it. I got out of college with a degree in the sociology of medieval witchcraft. I got a job as a waitress on the strength of my looks. I put my first fifty dollars in tips into a risky stock that kited way up. On a hunch, I dumped it three days after I bought it. It nosedived shortly after I sold out. After commissions, I had three hundred and fifty dollars. I rolled it over the same way. The rest is history. So far, my hunches have always worked for me.”

“What brought you to Flocking Bay?”

“Like you, I was passing through. I was on my way to Lakeside Resort about three years ago. I got a hunch that I should stay, so I did. The Voice was failing. When a small town loses its paper, the end is in sight. I didn’t want the end to come, so I bought the paper. Here I am.”

“And here we are,” I said with a flourish as I pulled up in front of the house. We both stared. The yard was neatly trimmed, though the bushes and trees still retained a slightly forbidding aspect. Going up the path to the front door, I noticed that the flagstones had been leveled, the weeds removed and the joints and refilled with fresh sand. The iron fence and balustrades had been cleaned of rust.

“You’ve been busy,” was Lois’s comment.

“That’s just it,” I replied, puzzled. “I didn’t do it. I thought that stocking the fridge and setting out a snack last night was something that the real-estate agent arranged. Sort of a welcome wagon. This is beyond the call of duty.” Opening the front door, I felt that comfortable, welcoming feeling that had caused me to buy the house in the first place. Impulsively, I said, “Hello, house, you certainly look nice today.”

Lois looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you talk to everything, or is this special?”

I thought for a moment before answering, “Actually I only talk to things that have personality enough to warrant a name, like Lilitu, my car, or Drachen, my typewriter.”

“Typewriter? You do like antiques, don't you? What are you going to call the house, then?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered. “Something good ... What does the place feel like to you?”

“The place actually looks and feels . . . well . . .” Lois groped for the right word, “I’d have to say . . . happy. Not what I expected, at all. It feels like what you see when a pup that loves its master is greeting him. No wonder you slept well, if it feels as good to you as it does to me . . .” She sort of trailed off. “I wouldn’t normally say this, but I’m getting a hunch about this place . . .” she trailed off again.

“I guess that the house was just waiting for the right kind of person,” I responded. “It was pretty rough on everyone else. I’m glad that you like it too.”

“Look at these floors,” she mused, “They were beautiful before Hewitt painted them over. You can still make out some traces of the parquetry patterns. If he hadn’t already hanged himself, I’d help you to do it.”

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[brigdh]

Reading Wednesday

Penric’s Fox by Lois McMaster Bujold. Another novella about Penric, a sorcerer – which in the rules of this fantasy series means he is possessed by a friendly chaos demon. Penric’s is named Desdemona and has possessed ten women – plus a lioness and a mare – before him, giving it a rather female personality. Penric’s Fox follows fairly closely after Penric and the Shaman (link to my review of it), wherein he met Inglis (the shaman of the title) and Oswyl (a sort of police detective). In this one, Penric is spending a pleasant day fishing with Inglis when Oswyl arrives to ask for their help – another sorcerer has been murdered and her demon is missing. This sets off the murder mystery that ends up being the main plot: Who murdered her, of course, but also how on earth could anyone sneak up on a women with a demon, and where exactly has that demon has gone off to? And most importantly, who was the real intended victim: the woman or the demon? When it seems the demon may have jumped into a passing fox, Penric and the others begin to search the forest and its hundreds of local foxes, a task much like hunting for a needle in a haystack. Their task is complicated when they find signs that the still-unknown murderer is also looking for a certain special fox. I really enjoyed this novella. The Penric series (and the larger series it’s a subthread of, The World of the Five Gods) are all light, fun short stories, absolutely charming ways to spend an afternoon. I loved reading about Inglis and Oswyl again, as I'd liked them previously and was glad to see their friendship with Penric deepening. It’s also intriguing to see that Bujold seems to be setting up future stories to further explore the relationship between the magics of sorcerers and shamans, a topic that I’m very interested in her take on and so I will be looking forward to reading whatever comes next. My one complaint is that, late in the novella, there's a development that seems to draw on the real-world issue of police brutality. I don’t think Bujold handled it offensively, but it’s a brief digression and that's not a great way to deal with such a sensitive topic. I wish she had either gone into it with real depth or had just not brought it up at all. As it is, it feels half-hearted, which isn’t fair to such a serious matter. But this is literally only a few pages out of two hundred, so I certainly wouldn’t un-recommend the novella for that alone. On the other hand, it did bother me, so I wanted to mention it. Overall, a fantasy series that takes a digression into murder mystery. Certainly worth reading if you’ve enjoyed other books in the series, but not a good introduction to the world or characters. I read this as an ARC via NetGalley. Death Trick by Richard Stevenson. A murder mystery set in 1979 Albany, starring Donald Strachey, a private detective and gay man. The writing definitely shares some traits with the sparse, hard-boiled style of Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett, but Don has a sense of humor and tendency toward cheerful sarcasm that lightens the cliche and makes him a fun character to spend time with. He's in a fairly committed relationship (though unfortunately we don't get much background on that in this book) but struggles with monogamy; both halves of the couple sleep with other people in the course of the plot. Which, by the way, is this: Billy Blount, a young gay man, spent the night dancing at a club with the DJ, Steven Kleckner. They were seen leaving together. The next morning Steven is found stabbed to death in his bed and Billy has gone into hiding. Don is hired by Billy’s parents to find where he’s gone and convince him to come back home – the parents have already worked out a plea deal with the judge and DA. However as Don investigates he slowly becomes convinced that Billy isn’t the killer, and his parents don’t have his best interests at heart. The real fun of this book isn’t so much the mystery itself but the rich world of the gay community in a small city in the pre-AIDS era. No single person (including Don) gets much depth, but the setting as a whole is crowded with recognizable characters quickly sketched out with a few well-chosen details. There are hustlers and cruising in the park, poppers and bath houses, radical anarchist groups and drag queens, gay bars with lightless back rooms raided by the cops, and lots and lots of disco, music and pop culture references (which I mostly didn't recognize, to be honest; I am not familiar enough with the 70s). It’s not all fun, of course; Don also deals with homophobic cops and mental institutions using electroshock therapy to cure teenagers of their ‘poor social adjustment’ (aka gayness). Death Trick is the first of a 15 books series. The cover is, uh, kind of appalling (unless you enjoy cheesy 90s stock photos, I suppose)(also why is there a dog? There’s no dog in the book!), but I really enjoyed reading it, and will absolutely be checking out more of the series.

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