#the weather has been so sad and grey this whole spring but every year he does this when i least expect it and it makes me so happy

[feytouched]

my bf got me a big box of strawberries 🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓🥺

[teamhappyme]

my world is grey without you

pairing: nick amaro x reader

warnings: tissues. this is not happy.

word count: 1.7k

a/n: this is pure sadness. i am so sorry, it is all hurt and the smallest pin point of comfort. my first nick amaro fic, and it’s gonna be ~heartbreaking~ but this idea has been in my head for weeks. hope you enjoy some of the pain im serving. 

****

You think Mother Nature must be in tune to your emotions, when you wake up that early May morning. The clouds were grey, rain pouring from the sky, collecting in puddles on the cracked sidewalks of New York City. If you had to describe to someone how you were feeling today, you would just tell them to look outside. You felt as gloomy as it was in the city today. 

Normally, your walk to the coffee shop was bright and full of sunshine, especially during spring. The flowers were starting to bloom, the sun was staying out longer, and the weather finally started to reach past sixty degrees. Instead it was filled with droopy tulips and black umbrellas covering everyone’s faces. 

You got your usual order, and one black coffee to go, hailing a cab across town to your destination. You planned on walking yesterday; the half hour walk would help clear your head and calm your nerves. But today, it would only leave you wet and cold.

Once you pulled up to the brick apartment building, you paid the driver and quickly ran up the stoop and into the entrance. You buzzed apartment 3G, and after a few seconds, you were let in. You rode the elevator up to the third floor, your foot tapping against the linoleum floor the entire time. 

You stepped out and took a right down the hall, stopping at the fourth door on the left. After three knocks, the door swung open, and there stood the man of the hour.

“Hey, Nick.” you gave him a small smile, lifting the black coffee you got for him on your way here. “I know it’s early, but I figured this may help you with any last minute packing.”

“I,” he started, running a hand through his hair, “what are you doing here?”

“What, you think you can just leave without a proper send off from your partner? Besides, I’ve owed you this coffee for three years. I had to pay up before you left.”

That got a smile out of him, as he reached for the coffee, and opened the door up a little wider. 

“Come on in,” the foyer of Nick Amaro’s apartment usually greeted you with an onslaught of pictures of Zara and Gil, accompanied by many drawings and art projects from the young girl. Now on his last morning here, the walls were stark white, void of anyone ever living here.

“I can’t believe you got this place packed up so fast. It took us a whole day just to get that giant brown couch into the apartment.” You said, as your eyes looked over what was once the living room. 

“Well, that’s what movers are for.” He followed in behind you, taking in the apartment he called home for the last two years. He moved in to the first place he could find, not wanting to spend another minute thinking about living without his baby girl. “I would offer you a seat, but my furniture is in a u-haul, probably crossing Kansas right about now.”

You smiled, as you crossed your ankles and sat criss cross applesauce on the hardwood floor. “That’s alright. I prefer the floor anyways, keeps me grounded.”

You were ready for the pointed stare you got from him, only making you laugh harder at your awful pun.

“Three years we’ve been partners, and you still have awful jokes I’ve never heard.”

“Hey, I gotta keep you on your toes, Amaro.” he sat down next to you, leaning back on his hands and crossing one foot over the other. You knew there wasn’t much time before he had to head to the airport; you purposely gave yourself a small window to minimize the hurt. “How long do I have you for until you head for the sunshine?”

He looked down at his watch, letting out a small sigh as he checked the time. “My cab will be here in about twenty minutes.”

“Alright. Then we have twenty minutes to make the best cop movie script out of our careers together.”

And for the next twenty minutes, you remembered almost every moment you spent with Detective Nick Amaro. From the first day you met, which had a rocky start, to the day he turned in his papers to be with his kids. There were stories of stakeouts that always included pizza and blaring rock music to keep you awake, monday morning bets on who would be in the precinct last, and endless amounts of coffee runs to keep the other person going. 

There was a lot of trust built between the two of you over the last three years. Nick had been through hell and back in the time you were partnered together, and there was no choice but to trust each other. At work, he needed somebody he could trust without any doubt, and you made it so easy for him. The kindness and empathy you treated him with from the beginning, even when he didn’t deserve it, made a difference in his life. There was no one else he’d trust with his life more than you.

After some time, you two were in sync with one another. You always knew what the other person needed, whether that was a coffee, space, or comfort, the two of you knew what to do. It made work that much easier, it made the bad days that much better, when you didn’t have to tell them how you were feeling; they just knew.

You had just finished the story about your first undercover op together, when his phone lit up.

“My ride is five minutes out.” he said, the trip down memory lane coming to an end. Your smile morphed from a shiny grin, into a small close mouthed line. It was time to say goodbye.

“I’ll walk you out,” you got out, barely above a whisper, as Nick stood up. He held his hand out to you, helping you onto your feet. 

You watched as he grabbed his backpack from his room, patting his pockets to double check he had his phone, wallet, and boarding pass. He took one last look around the place before walking out and closing the door behind him for the last time. 

The elevator ride down was quiet, you spent those thirty seconds regulating your breathing and swallowing the growing lump in the back of your throat. This wasn’t about you.

Once the doors opened to the lobby, you felt soft fingers inching their way into your palm, lighty holding you together. You looked over at Nick, slowly, but he was looking straight ahead. You saw the twitch in his jaw, and the bob of his adam’s apple, and you knew he was holding back his own tears.

Moving your hand the slightest bit, your fingers fell into place with his. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, before following him out.

The rain had subsided considerably since you arrived, the downpour now more of a spring mist. You stood at the edge of the sidewalk with him for a few minutes, until he got the notification that the car was only five blocks away.

“Well, are you ready to turn into a Cali boy?” you asked, finally turning to see his face. 

“I’m ready for no more New York winters. I am gonna miss just about everything else, though.”

“But you’ll have Zara, and Gil, and that’s all that really matters.” you said with a smile, while gently letting go of his hand. “Besides, I’ll make sure to send you endless videos of me shoveling myself out of my apartment building, just to let you know you made the right decision.”

“Please, please keep that promise and send me those videos. There is nothing more amusing than you swearing at snow.” you rolled your eyes, and nudged his shoulder in annoyance. 

Instead of bouncing back off his body, you felt his arm snake around your waist. You leaned into his touch, letting your head rest on his shoulder. You felt the exhale of his breath before you heard it, along with the rapid beating of his heart.

“I’m gonna miss you, you know,” he started, as you focused on the way his fingers were moving up and down along your hip. “I wouldn’t have made it through everything without you.”

“I was your partner,” you said, the past tense already tasting like bile on your tongue. “I would’ve done anything for you. And I know you would’ve done anything for me.” You turned your head the slightest bit, just enough to see his face. “I’m gonna miss you too. More than I already do.”

He looked down at you, his brown eyes full of emotion and tears. His eyes flickered to your lips for the smallest moment, and you nodded, giving in to the moment, and the man you cared so much for.

His lips met yours in a chaste kiss, just long enough for you to remember what it felt like to hold Nick Amaro this close. 

He pulled away, gently resting his forehead against your own. You let the moment last as long as it could, before the inevitable beep left Nick’s phone. They were here.

You pulled away from him, your waist growing cold without his arm wrapped around you. There was a beep from a blue car a few cars up, and you let out a sigh.

“Your ride’s here, Cali boy.” you said with a smile, wiping away the stray tear that traced your cheek. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I won’t. Call me, whenever you need me, alright?” you nodded, trying to memorize the smile on his face. He found your hand one last time, giving it a comforting squeeze. 

“I will. Now, go, you’re gonna miss your flight if you hit any lunch traffic.” He looked up the street to the cab, before looking back at you.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, and then your lips one last time. 

“I’ll see you later, y/n/n.” he said, and you watched him walk down the streets of New York City for the last time. 

But you knew you would cross paths with Nick Amaro again one day.

****

tags: @hurricanejjareau @qvid-pro-qvo @crazyshannonigans

[hazelandglasz]

Tin-Tanium, A Klaine Advent Calendar

Hi! Yeah, I decided to write all of the Klaine Advent prompts in one story going back the steps of a ten-year anniversary.

Merry Christmas, happy holidays everybody, and I hope you’ll enjoy this compilation!!

Abashed

Over ten years, there are many opportunities for a couple to embarrass themselves.

Kurt has plenty of memories that fit in that category, Blaine too.

Blaine and Kurt together, too.

Whether it’s from their early days (Kurt still can’t believe he used an entire notebook sketching their hyphenated names around hearts) or from the most recent years (Blaine prefers to hide his face in his hands rather than face the recollection of “Glitter Vampire”, no matter how many times Eliott tells him that it’s still a fan favorite), they have managed to feel abashed more often than not.

It’s not like they mind, though. 

Being abashed only lasts a moment--the memory, the joy of it, that lasts forever.

Brake

Slow and steady wins the race, doesn’t it.

So, sometimes, even though neither of them wants to slow down, one of them has to pull the brakes.

Oh, it’s not always when they are tearing each other’s clothes apart, get your mind out of the gutter.

(... they do have to slow down their loving romps sometimes, but it’s rarely because they want to and more because of coitus interruptus.)

They learned how to brake to keep their paths aligned; slowing down in their own rush to get all they want out of life in order to get there together.

And winning the race of life together is the only win Kurt and Blaine are interested in.

Careless

Kurt listened attentively, when his father told him to always be careful about his husband’s needs.

Blaine listened too, when Burt told him that though Kurt doesn’t always say it aloud, he has a way of communicating his emotions that Blaine has to “listen” for.

They do care for each other, throughout the years.

But.

But as careful as they are, or try to be, they can also behave in a careless way. 

Though they always try their best, neither Kurt nor Blaine can avoid letting their worst lashing out.

Eventually, though, they learn the real lesson behind Burt’s words: 

It’s not about never hurting each other--it’s about being able to heal from that hurt together, to talk about it and grow from it, together.

Dispensable

Every Spring, Blaine has the same problem.

Well it’s a problem for Kurt, anyway.

The moment the weather turns for the slightly better, Blaine turns himself into a white tornado, cleaning the apartment from floor to ceiling.

And, without fail, he always tries to hunt for the Dispensables.

“Why, pray tell, is this pile entirely composed of things from *my* side of the closet?”

“Because *you* have almost everything in duplicates.”

“They are collectors! If I ever use them or damage them, I will have a replacement.”

“They are taking too much room!”

“Not as much as your collection of cameras!”

“How dare you.”

“How dare you.”

Blaine pauses, holding a scarf in one hand and an empty cardbox in the other, before bursting into a fit of laughter.

“Maybe I overdid my impression of Marie Kondo.”

“And maybe I do have a hoarding problem.”

“Maybe we could do that sorting together.”

“Maybe we could find something else to do with all that free time.”

Blaine drops the box on the floor and carefully folds the scarf on the back of the couch. 

“I like the way you think.”

“You even put a ring on it.”

Event

One lesson the Hummel-Anderson household always applies: make an event out of every possible situation.

During the first years, it does make sense. They celebrate their successes, their achievements, as one does.

Then, it grows into something almost like a private joke between them: every little source of happiness becomes the reason for a party, a true event, even if it’s just opening a bottle of champagne while they sit on the floor, munching on a bag of chips, just because there is a Golden Girls marathon.

Because when you find things to celebrate with the person you love most, the sad things are just a little bit less sad.

Farm

Blaine wakes up in a jolt, something pulling at his unconscious mind to pull him from his dream.

Maybe it’s the cold spot in the bed next to him, or maybe it’s the grumbling sound coming from the living room.

“Kurt?”

“...”

“Kurt what are you doing?”

“Nothing?”

Blaine comes closer, and Kurt is sitting on the couch with his laptop on his bare knees.

“Are you watching porn? ‘Cause you know you wouldn’t have to hide it from me.”

“Not porn.”

“Okay?”

Kurt closes his eyes before looking away, turning the laptop’s screen toward Blaine. “Don’t laugh.”

“Why would I--oh.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t expect that.”

“I know.”

“Farming Simulator 2010, that’s …”

“I know.

“... vintage, is what I was going to say. Any particular reason you needed to play that game at 2.14 AM?”

Kurt sighs, leaning his head into Blaine’s torso, now that Blaine stands closer. “It relaxes me.”

“Okay.”

“And I have been very tense.”

“Don’t need to tell me.”

“I know; so I wanted to unwind on my own to be a better husband.”

Blaine bends over to press a kiss to the top of Kurt’s head. “Farm away, darling.”

Grey

TW: anxiety

Most of the time, with the help of his therapist and different techniques he has developed over the years, Blaine can keep his anxiety at bay.

But some mornings, it’s not as easy.

Some mornings, the anxious little voice telling him he’s not worth the space he occupies is the loudest in his mind the moment he wakes up.

Some mornings, the sighting of grey skies without even a spot of blue can send him into a downward spiral he can’t seem to shake out of.

But with each passing year, Kurt becomes more attuned to the little physical signs Blaine’s anxiety lets out.

The tension in his shoulders, even as he wakes up, to which Kurt responds by closing his arms around Blaine’s upper body, forcing him to breathe with him until the tension melts away.

The way Blaine doesn’t say a word and doesn’t look directly at Kurt, to which Kurt responds by putting a cup of coffee in front of him and by kissing his temple.

Yes, Blaine’s anxiety is always around.

But with Kurt’s help, Blaine can keep it at bay.

History

Though they share a love for musicals, Kurt and Blaine don’t always have their obsessions in sync.

Unfortunately, it sometimes clashes.

Fortunately, the married couple has found a solution to keep from fighting over songs.

Medleys meet the Exquisite Corpse.

“I don't wanna talk

About things we've gone through

Though it's hurting me

Now it's history”, Blaine sings.

“History has its eyes on youuuu,” Kurt responds.

“You can dance

You can jive

Having the time of your life

See that girl

Watch that scene

Dig in the dancing queeeeeeen.”

“Hey not fair, there is no queen in Hamilton!”

“Hey, you’re the one who keeps insisting that Eliza is Queen!”

“True.”

Inconclusive

Around the seventh year mark, they wonder if they should … well, expand their couple’s horizon.

It’s a secret to none of their friends that the Anderson-Hummel have insane chemistry with one Starchild.

One evening, using the pretext of celebrating the comeback of the cronut on the foodie scene with one too many bottle of champagne, the three of them end up in bed together.

Some lubricant, condoms, giggles and panted names later, Kurt looks over the stunned figure of their friend to brush his fingers through Blaine’s sweaty curls.

“So?”

“Inconclusive.” Blaine sighs. “Yet.”

Eliot snorts between them. “Round number …?”

“Who’s counting?”

Join

A good way to keep the spark in its first meet glow is also to surprise each other.

One evening, Blaine comes home to Christmas lights suspended in the whole apartment.

“What the …”

“Welcome, sir,” Kurt says, wearing the Ringmaster’s outfit from his run as Barnum in Broadway’s Greatest Showman. “Would you join me for a very special evening?”

“I would,” Blaine says, smiling as he puts his hand in Kurt’s, and feeling his cheeks burning when Kurt brushes his lips against Blaine’s knuckles.

The evening is very special, Blaine tied to the armchair while Kurt takes off his whole outfit and feeds him bits of cheese and fruits and toasted bread.

Knit

“I’m bored.”

“I know. Why don’t you learn a craft?”

“Remember the last time I tried to learn a craft, like you put it?”

They both turn to the potter’s wheel they recycled into a coffee table. “Right. Maybe something less …”

“Space consuming?”

“Complicated.”

“What about knitting?”

“There’s an idea.”

--

Two days later

“Wha--”

“What?”

“Mon chéri, when we said knitting, I thought it would involve a couple of yarn balls and some needles.”

“This is yarn.”

“No, it’s not.”

Yes it is.

Learn

In a couple, some things come naturally, as easy as breathing.

Loving each other, for example.

For Kurt and Blaine, it’s knowing that whatever the storm, the tide will always bring them back together.

And some things are learned, through time and Life lessons.

What to cook as comfort food, for example.

For Kurt and Blaine, it’s finding out that they needed to be apart to be better for each other.

Some lessons are hard-learned, but eventually, they feel like they have always been known.

Meet

Dan is ready to slip under the table to take his ritual Christmas nap when Cecilia asks the question.

“How did you two meet?”

Now, all Dan can do is groan. “Nooo,” he moans, “why did you ask that?”

“Excuse you,” Kurt says, ruffling his son’s hair. “Don’t you like the way we met?”

“I heard that story at least 221 times,” he says, dropping his head to the table. “Besides, it’s just weird, when you think about it.”

Cecilia cocks one eyebrow at him. “Now you have to tell me.”

“Let me--”

Dan holds up his hand to stop his father in his tracks. “Nah, nah, nah, let me, because they will tell you that it’s so romantic, but in reality, Dad went to spy on Papa and Papa lied to Dad about a shortcut …”

Nip

“What is that thing sitting in that... thing?”

“That is a cat and she is sitting in a basket I knitted, thank you very much.”

“Since when do we have a cat?”

“Since Mrs Gimm’s had a litter and this one picked me.”

“Ah.”

“She went for me like she always knew me.”

“Aww.”

“And then she nipped my fingers.”

“That explains the band-aids.”

“Maybe.”

“So you decided to bring a feral cat into our house with a newborn because the only thing you knitted is that basket?”

“Feral, come on, maybe that’s an overkill, look how sweet she--Ouch!”

“Here, another kitten band-aid. Let me try.”

“Oh right, you’re a big beast tamer, right?”

“...”

“Is that her purring?”

“Either she’s purring or the neighbor just started a plane engine.”

“Oh yes, you’re purring, you little princess you …”

“Ahem.”

Opinion

Any couple counsellor will tell you this:

If you want a relationship to last, the most important thing to do is compromise, to make sure that both parties are happy.

Any couple will tell you this:

Some opinions are better than others. The only thing you can do, before choosing a hill to die on, is take a step back, breathe in and out a couple of times and--

“That’s so stupid it’s a wonder you can still breathe and talk at the same time!”

“I can’t believe you actually think that! What’s between your ears, lukewarm water?”

--start World War Three over the importance of the Beatles versus the Rolling Stones, I guess.

Possible

More seriously though, finding a middle ground is important, in any relationship. And the way to that middle ground can sometimes be summarized in one word.

“Possibility.”

Do you think you could agree to let me cook tonight, even though you say I burn everything?

Maybe.

May I buy regular milk instead of almond, because it gives me stomach aches?

You may.

Isn’t it your turn to change Kitty’s litter?

...Possible.

In just a few words, you can save your relationship from self-destructing, isn’t that something?

Remarkable

Over the years, through thick and thin, through storms and easy flows, the relationship formed by Kurt and Blaine only strengthens.

A fact that seems remarkable for a lot of their friends.

Their New York friends, I should say, since their Ohioan friends are not surprised to see them growing only stronger and more in love as time passes by, leaving them more united than they ever were when they were younger.

Is their relationship remarkable? Of course.

But not because they still look at each other with sparkles in their eyes, especially when they think nobody is watching.

No, it’s spectacular because it reminds everyone lucky enough to be with them that Love does exist.

Sisters

Over the years, Kurt and Blaine consider that they are the ones lucky enough to have been graced by the many women who entered their lives and remained there as chosen sisters.

Mercedes, Tina, Santana, even Rachel, of course, soul sisters who were meant to support them and challenge them to become better men.

Marley, Unique, Kitty, Jane--younger sisters who help both men to grow into mentors and future parents for Cecilia.

Lissa, Annie, Agnes--sisters of all ages who learn from them and teach them in return what they learned during their own lives until they met the couple.

Glee Club had taught them that family didn’t have to be born from blood, but life brought them a constellation of sisterhood that surrounds them and protects them, in a way, from themselves, from ever thinking they cannot get better.

Tub

“Blaine, I know that you’re really going Method for that role, but could you stop with the 1980, 1990 lingo?”

“As if!”

Kurt sighs before deciding to move on. “Do you like that ice cream? It’s from the new shop down the block.”

“It’s da bomb, hubby.”

“‘Da bomb’, really?”

Blaine has the decency to look slightly bashful. “Overdoing it?”

“Just a tad.”

“I’ll keep it to the theater, then.”

“Tubular.”

Ugly

When one uses his body as its professional tool, one is very peculiar about the way they see themselves.

And sometimes, as strong-minded the individual may be, societal expectations can become too heavy.

“Now I get it. I don’t get parts because I’m ugly.”

“Who said that?”

Kurt slams the bathroom cupboard closed, shaking his head at his own reflection. “I don’t need anyone to say it,” he seethes, “it’s obviously why none of the directors I auditioned for ever called back!”

Blaine comes to lean against the bathroom’s door frame. “Kurt …”

Kurt bends his head. “Blaine, don’t start. I know, deep down, that it’s not the reason, and that I’m not ugly. But right now,” he adds, turning his head toward Blaine without meeting his gaze, “that knowledge is buried deep, deep down.”

“Okay.” Blaine stretches close to Kurt, pecking his cheek. “Take all the time you want. But if you need my help digging for proof that you are quite the opposite of ugly, I’m right here. If you want to mull over it in silence, I can let you do it, and just stay here by your side, or walk around the block.”

“No. Stay.” Kurt finally looks up, leaning his forehead against Blaine’s. “I don’t feel so bad when you’re around.”

Vanish

Sometimes, when you are a couple of married actors, you have to accept that your husband is going to get a job when you don’t.

“I got the job!”

“See, I knew you were going to get a break! Which job?”

“The ad one!”

Blaine cocks his head to the side. “Which one? The one for the hotels?”

“No, the one for the detergent. You know, the pink one?”

“Vanish?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Kurt chuckles. “I should try and remember it before the shoot!”

“I’m very proud of you,” Blaine says, pulling Kurt against him for a kiss. “Want to rehearse your text?”

“I would, if you weren’t unbuckling my be-hey!”

“Look, I can make your pants just … vanish.”

“You’re terrib--oh, wow.”

Worthless

Along the years, along the moves, along the different steps in Life, people gather things.

Not necessarily the most expensive things in the world, just mementos.

Little things, really, that most people would discard as just worthless junk. 

But for Blaine, for Kurt, those little things are more precious than any of the things they bought once they started to get financially comfortable.

Like ticket stubs and Playbills from the shows they saw together.

Or like a ring made out of gum wrappers.

Yard

Speaking of financial comfort.

Once they became a household name, and once their student loans were reimbursed, both Blaine and Kurt agree.

If they are to be a family, if they are to raise a kid (or many), they need to buy a house. 

It takes them a while, but they manage to save enough money to put the down payment on a cute little house in Jericho, a house with a luxurious yard where Kitty Cat can pretend to be the tiger she once was, and where their babies will be free to climb the trees and run around and drive their little bicycles or whatever.

“Quite the white picket fence, Hummel.”

“Anderson Hummel, and yes, so what.”

Santana rubs her very round belly. “Not complaining, nor criticizing. Just observing. I didn’t picture you as Wisteria Lane-adjacent.”

Kurt shrugs. “Nothing Desperate about wanting a good environment to raise a family.”

Zealous

As they reach their tenth year anniversary, Kurt and Blaine feel like they have reached a point in their relationship where their ship is sailing on its own, so to speak.

They have found their groove, they can still surprise each other while knowing each other’s habits and needs, and they have their baby.

Who cries every night.

Blaine is at his wits end looking for a solution to soothe his son’s teething pain, but nothing works.

Or so it seems.

“This here's a tale for all the fellas

Tryin' to do what those ladies tell us

Get shot down 'cause you're over zealous

Play hard to get, females get jealous …”

The sound of the song is the only sound around the house.

No cries, no whimpers.

Just Kurt, apparently “bursting a move”.

“Kurt?”

The song stops, along with one of Dan’s hiccups that announce a storm.

“Keep going, keep going!”

Kurt hesitantly returns to the song, coming into view as he bounces Dan in his arms. 

“Young MC, really?”

In the same melody, Kurt replies between his teeth. “I don’t know what came over me, but I just started singing while he was crying and he sto-opped.”

“Magic.”

“Quite.”

“We need to give our thanks to Shuester, uh?”

“Over my dead body.”

[docholligay]

Love Letters (A Mother’s Day fic)

Hello friends! GOD I HOPE SOMEONE WANTS THIS IT IS SO LONG. 7,100 words of Overwatch Mom feelings, and honestly, it would have been even longer if I hadn’t cut some stuff. I hope you like it! Amari mama Drama! Flashbacks! D.va being a reluctant sweetheart! To see where this fits/the rest of the universe, here is the main post

It came every spring, as surely as the small, bright flowers sticking out of the ground, and so much less welcome. It did not matter where she went on this earth, or who with. This followed her, pursued her with twee and affected joy as the furrow in her brow grew deeper and deeper.

Mother’s Day.

The day, like most days in London, was grey and cool, but unlike her general attitude toward English weather, today Pharah was content with the grim cast across the sky. It would have been worse, if the sun shone brightly on the little children who skipped merrily down the path, holding their mothers’ hands. She wondered how many of them were blissfully unaware that their mothers would someday fail them. That some of them would never know what it was to have an uncomplicated feeling about her.

She had been that way, once. She had seen her mother as a god, as a hero, as so many things that she could never have lived up to, even if she had tried. To Pharah’s mind, Ana never really had. She had been content to let Pharah believe that she was good, and believe that she knew the right, and then believe that she was dead, and Pharah was quite don believing in anything when it came to the subject of her mother.

Which made the constant barrage of cartoon animals with bright greetings declaring how wonderful mothers were all the more aggravating.

The good news, Pharah reflected, is that it was only one day in her life, and easily enough ignored, and that she had nothing to do today, save for some paperwork down at the office.

She turned on her coffeemaker, and pulled up the newspaper as she sat down at their table.

___

She had been so nervous about her bat mitzvah.

Whenever Angela Ziegler thought of the last Mother’s Day she spent with her mother, she always remembered her nerves, the way the Hebrew letters that she would have sworn she knew so well stared back at her, wound themselves into things that could not be quite called words, and how her tongue struggled as they made their way around her mouth.

If she had known it would be the last Mother’s Day, she would not have spent it like that. She would have taken her mother everywhere, from sunrise to sunset. If she had known that only a month or so later, she was going to bury her mother, little Angela would have taken every coin of pocket money she had, and spent it on Mother’s Day.

But she did not. She only knew that in two weeks’ time, she would be reading on the bimah of her congregation, and that she felt totally unprepared.

There was the sound of a plate being set next to her and Angela looked over to it. A slice of cake, a fork tucked in next to it. The cake was her mother’s favorite, a Swiss kind of carrot cake that her father made every year for Mother’s Day, with little nuts set in the top. She did not know this, as it was set down next to her, but she would spend years looking for that cake, just as her father made it.

“Angela?” Her mother smiled down at her and softly laid a hand her shoulder. “You don’t need to spend the whole day here, sweetheart.”

“I’m not ready.” Her voice trembled as she tucked a bit of hair behind her ear.

Her mother pulled the chair from near the fireplace, and settled in next to her daughter. “And why wouldn’t you be? You have always loved to read Torah, and you’re so good at it. Even the rabbi thinks you’ve been ready, for months now.”

Angela looked over at her mother, who seemed to know everything, and just how to do it. Her father was a kind man with an easy laugh, who made everyone feel like they belonged anywhere, but her mother had the sort of calm intelligence that made you feel everything in this world contained meaning. That every moment could find its place.

“I--”

It was not that she hadn’t known she was smart. Everyone had told Angela how smart she was, from the time she was a little girl. She spoke five languages, she was in university, she was a prodigy to end all prodigies. They all spoke of things she could do, of the ways she might change the world.

And so of course everyone in her congregation would expect nothing but perfection from her. From Angela, a stutter or a tied tongue would not be a twelve year old, shaking behind that huge Torah scroll, but a disappointing genius. To be so high was to have a long distance to fall.

“It’s ...frightening.” Was all she could say.

Her mother touched the edge of the Tanach in front of her, and chuckled. “To be an adult usually is. And you are one, now. That means you must do things that are hard, sometimes.” She touched Angela's cheek. “You will do beautifully. You know that I am so proud to be your mother? Especially today, when I get to be reminded so much of it.”

Angela nodded. “Because I’m smart. Because I will do well.”

“Oh no,” she drew her arm around Angela, “Not at all. All of that is very nice, and you are, yes, very very smart. Your potential is boundless. I am so excited to see all the things you will do. But there are so many intelligent people in this world.”

Her mother was clever, and she had a way of telling a story that let you know the lesson was yet to come. From the time she was small, Angela had tried to discover the end to her mother’s riddles, to beat her to the lesson, and when she did, her mother would grin and tell her how bright she was, and how quick.

But today, whatever her mother bight be leading toward eluded her and she looked up at her in confusion.

Her mother nodded, and shut the thick book in front of her. “It is not important that you be smart, as much as it is that you be kind, Angela. That you do good, even before you do well.” She stroked Angela’s hair. “I see your compassion every day. How you help others. And so it doesn’t matter to me if you get up in front of the congregation and forget every letter of Hebrew you have ever learned. We can read,” She chuckled, “so those things we don’t need.”

“It’s important, though.”

“Oh yes,” she smoothed Angela’s hair and sat back, hands in her lap, “What is the whole of the Torah?’

Angela thought for a moment. “Whatever is unkind to you, don’t do to anyone else.”

Her mother kissed her head. “And the rest is commentary. Remember that, Angeli. To study the Torah is laudable, but to live it is a greater thing. This is true of all of your studies. Pursue justice. Believe in mercy. Heal this world. And,” she shrugged, “I won’t care so much if you aren’t the greatest reader.”

Angela hugged her mother tightly, caught between adulthood and childhood, but knowing she had her parents’ love to guide her on that road.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mueti.”

It echoed on the air, and Mercy clipped her hair up into her usual loose arrangement, wiping a tear from her eye. God did not have to make the point about adulthood quite so aggressively, she had often thought.

The smell of coffee wafted up to the bedroom. Pharah would be downstairs, brewing a fresh pot that she could fill with too much milk and sugar. It was easier, sometimes, to be with someone who did not speak much to her mother. There were no worries about Mother’s Day brunches, loving bouquets of flowers, expressions of familial closeness. It was only the two of them, and on this day, Mercy was grateful.

She walked down the stairs to see Pharah reading the paper, sipping on her coffee, the light color of a mud puddle after a spring rain.

Pharah was a constant. Pharah was her love.

Pharah was immensely in her own head, and thinking of little else.

“I will be pleased when I do not have to hear about appreciating my mother,” Pharah set her coffee down on the table, “I envy people with mothers to be appreciated.”

“I know.” Mercy went over to the coffee pot, brimming and fresh, the way Pharah did for her every single morning,  and poured into her bright butterfly mug.

“My father called me this morning,” Pharah rolled her eyes and huffed, angrily clinging to her coffee cup, her voice hardening and formalizing with each word “asking what I was doing for her.  Nothing, it is midnight there, I told him, you should go to bed and not bother with our relationship. He says to me, she is still your mother. What do you owe her? I ask him, and he never has an answer for this, but every year still he calls me--”

“Schatzi.” Mercy said softly.

“Pretending that my mother is somehow worthy of praise for giving birth to me, that she is not a woman impossible to deal with. Ana has made her own grave, I told him--”

Mercy winced. “Fareeha.”

Pharah stopped, and looked to her with concern. “Yes?”

“Please. Not today.”

Pharah rose to her feet immediately and went to Mercy’s side. “I was thoughtless.” She took Mercy’s hand. “I don’t think.”

Mercy smiled sadly and kissed her cheek. “I am not angry. I am only asking.” She cradled her coffee close to her and started toward the living room.

“I made you sad. That, I think, is worse.” She sighed.

Mercy shook her head and looked back at Pharah. “You did not make it Mother’s Day.” She gave a weak laugh. “If you were deciding, there would be no Mother’s Day.”

She nodded and walked toward where Mercy stood in the doorway. “That is very true.”

“Go to work,” Mercy tugged gently on Pharah’s shirt, “tonight we will have some of the food you take from the restaurant. Just for you and me.”

Pharah kissed her cheek. “Whatever you wish.”

___

Pharah should be mad at herself, she thought, as she angrily walked toward the office, passing by the underground station despite the rain. It would feel good to walk there. She should be mad at herself, because she was the one who said thoughtless, careless things, who hadn’t considered that Mercy had a far better reason than she did to hate today. Pharah was the one who had complained about her well-meaning and kind father calling her and trying to make peace between her and her mother. A father and a mother Mercy no longer had.

And yet, for all the reasons Pharah knew that she should be angry at herself, she was angry at her mother, instead. Perhaps because it was easy. The anger she felt for her mother, that deep rage that had burned her in since the day she returned, like a coal mine under the ground, smoking and seeping, was always at hand. Wherever she was, she could reach out for it, find it, and seize onto it. There was no searching, no wondering, no worrying over the emotion. Or maybe it was that Pharah always wondered the person she might be if her mother had let her be raised by her father, if she had supported her when she joined the army, if she had not faked her own death and left Pharah with a box full of regrets and guilt and pain. That Ana had twisted her into the person she had become, the one who struggled to show the depth of her love and her caring, the one who barked at Tracer when she meant to convey worry, the one who tried to comfort Mercy using the logic she had taught herself instead of the tenderness she felt. If Ana had not been the steel rod that made Pharah grow straight, she might have learned to curl softly and gently.

But that was an excuse. Pharah was an adult. Pharah was responsible for Pharah’s actions.

The anger persisted all the same.

Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who left me in Egypt. Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who refused to come to my army commission. Happy Mother’s Day to the woman I shed a tear for on my wedding day. Happy Mother’s Day to the woman I broke Tracer’s ribs over. Happy Mother’s Day to the woman who acts as if she made a simple mistake.

The rage moved her faster than any train, and in moments, she swung open the door to the Overwatch office, and marched up the stairs.

___

Tracer stood at the window and looked out at the mothers, pulled along by happy children. Arms full of pastries and flowers and love, it didn’t matter that the day was so grey. Maybe it would clear up later. Get sunny for a bit. Sometimes, on Mothering Sunday, Tracer thought, it was sunny. It had been when she was a child, just out of school for the weekend, years ago.

She had loved the way the light moved through the tree leaves. She got distracted by things like that, sometimes, when she was small, and she was so small right now, and trying so very hard to pay attention to the important thing in her hands, and so she kept her head down as she walked in the loose gaggle of kids freshy released from school, concentrating as hard as she could.

Lena had taken such care with decorating the little cup. The hearts and flowers that marked had been drawn so carefully, Lena’s little tongue sticking out as she slowly rotated the white paper, coloring it in with all the colors of the rainbow, like she knew her mother would like. Her mother was sick, she’d told her teacher, adn this would make her happy. It would make her feel better.

Her teacher had simply nodded, and said she was doing a wonderful job.

It wasn’t far to their house, and Lena had walked it since she was small. Sometimes her father or aunt or uncle would come to get her, to walk with her and ask her how her day was, but as her mother had gotten sicker, there had been more times that Lena had walked herself home, orange backpack hooked over her shoulders, frog wellies pulled onto her feet.

Sometimes, when she got out of school, her body felt so busy and so full of energy that she didn’t know any other way to release it. Sometimes she skipped home. Sometimes she ran.She tried very hard to be still in school, to not squirm so much and to not talk so loud. It took a lot of concentration, not to be quite so odd and so different from the other kids, who sometimes made fun of the way she talked to herself or bounced when she was excited. But she tried, and she was bright and happy and a little strange, and moved a little too much, but that was okay. Her dad always said that she was the way she was made to be, and when she was older a lot of people would like her. His sister had been like her, and she’d had a lot of friends, wasn’t that true?. So it was only trying very hard for a little while, and running home to vent the steam of the day like a screaming kettle.

But today, she didn’t skip. She didn’t run. Today she held her little white cup with its little seedling very carefully, each step as calmly as she could. It was important to bring it to her mom, and to see her smile. She was sick, but Lena could still make her smile, more than anyone else could. That was Lena’s job, with everyone else helping out at home. She made her mother smile and she set the table and and she helped sort the washing. Lena was good at all those things, and she fed the birds too, and that wasn’t even her chore.

She was walking very carefully, but she was thinking of how happy her mother would be to see it. It was like flowers, and moms loved flowers, and her mom didn’t get flowers very often. And the cup was so well-decorated that she’d hardly be able to tell it had ever been white, only in those little spaces where Lena had gone a little too fast with the crayon. But you had to look hard to see that. And her mother didn’t look for her mistakes very often.

When Lena felt something, and this would be true for the entirety of her life, she felt it in her whole body. The delight of her mother’s joy traveled up from her toes to the top of her head, and she turned her head up to the light sparkling like spangles between the leaves, and she chatted happily to whatever bird might be listening.

She giggled to herself and did a little jump, bringing the cup close to her chest.

There was a shove behind her, a firm slam of a bookbag whirled around into her back. Lena tripped over her own feet, still holding the little seedling close to her, and slammed into the sidewalk. She felt her forehead, a scrape across it and a bruise already rising to the touch.

Amira was a regular queen of the six year old set, and only just developing the kind of natural cruelty that those childhood forms of nobility tend to create, but Lena was small and strange and easy, and other girls laughed when Amira teased her, and her desire to keep court won out over any small niggling feeling of conscience.

Amira would grow to be an alright sort of adult, and Lena would grow up to be a hero of London, but for now, Lena Oxton looked up as Amira waved back at her, shifting her bookbag to the other shoulder and shrugged.

“Sorry!”

She turned back to the group of girls who’d been walking together, and they all quietly laughed and they kept on down the street toward their homes. Lena watched as one of them imitated her little bounce as she walked, heat rising to her cheeks.

Lena pushed herself up, looking down at the sidewalk in front of her. The seedling cup was cracked and broken, spilling dirt onto the grey of the concrete. The glitter was falling away from where she’d colored in the hearts, her name with a split through it as Lena tried to cradle the little seedling in her hands.

When Lena felt something, and this would be true the entirety of her life, she felt it in her whole body. As she stumbled to her feet, a wave of sorrow hit her, sure as if she had been standing on the deck of a storm-tossed ship. She held what was left of the little seedling tightly in her hands, and ran home, as fast as her little frog wellies would carry her, sobbing as she went, ignoring every adult she passed that asked her if she was alright, only running, running.

She came to the door of her house and tossed herself against the doorknob, exploding into the living room where her mother lay, completely forgetting her father’s patient and constant instructions to take her shoes and coat off at the door.

Her mother blinked her eyes open. “Lena?”

She might have said something, if there were any words to be had. But Lena had not yet learned any sort of way to calm the storm inside her, and so she only held out the broken cup with the too-small seedling, and cried.

“Oh, Lena,” her mother struggled to sit up, but got there, in true Oxton fashion, “Shhhh, it’s only--”

“I BROKE IT!” Lena found a few words in her mind, “It’s for Mum’s--” The tears overwhelmed her words again, and she burst into a sob, her little shoulders heaving.

Her father walked into the room, a man who clearly had not slept a full night in a very long time, though Lena was too young to see.

“What’s this, then? Lena?” He knelt down next to her, “sweet’eart.” He gave his wife a look of mild panic, “Mary?”

Mary waved her arms softly. “Give her to me, Bert.”

He dutifully picked up his still-crying daughter as she buried her face into his shoulder, dirt from the seedling rubbing deep into his shirt. He set her down next to Mary, who pushed back Lena’s hair with a gentle smile and cupped the dirt out of Lena’s hands.

She looked back up at him. “I think there’s a tea cup in the kitchen we can use for now.”

He took the tiny clump of dirt and small green shoot out of her hand. “Right, bit of dirt from the yard, be good as ever.”

Mary drew her arm around Lena, who sniffled deeply.

“S’ruined.” She let out another small sob, but the might of her own feelings had tired her.

“That’s just not true, my Lena Bean,” she softly rubbed Lena’s back, “just needs help. We can make it better, can’t we?”

Bert looked down at the plant in his hands. “What ‘appened, love?”

Lena wiped her nose. “Amira knocked me down with ‘er, “ she took another deep sniffle, “with ‘er bookbag. And I--”there was a small, short cry, “I fell onto it. She laughed at me.”

“Amira?” He looked at Lena with a glance that she would come to someday know as her father’s casual consideration of murder, “Amira Evans?”

Lena nodded wordlessly.

“Think that Eric Evans and I might ‘ave to ‘ave a bit of a--”

“Bert.” Mary gave him a look of rebuke and love.

He nodded, and, with a lift of the handful of earth, hurried off to attempt to save the day, as Mary turned her attention back to Lena.

“I wanted it to be special for you.” It was a little warble out of her mouth, but at the very least, it was not punctuated by tears.

“Oh, but it is!” As tired as she must be, her eyes sparkled as she assured Lena, “It’s a lovely gift. Plants are very thoughtful, they last a very long time. But you know,” she looked down at the remnants of the little white cup, “these cups, they don’t last. I have an idea, for tomorrow. A better one. We’ll have your uncle go get us a little clay pot, and some paint, and why don’t we make a better home for my present together? It will be ever so nice, the nicest of any mum in your year.”

Lena smiled, and she could feel the general sunniness of her life overcoming the grey, the same as it always did. “Yeah!”

“I am so lucky to be your mum.”

Tracer touched the leaf of the plant that set near the window, just on the edge. Pharah hated the brightly colored pot, with clumsy hearts and flowers. But she never forced Tracer to get rid of it, nor asked why she had it, and Tracer took this as a sign that whatever else Pharah might be, she knew when to let protocol lay at rest.

The door slammed open, and Tracer jumped, the tea falling out of her mug and slopping onto the floor.

“Bloody--Fareeha--”

Pharah slammed the door shut and began to pace about the small office. “I cannot escape it. Everywhere I go there is some reminder of something I am meant to do or feel for my mother. How is this holiday so all-encompassing?”

Tracer looked down at her spilled tea on the ground, and then back to Pharah. “‘Aving a bit of day, love?”

“It did not bother me so much,” she continued to pace, “when she was dead! It would have done me better if she had stayed dead, if she wanted to be dead so much.” Pharah stopped for a moment, and leaned against her desk. “She kept me in Egypt. She kept me so I would be hers. She raised me to be like her and then was angry when I became it. I am angriest of all. And now, I am--” she struggled to find the word, “ranting, to my wife, and her mother has been dead, but I cannot think of this because Ana has--” she looked to Tracer. “And now I am doing it to you.”

Tracer nodded, but considered a moment. “Truthfully, I’d rather me mum be dead than be Ana, as well.”

“I apologize. I will be saying that many times today, so it seems.”

“I remember me mum’s dead every year with or without you, love.” She walked over to her kettle and flipped it back on, grabbing a rag from the drawer of the small cart. “Bit insensitive, it is,to complain over your living mum, but,” She waved a finger, considering, “I ‘ave met Ana, so, I sympathize.”

Pharah fiddled with the single pen on her desk. “Are you hiding out all  day here? We don’t need to mention it.”

“Oh, isn’t that,” Tracer wiped up the tea from the floor, “Told ‘ana I’d give her a bit of paperwork she’s needing for tech upgrades, funding, all that. I ‘ave a Mothering Sunday tea with me Gran and all them, later.”

Pharah glanced at her a moment, her brow furrowed. “I believed your Gran was dead.”

“That’s me Nan.” Tracer set down her mug. “Me Gran, me Mum’s mum, she’s still alive. Thought I’d pop round, be a good granddaughter.”

Pharah said nothing, simply looked out the window and stared into the small street.

“You need somewhere to go, love? Win doesn’t ‘ave anyone today--Banks side of me family’s a bit less welcoming than me Oxton side, never quite took to him, sure he’d love a bit of company.”

“No,” she shook her head, “I am poor company.” She stood up, and moved toward the door. “I’m going.”

“Change your mind, be at Win’s later tonight. Em’s up back ‘ome for the day, just be two of us.”

Pharah nodded. “Thank you.”

Going down the stairwell, she hadn’t expected that she would run into anyone. She wasn’t even sure of where she was going, thought she had the sense that she had to go somewhere. This day had been full of confusion and anger and sadness since she had left home to join the army, and there was one small part of Pharah that was tired of it altogether.

She was thinking so intensely that she nearly ran into D.va as she descended the stairs.

“Geez!” D.va jumped back a moment, bunny earbuds still in her ears, “What’s with you?”

She opened her mouth to answer, and then considered for a moment how she had already said all the wrong things to all the wrong people today, and shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Wow, you’re a bad liar.” D.va poked at the game on her phone. “Good thing we don’t go undercover.” She did not look up. “It’s all this,” she waved a hand, “Mothering Sunday or whatever they call it here, right?”

Pharah gave a brief chuckle. “I should never have been in intelligence, you have that correct.” She leaned against the wall, looking up at the peeling paint of the ceiling, “Hana, please tell me your mother is alive.”

“Pharah, there’s only five of us, you should know this.” She looked away from her phone, and let it hang to her side, looking at Pharah. “I’m joking. My Umma’s alive. But,” She held up her phone again, “I won’t be if I forget to call her today.”

Pharah looked back to D.va. “It cannot possibly be Mother’s day in Korea.”

“Like that’ll stop her,” D.va rolled her eyes, but she grinned, “There’s only Parent’s Day in Korea, and no one was happier than her that here, mothers have their own day. And, to hear her tell it, it’s important that I live by the customs of the country I’m in. Be a good Korean ambassador.” She shrugged, “Weird how that doesn’t apply to anything I want to do, that she doesn’t want me to do, because then I’m Korean, and Koreans don’t do that, Hana.”

Pharah smiled. “Thank you for complaining about your mother.”

“I love her,” she said, immediately playing it off. “But it’s easy to forget how annoying people are when they’re dead. Which is why it’s a really bad idea to bitch to Tracer and Mercy, by the way. I had a lot of teammates back in Korea who lost someone in the Omnic Crisis. Sometimes I should have shut up.” She shrugged and bapped Pharah’s arm with her phone. “But I love complaining about Ana, so it's whatever with me. If you need to grab a drink later.”

“You are very considerate.” Pharah nodded. “I have promised Angela I would stay in with her, but your kindness is appreciated, as always.”

“Ugh,” she crossed her arms, “you always do this.”

“Note how you are a caring member of the team?” Pharah straightened up, and clapped her on the shoulder, “I am afraid we have reasoned out that you like us.”

D.va laughed and began to walk up the stairs. “You can’t prove anything.”

Pharah turned to go, out to a place she didn’t know, nowhere seeming like the correct destination.

“Pharah?”

She turned and D.va stood at the top of the steps, earbuds in hand.

“Yes?”

“Have you tried just talking to Ana?” She stopped for a moment, and made air quotes “talking’ I guess, but you know what I mean.”

Pharah looked up at her, and nodded. “I have spoken to her many times, given censure and--”

“Okay,” she smoothed back her hair and sighed, as if Pharah was a small child she was very patiently explaining things to, “But that’s protocol. You’re not mad about protocol. I mean,” she pointed her phone at Pharah, “that too, but, I don’t think the whole fuckup in Egypt is why Mother’s Day bothers you. Be serious.”

Pharah considered for a moment, that she was the commander, and she was the one who was meant to bring forth wisdom and leadership, and here her youngest agent was standing there, telling her something that she had known all the past years since Ana had returned, but had never made clear. The day Ana returned, they had fought. And then Pharah had simply quietly stewed, treated her with cold professionalism. She had tried opening the door, in London, inviting her over to their home, but then the incident in Egypt had closed it just as quickly. Her mother, once again undermining what Pharah was trying to build. Trying to make things go her way, instead of anyone else’s.

And Pharah had simply behaved like a commander through it all, with the precision and disconnect her mother had taught her, all of her life. Paperwork and commands and a gentle shove to the side of everything that lay beneath it.

“You are right.” She nodded to D.va. “You are right.”

She did not wait for a reply, but swung out the door, an address in her mind, finally, a destination for the journey she had been on every Mother’s Day, in one way or another, since she was a child.

__

Jack handed her the pink envelope, and without even looking at the name, she knew who it would be from. Sam’s wide penmanship, as open and expressive as he always had been, circled out her name and address, the envelope giving a pearl sheen in the light.

Sam had never been cheap, even when it would have been in his better interests.

Jack looked over at her, but said nothing. Little needed to be said between them, after all these years together. A flick of Ana’s brow, a twitch of Jack’s lip, and anything they desired to share was communicated quickly between them.

“He is too sentimental.” Ana broke the silence as she opened the envelope. “I’m not his mother. I have never sent him a card for being a father.”

Jack gave a weak chuckle. “You get yourself into this, Ana.”

She took the card out of the envelope, a cartoon dog holding a heart on the front of it. “What do you know about it?”

“I’ve met the men you date.”

She opened the card, Sam’s same open letters on the inside. Whatever else was true, Jack had a point about the men she found herself entangled with. Kind men with bright eyes and boisterous souls, who were not meant for the chiseled and deliberate way she lived, who did not understand ruthlessness. They could sacrifice their lives but never their souls, and so they could never understand Ana. It was a fish trying to love a bird.

Happy Mother’s Day, Ana!

Thank you so much for giving me our little pumpkin. She’s so grown up now, I hardly recognize that little girl we took fishing at Cavan Lake when you visited. Thought you might have almost forgotten too. I found this picture in some of my stuff when I was sending this, and made you a copy.

Have a great day!

Sam.

The picture slid out from the side of the card that declared her to be a pawsitively awesome mom, Fareeha tucked between Sam and Ana with a big smile, teeth missing here and there, holding her small trout aloft. She had been so excited to see him, to go to Canada. Ana hadn’t wanted to go. She didn’t want to give Sam ideas. It was easier to have him come to Egypt when he wanted to see Fareeha. It was easier to tell him she didn’t want him to move to Egypt.

But they had been happy, in that moment, though she and her daughter had both needed a jacket, even in the June weather. Sam had laughed at that, this hair still tied back in that ponytail, baiting hooks for all of them.

Vacations are fun, but they are not real life, Ana had said, on the way home.

She tossed the card to the side. “I’ll throw it away later.”

There was a sharp knock at the door, and both Jack and Ana sat up straight. Jack reached for his visor and lifted it to his face, snapping it in place as he went to the door. Ana watched as he did so, her eye on the gun she had been cleaning before being rudely interrupted by Sam’s sentimentality. They did not get visitors, and the only people who knocked on the door were deliverymen and the landlord. Neither, Ana imagined, would be expected today.

Jack swung open the door, where Pharah stood straight, her voice old and official.

“I would talk to Ana.”

It was a shoddy building, and Pharah could hear the sound of sirens echoing down the streets. The grey of the day made it seem even less cheerful, not so much, in this light, a side street in one of the centers of the world, but a desolate spot at the end of the world, where Ana and Jack belonged.

She had been briefly surprised that the door to the building was not locked, but it was not, and gave way easily under her hand. From there, she had made her way up the winding steps to the apartment she swore she would never set foot into, and she stared into it now, just as grey and austere and quietly unwelcoming as she had imagined it would be.

This was where she had been running to, all day.

Jack stepped back from the doorway with a hint of hesitation, looking between Pharah and Ana, the tension choking the room. When it came to the question of the Amaris, Jack always found himself at cross purposes. Ana was his best friend, and had been for years, one of the only people who both tolerated and understood him. But there was still a not-insignificant part of him that felt protective of Pharah, that remembered the little girl who had practiced her English with him dutifully.

Loyalties are never easy, in the kind of world Jack occupied.

But he did step back, and Ana straightened as she walked toward Pharah, a neutral expression on her face.

“Yes?” She said, standing at the edge of the kitchen counter.

“I--” Pharah had thought so many things, on her way over to the apartment, and she had been so certain of the order and the thought and the execution, but now she found those words catching in her throat. “Why did you not allow me to live with Sam? As a child?”

It was not what she had meant to say. She had not realized how many points of her life had built off of the one choice her mother had made to keep Sam at a distance, always. She was eleven years old before she even consented to let Pharah spend summers with him. She was twenty-eight before her father told her how badly he’d wanted to raise her, and how Ana would never have allowed it.

“I am your mother. Why should he have you?” Her eyes narrowed at Pharah.

“So my parent is not running off into battle for weeks at a time. So I can be raised by one person.” Pharah took a step forward. “It might have been what was best for me. I might have been different.”

“Oh,” she chuckled, “I am so sorry I made you into a powerful commander, an accomplished soldier.”

“You were a bad mother!” The English broke, unsuitable for the anger of the child she had been, and it peeled back into rapid Arabic, “ You have made me terrified to be a mother, because I am afraid I might be like you. Anything like you! It was all I wanted as a child, and now it is my greatest fear. To be anything like Ana Amari.”

Ana stepped into her face, utterly unafraid of Pharah’s rage, pleased to be in her native tongue. “You don’t know a single thing about what kinds of choices I have had to make. I am sorry, and have been sorry, that I did not tell you I was alive. But--”

“It isn’t just that, and you know it! Though that was particularly impressive, even from you.” She snorted, but did not take a step back. “It is everything you have done from the day I was born. You wanted to be a hero. I did not need a hero, I needed a mother. But you? Distant and serious, critical and cold. I learned to study and I learned precision, but you did not teach me the softer things. And when you taught me that heroics were worth leaving your daughter most of the year, worth everything, you would not allow me to do it. I went up through the Army on my own, and into Helix, without so much as a congratulations from you. I tried so hard to get your approval and acceptance, but all I ever heard from you was what I could do with my life when I quit the military. We fought, and then you died, and so yes, it is that too.”

Ana relaxed her shoulders, just a touch. “I thought it would be better for you.”

“No,” Pharah shook her head, “You thought it would be better for you.”

Jack did not, strictly speaking, know Arabic. He could know when Ana wanted him to hand her something, when she was mocking him, but this was more an understanding of Ana than of the language itself.

And it was his understanding of them both that made him nervous, in this moment.

The argument took on a different flavor than it ever had been, Pharah letting fly so many things that she must have felt, so many things that Jack and Gabe had casually mentioned to Ana more than once when Pharah was little, but Ana knew best, so she always thought. Pharah towered over her mother. It had never occurred to him, before this moment, that Pharah might actually hit Ana, but then again, he hadn’t imagined she’d snap and throw Tracer halfway across the room, either, and that had definitely happened.

Jack briefly considered stepping in, before the thought crossed his mind that stepping in between two Amari woman was a good way to die.

Instead, he tapped his glass of whiskey too hard on the counter, and they both looked over to him for a moment. He simply shook his head and walked over to the couch, but the anger of the moment had been broken, the only diplomacy Jack had to offer.

Pharah looked back at Ana, the anger dissipating and leaving her with a great sadness, though she still could not find the English words to say what she meant, and had to give Ana the satisfaction of her Arabic. “Your choices have always been, about you. You taught me to be strong, and to be strict with myself, and you taught me that this was the only way to be. Because it is the only way you know to be. You criticized every decision I made that was not yours. You trained me, more than you raised me. This has always been true. “ she nodded and tapped the counter. “I am raising myself now. I have learned to be the things you did not teach me. I am more than a soldier, or the teacher you wanted for me. I am a friend, and I am a wife, and I can show these things to others. You have made me clumsy. But I will not be like you. I will not let myself be only stone.”

“Fareeha,” Ana said softly, “I have done my best.”

Pharah nodded. “I know you love me. In your way. But it was not enough. It is not enough.”

She stepped back, and slipped back into the comforting strangeness of English. “I am going. Don’t call, not tonight. Not for some time.” she gave a flick of her chin toward the couch. ‘Jack.”

“Fareeha.” He rumbled softly.

She left as quickly as she had come, and shut the door, and Ana simply stood for a few moments at the counter. She wordlessly walked to where she had dropped the card, and picked it up as she walked silently to her room, to tuck it in next to the ones Sam had sent her every year since Pharah was born.

[howlljenkins]

Where We Go From Here

Nick x June centric multi-chapter fic: June and Nick finally make their escape from Gilead with Hannah in tow but things don’t go quite to plan. In the months that follow June is forced to confront the fact that she is no longer the same person she was pre-Gilead. Rated M. 

Chapter 3: The Path Forward

Spring comes.

I take Holly for walks in the evenings. It's my favorite time of day, when the shadows are long and light falls rich and golden through the new leaves. Flowers are beginning to bloom and the air is tinged with sweetness as it rustles through the trees.

Sometimes Hannah join us. She chatters about school, the upcoming science fair, a friend’s birthday party. Lately she’s been begging for a dog. I tell her we don’t have enough space but my resolve is waning. Some days she is sullen and silent and I can tell she is back there, wearing a pink cloak and answering to a different name. On those days I take her hand and squeeze it. Most times she squeezes back.

Occasionally Nick will meet us at the big park on the corner of Edmands and Grove Street, halfway between our apartment and the garage where he’s picked up a few shifts in addition to his work at the Consulate.

Read on AO3

“I missed working with my hands,” he explains when I ask him why he’d want more work when the Consulate keeps him plenty busy already.

I muse without thinking. “You always were good with your hands.”

He smirks and I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

On days when Luke gets out of work early enough to join us, all five of us end up at the park together. When this happens Nick and Luke talk sports while I supervise Hannah on the swings, Holly nestled in her stroller beside me. Occasionally, I glance over my shoulder at them and I can’t help but compare them.

Luke is taller, Nick leaner. Luke’s eyes are a warm, light brown where Nick’s are so dark they’re almost black. Luke’s face is an open book, meanwhile Nick has made an art form of obscuring what he’s thinking. In many way they are exact opposites. Yet they get along surprisingly well, ribbing each other about their various teams’ win-loss records as if they’ve known one another for years. Meanwhile, I can’t seem to hold a normal conversation with either of them.

Maybe I need to start watching sports.

One night in the middle of April all five of us are at the park. Luke is pushing Hannah on the swings. Nick hoists Holly out of her stroller and walks with her to a pink flowering tree so she can see the blooms up close. She reaches for the flowers and he kisses her cheek. As I watch them, two dark heads bent together something twinges in my chest. It feels equally like longing, sadness, and joy. Before Gilead, I don’t remember feeling so many emotions at once. I was either happy or I was sad. Angry or excited. Never both, and never all four at the same time. I miss knowing what I am feeling.

A few days later I’m searching the fridge for the orange juice when Luke walks into the kitchen, leans against the doorway, and says, “I think we should get divorced.” He says it like a point of fact, the way someone might say “We’re out of milk” or “It’s raining, bring an umbrella.”

Slowly, I shut the refrigerator door and turn to him, my brain unwilling or unable to process what has just been said. I shake my head. “Is this about Nick?”

“It’s not about Nick. It’s us. Me and you. You’re not happy, June.”

“Of course I’m happy.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not-”

Anger flares in my chest. I slam a hand on the counter. “Don’t.” My whole body is shaking. “Don't tell me how I feel.”

Luke’s calm facade crumbles and suddenly heartbreak is written into every inch of his face. An open book, indeed. “Then tell me I’m wrong. Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong and I’ll never bring it up again, I swear.”

I glare at him. Of course you’re wrong. Of course I am happy. And if I’m not now, I can be. I will be! We’ll be okay. Everything will go back to the way it was before.

But I can’t do it. I can’t lie to him. The anger leaves me as swiftly as it appeared, collapsing in on itself like a dying star. “I don't even know what happy feels like anymore.”

Luke nods, his eyes red. “Don't you want to find out?” he says softly.

For the first time since in a long time I feel like I am seeing him clearly. In that moment I know he is not trying to hurt me. Just the opposite; he is trying to help me in the only way he knows how.

He is trying to set me free.

The next morning Luke leaves for a work trip. He’ll be gone for three days. He planned things perfectly so that I would have time to consider things without his presence muddying my emotions.

I pretend to be asleep as he moves around the room gathering his things. Just before he leaves he stoops down and kisses me on the cheek. Then he’s gone.

That day I sit at my desk, the documents I’m supposed to be editing untouched as I stare blankly out the window. For months I have buried my head in the sand, pretended that things were fine when they weren’t. I thought if I pretended long enough it would become true. That’s what they say right? Fake it til you make it? But I was fooling myself and now that reality has caught up to me I am unprepared to face it.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Startled, I look up. Ellen, one of my coworkers stands beside my desk, hands wrapped around a large mug of tea. Tall and thin with long silver hair that she wear pulled back into an elegant chignon at the base of her neck, I imagine her being a dancer in the Bolshoi Ballet in her younger day. Despite the fact that they look nothing alike, there’s something about her that reminds me of my mother. A sureness of self, perhaps. One gets that feeling that she knows exactly who she is and what her purpose is in the world.

Perhaps this is why I tell her: “My husband thinks we should get divorced.”

If she is taken aback by a coworker sharing such private information she doesn’t let on. Her expression doesn’t change, her steady grey eyes considering me without judgement. Then again, she already knows far more about me that I do about her. Everyone in the office knows my background, that I was a Handmaid, that my younger daughter was born in Gilead, fathered by a man who is not my husband.

“I take if you’re not a fan of the idea?”

I twist the simple gold band on my ring finger. Luke got it for me while I was still in the hospital, to replace the one they confiscated at the Red Center. I still haven’t gotten used to the weight of it.

What I mean to say: Of course not.

What I actually say: “I don’t know.”

“Well, I can’t tell you what to do obviously. But I will say that no one could go through what you did without coming out the other side a changed person. That’s not something to be ashamed of; it’s something to be proud of. It means you’re a survivor.”

I smile at her. “Has anyone ever told you that you would make an excellent therapist?”

She laughs. “I should hope so. I was one. For 20 years actually.”

“Any chance you’re taking new clients?” I’m only half joking.

“Unfortunately, I’m not licensed to practice in Canada.” She considers me thoughtfully. “You know what, though, I have a good friend who has a practice downtown. Let me give you her number. If you ever want someone to talk to, I can promise you that she is an excellent listener.”

That night I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the telephone number Ellen scribbled down for me. I stare at it so long the numbers start to blur before my eyes. Then I pick up the phone and dial.

Ellen’s friend is not what I expected. I had imagined someone like her: older, elegant, wearing an outfit straight out of an Ann Taylor magazine. Zoe is not that. She is young, for one. She must be straight out of grad school. Her dark, curly hair is lobbed off at the chin and she wears large wire framed glasses and a flustered expression as she hurries into her office clutching a coffee mug and dabbing at a large stain on the front of her polka dot sweater with a handful of paper towels.

“I’m so sorry, June. I just ran outside to get a coffee, which, of course, I immediately spilled all over myself.” She throws the soiled paper towels into a wastebasket under her desk and falls into the armchair across from the couch where I am perched. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she smiles. “So. What brings you in today?”

I tell her everything.

Ellen wasn’t lying; Zoe is an excellent listener. She doesn’t interrupt once as I speak, only nodding at appropriate times and occasionally jotting something down on a small notepad. When I finally finish she sets down her notebook and waits a minute to make sure I am really done before speaking.

“Well, June, it sounds like you have two options. You can either continue on down the path you're on. Or… you can try something new.”

“I’m afraid.” I don’t realize until I say it how true this is. After everything I went through in Gilead I finally have control of my life again and the freedom is immense... and terrifying. What if I choose the wrong thing? What if I steer my life, Holly and Hannah’s lives, in the wrong direction?

“You had to take so many risks to get yourself and your daughters out of Gilead,” Zoe says. “Now that you are all safe, it’s only natural that you don’t want to rock the boat. Here’s the thing though: life is full of storms. The seas get rough now matter what we do. All we can do is put ourselves in the best position to weather them.”

“I just want to do what’s best for my daughters.”

“As long as your children are safe and know that they are loved I think what would be best for them would be for their mom to be happy.”

I bite my lip.“And if I don’t know what would make me happy?”

“Then I think that’s what you need to find out.”

There are other things she says but this is what sticks with me in the days, months, and years that follow.

The day Luke returns from his trip, I am waiting for him at the kitchen table. He can tell from my expression that I have something to say. Setting his bags down, he sinks slowly into the chair opposite me. He listens silently as I speak. I tell him that while I love him and always will, I am not the woman he fell in love with, I am someone else, someone I don’t fully understand. I tell him that if I am ever to feel normal again I need to figure out who I am now, today. I tell him that I can’t do this as his wife. In the end, I simply tell him that I’m sorry.

He stands then, walks over to me, and pulls me to my feet. “You brought Hannah back to me. You brought yourself back. You have nothing to apologize for. Do you understand?” The ferocity in his voice catches me off guard.

A raw lump forms in my throat. Swallowing it down, I force myself to nod. Luke opens his arms and I fall into them the way I have a thousand times before, only this time it feels different because this time it’s goodbye.

“We will always be a family,” he murmurs into my hair. “And I will always be here for you. No matter what.”

In the end I don't go far. Although Luke offered to let me keep the apartment the space has always reflected more of him than me. Besides, I want a fresh start.

I find an apartment in a building only a few blocks away. It’s a bit smaller but it’s equidistant to Hannah’s school and has a daycare on the ground floor for Holly. They also have a gym. I take up kickboxing. Sometimes it just feels good to punch something.

I still take Holly for walks in the evenings. At least once a week the five of us still end up at the park together. Luke and Nick still talk sports, though I have given up on trying to join in.

Things are awkward at first but it gets easier. Luke was right; we are still a family. The pieces are all there, just rearranged into a new pattern.

Slowly the tightness that has lived in my chest for so long begins to loosen. The pressure I’ve felt ever since I woke up in the hospital to act the part of Old June recedes. I begin to feel like I can breathe again.

I throw myself into turning the new apartment into a home. I paint Hannah’s room lavender, her favorite color. I drag Moira to the flea markets that spring up around the city on the weekends to shop for furniture, a table, chairs. I snag a dining room set for $60, a rocking chair for Holly’s room, some cute picture frames.

Nick comes over a couple of times a week to spend time with Holly. Despite working two jobs he never looks haggard, he is always calm, though I often wonder what emotions he is hiding beneath that unreadable facade.

At first I worried how Hannah will react to his increased presence but she, though wary at first, is quick to come around. Soon Nick is one of her favorite people. This is largely due to that he is an excellent cook while I struggle not to set fire to her dinosaur chicken nuggets.

We fall into a new rhythm. Nick cooks dinner then I clean up while he plays with the girls. There’s something about this after dinner time that loosens the walls he’s built up around himself. Maybe it’s the beer he has with dinner, or the full bellies, or the summer heat chipping away at his defenses. Whatever it is, I learn more about him during these lazy summer evenings than I have in the almost three years of knowing him.

I learn that his grandmother taught him to cook when she used to watch him after school. I learn that his favorite color is blue and that he swam and ran track in high school. I learn that he used to draw but he was never any good at it, and that, although he hadn’t gone to college, if he had he would have studied history. He is especially interested in the classics. Alexander the Great, Pompey and Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra.

“You should read about Boudica,” I say.

“Who was she?”

“According to most sources she was the Queen of a celtic tribe who led a revolt against Roman rule. I worked on a book about her at my old job. She was kind of a badass.”

He catches my eyes, a small smile dancing around the corner of his mouth. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

I learn about Josh, his older brother, the boy from the photograph in his apartment above the garage.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table with Holly in his lap while I scrub lasagna residue from a pan.

“He was five years older than me. He was good at everything. Made the varsity baseball team as a freshman. I thought the sun shone out his ass. Wanted to be just like him.”

“What happened to him?”

“He joined the army after graduation. Did three tours in Iraq. When he came home he was different. Quieter. He got a job at the mill with my dad. When the mill shut down he couldn’t find anything else. I don’t know when it started but he got hooked on some bad shit. Died of an overdose the year before Congress fell.”

Turning off the faucet, I turn toward him. “I’m so sorry, Nick.”

He raises an eyebrow. “He would have liked you. He had a thing for stubborn women.”

“Hey.” I chuck my sudsy washcloth at him.

He smiles and tosses the cloth back to me. Dropping it into the sink, I walk over to his chair and crouch down beside him. I kiss Holly’s forehead, then look up at him. “We’ll tell her about him.”

He swallows thickly and nods. He doesn’t say it but I read the thanks in his gaze.

That night when I walk him to the door and rise up on my toes to kiss his cheek. “Goodnight.”

His hand finds mine, his thumb slides across my palm, his brow is furrowed as though the lines that criss cross my skin are a map he can’t decipher. Such a small touch, yet it sets my entire body aflame. I can barely breathe. I should pull away but I don’t and neither does he. He opens his mouth to say something but before he can the elevator at the end of the hall slides open and Moira steps out. We leap apart as caught in a compromising situation.

“What was that about?” Moira asks once he’s gone.

I turn away, busying myself with straightening the pile shoes by the door. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean? That boy has basically been living here the past few weeks and I have been in saunas less steamy than the look he gave you just now.”

I straighten and shrug. “He’s Holly’s dad. He’s just over here to spend time with her.”

“Girl, you can tell yourself whatever you want but we both know she is not the only one he wants to spend time with.”

Despite my denials, I find myself looking forward to Nick’s visits, missing him as soon as he leaves. I prolong moments of physical contact, drawing out the touch of our hands as he places Holly on my lap, the brush of an arm as we each pass other in the hall though it’s plenty wide for both of us.

It’s not enough.

Towards the end of the summer I order a new crib for Holly. Her old one was a donation from the refugee center and while it’s perfectly safe I’ve been wanting to get her a new one for a while. The day the crib arrives the girls are staying at Moira’s so I drag the giant box down the hall into the nursery and set to work.

Three hours later, the room is a disaster zone of wooden parts and loose screws and I am no closer to completing the crib then when I started. “Fuck this,” I mutter. Snatching up my phone from the floor, I punch in Nick’s number.

He picks on the third ring. Before he can speak I say, “I have a favor to ask but before you say anything I need you to know that I am a strong, capable, and independent woman.”

I can hear the amusement in his voice as he says, “Alright.”

“Good. Because I could really use your help setting up Holly’s new crib.”

He arrives twenty minutes later and I lead him down the hall to the nursery. He freezes in the doorway as he takes in the what my hours of work have accomplished. “It looks like an Ikea exploded in here.”

“I know, I know. Just please tell me you can fix it.”

It takes him forty-five minutes to disassemble the monster I’ve made and rebuild it into to a mirror image of the crib displayed on the outside of the box.

I walk around it in amazement, trailing my hand along the railing. “Next you’re going to tell me you can walk on water.”

Smiling, Nick wanders over to the bureau where Holly’s favorite plushie is propped up against the wall.

“That’s Mr. Bunny,” I say as he picks up the green rabbit. “Holly can’t go to sleep without him.”

Nick fingers a large rip in one of the bunny’s ears. The beloved rabbit is missing an eye, his fur is missing in patches, and stuffing has started to leak out of a small tear in his side. “He’s had a rough time of it.”

I walk over to him and take the rabbit from his hands. “Yeah, well, sometimes love puts you through the wringer.”

We look up at the same time and our eyes lock. My heart thuds in my chest. His pupils are dark with longing.

“Nick,” I say.

Funny how a single syllable can hold so much. My restraint, which has held out for so long, cracks like ice beneath a heavy boot. Suddenly I need his hands on me. We move at the same time, reaching for each other, and then he’s there, his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, tugging me closer, closer, closer still.

Our clothes create a Hansel and Gretel trail back to the bedroom. By the time we fall into the bed we’re both naked. I cling to him as he enters me. After so long the sweet fullness feels like coming home. We move together, a perfect union. After so many months, we don’t last long. I come and a moment later so does he. Afterward I rest my head on his chest, our hands laced together on his stomach.

“I don’t want to freak you out,” I murmur. “But I think I might be in love with you.”

He frowns. “Well, this is awkward.”

Raising my head, I slap his chest. “Nick!”

Grinning, he kisses my forehead. “I love you, too.”

I laugh. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He kisses me again. I am drunk with happiness. I roll on top of him, straddling his waist. Bending over I kiss his lips. I love you. His nose. I love you.His eyelids. I love you.

He says it back in the way he kisses me, the way his hands grip my waist, gentle yet urgent, in the tenderness with which he brushes a lock of hair out of my face, gazing up at me as though I’m the brightest star in the sky.

Then his hand slips between us and even silent words give way to gasps.

[lucius-ii]

a collection of firsts

i. wand

The family wand (18” elm wood with a dragonheartstring core) would be his only once he left Hogwarts and assumed his role as the head of their House. So, one sunny day in August, Lucius and Abraxas Malfoy made their way to Diagon Alley. Despite his halfbood status, Ollivander was the greatest wandmaker in the magical world and Abraxas was always insistent that Malfoys only deserve the best. His father held their family wand, tucked away in the walking stick that had been passed down alongside it for generations. Lucius wondered how close the wand that chose him would be to that ancient thing. Would his father be terribly disappointed if the core was unicorn hair or the wood was rowan or chestnut? His palms began to sweat in his pockets as his father waved the shop door open with a lazy flick of his wrist. What if no wand chose him? He could feel the magic in his veins, feel it push out of his body when his moods became extreme. Just the day before, his mother’s Augury had startled him as he left his room, his magic had sent the poor bird flying across their foyer. But what if that magic wasn’t enough for a wand to choose him? What if he was the first squib in the Malfoy family? Endless, baseless worries flew through the boy’s mind as his father spoke to the old man behind the counter – was that really Ollivander? He looked so infirm beside his father. Abraxas was an imposing presence. A tall man dressed finely in all black with emeralds clasping his summer-wool cloak, his silver-blond hair tied back in a low tail that pulled his already severe features into an expression of disinterest, disdain, and pure arrogance. Lucius straightened his back, taking his hands from his pockets. He was his father’s son. This was his world. A smirk grew on his lips as he approached the counter, a hand lazily raised to receive the first wand – holly, 10 ¼”, unicorn core – a shower of red sparks followed, setting a discarded quill to smolder. The second wand flew out of his hand practically as soon as the old man had placed it there. Abraxas sneered, “We don’t have all day, Garrick, it shouldn’t be so difficult to find my boy a wand.” The wandmaker nodded and slipped to the back of the shop. He returned a few moments later holding a 12 ¾” hawthorn wand with dragon heartstring core. Lucius took the wand and the magic in his body reached into it, his blood singing in his veins. A spray of gold erupted from the tip, straightening the wands on the shelves and putting right to the mess of papers on the other side of the counter. Even Ollivander’s clothes were freed of the dust that had fallen on him as he had searched to find this wand. A true smile grew on young Lucius’s face and he could have sworn he saw the same swell of happiness in his father’s pale eyes. A small pouch of galleons was tossed from his father’s pocket onto the counter – “Keep the change, Garrick, and perhaps invest in the purchase of a house-elf to keep your shop in better shape.” – and the Malfoys swept out of the shop. Lucius could barely keep the smile off his face as they walked down the crowded streets to continue their errands. The ghost of a smile was mirrored on his father’s lips, “Let’s stop here, Lucius,” they were standing near the entrance of Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, “Such a day deserves some celebration.”

ii. fear

Ophelia Yaxley married Abraxas Malfoy for duty. He was chosen for her by her father – or perhaps she was chosen for him by his father. They had known each other peripherally at school, they had been the same year but she had found herself in Ravenclaw rather than Slytherin. She was the best wife she could be to a man like Abraxas. He wielded political power with as much confidence as he wielded magic and expected nothing less than perfection from his family. Ophelia was nothing if not an expert at feigning perfection. A carefully crafted mask painted onto her face every day, her honey-blonde hair pulled back into a chignon, jewels dripping from her ears and throat. Publicly, she exuded the old power of the Sacred Twenty-Eight through every look and gesture. But behind the closed doors of their extravagant home, she was a soft woman. She loved magical creatures, caring in particular for those who took to the skies. An Augurey called Wugsworth was her favorite pet. The sad bird moaned miserably, echoes of his cries filling the halls eerily. Lucius had been afraid of the Irish Phoenix at first. He was a shy creature, more often heard than seen, his vocalizations finding their way into Lucius’s dreams. The young wizard had cried to his mother at age 5, begging for her to make the beast stop crying, to take him away, anything. Ophelia smiled and simply took her son’s hand, leading him up to the tower where Wugsworth was housed. The boy stiffened his lip, not wanting to cry if his mother was unconcerned, but the worry in his belly grew the closer they drew to the sad song. He had never been to this tower in their home, it was his mother’s space alone, and the unfamiliar twists and turns of the passageway only lent to his dread. Finally they arrived to the aviary, the grand door swinging open at their approach. The windows that paneled the room were tall and thin with no glass to keep the wind and weather from this room. The great blue-grey bird sat on his perch at the center of the room, cooing sadly to himself. At the sight of his mistress, Wugsworth took wing, a triumphant cry springing from his sharp beak. His quick approach caused Lucius to jump back, hiding himself behind his mother’s form. The witch smiled serenely, her arm extended for her beloved pet to settle himself on. He did, trilling softly as he stretched his neck to groom Ophelia’s hair. A laugh bubbled from her lips, a rare sound in their home, and she drew Lucius further into the room. Lowering herself and the bird to his eye level, she held her arm towards her son. “There is nothing to fear, my sweet, poor Wugsworth has a sad disposition. He doesn’t wish to make you scared or unhappy, he was simply born sounding so mournful. His cries tell us only that it will rain tomorrow,” a wail from Wugsworth caused them both to start, “Or perhaps tonight, with the way he’s going on!” Her smile made the boy more confident and he reached a hand to touch the silken feathers on the top of the Augurey’s head. The bird closed his eyes and cooed in a way that could almost be described as happy. Emboldened by this, a smile grew on his face to match his mother’s. For a time they stayed like that, Ophelia crouched before Lucius, holding the bird on her arm for her son to pet. Wugsworth soon stretched his wings, shaking his feathers. They caught they light so beautifully, Lucius was distracted by their glamour and did not realize what the beast was about to do. He jumped from Ophelia’s arm as if to take flight, but chose instead to settle himself on the young boy’s head. Lucius froze for a moment, unsure what to do under the weight of Wugsworth. The bird’s long tail feathers blocked his vision and a small keening noise escaped his mouth without thought. Wugsworth began to harmonize with the boy’s whining cry, causing Ophelia to erupt into true laughter, “Oh my boys, what a pair you make!”

iii. kiss

They were 14. Hidden away on the grounds of her family’s estate, the pair had procured both firewhiskey and a clumsily-rolled joint. It was a lazy summer afternoon; the House of Black was throwing their annual midsummer ball the next night so the household had more important concerns than the whereabouts of two children. Bellatrix had lead him into the pendulous branches of an ancient willow tree, her wild dark hair catching some of the leaves on the way in. Lucius couldn’t help but smile, taking care that his own hair remained intact and without leaves. Bella rolled her eyes, “No need to be so concerned, Lady Malfoy, it’s only us,” she quipped merrily at his primping, already settling herself comfortably in the roots of the great tree. Lucius sat near her, their knees knocking together, “I’m carrying precious cargo here,” he replied, pulling the small joint from behind his ear, “Of course, I’m referring to this gorgeous head of hair,” he teased, flipping said hair over one shoulder while he took his wand from his pocket. Bella pulled the flask they had snuck from the kitchens from her own robes, taking a great swig before passing it to Lucius. The amber liquid scorched his throat and filled his chest with burning bravado. He offered the joint to Bellatrix – this little excursion had been her idea after all, as most of their adventures were – she took it with a smile, placing it between her lips. She reached for her own wand but Lucius stopped her, “Ah, ah! Haven’t you heard? Pretty girls don’t light their own cigarettes -er-joints?” a quiet incendio produced a small flame from the tip of his wand which he held to the tip of the joint. The glow of his wand was reflected in the depths of her dark eyes, her whole face was made warm by the spell. He couldn’t help but stare at the purse of her lips as she sucked in the smoke, her own eyes on his face. Her confident inhale was followed by a cacophony of coughing, the smoke puffing into a cloud between them. She giggled at her own inexperience, passing the joint to Lucius’s waiting hand. His own inhale was followed by his own cough, “Merlin, that’s harsh!” he managed to choke out, earning him a laugh from Bellatrix, “Come now, Lucy, you can’t be giving up on me!” her second draw was smoother, no coughing accompanied her exhale and Lucius was determined to keep pace with her. That’s all he could ever do, keep up with the pace she set. She was his closest friend – besides Augustus, but girl friends were so different than boy friends – and he had spent their childhood desperate to find something he excelled in over her. So far partying was the only contender and that was not necessarily a skill that befit a wizard of his status, but even now it seemed like Bellatrix was better at smoking than him, so perhaps all he had was drinking. He took another long swig of firewhiskey before taking the joint again. They sat like that awhile, passing the substances between them, teasing each other as they always did. His eyes began to grow heavy and his whole body tingled with the intermixing of alcohol and weed. He was so aware of his leg against hers, the warmth of her body beside his, an airy feeling growing in his chest. Bellatrix took a final puff, the joint down to practically nothing. As she did, the ember caught her finger tips, “Fuck!” she exclaimed, dropping the last bit to the ground and bringing her fingers to her lips to wet them with her tongue. Lucius could not stop himself from taking her hand from her mouth and bringing it to his own. So close, they were so close, the smell of her hair and the softness of her skin flooding his mind. He could not stop himself, could never want to stop himself, from leaning forward and pushing a clumsy kiss to her lips. It only took a moment for her to kiss him back, their hands clasped together. He had forgotten to breath and their kiss was broken only a moment later so he could gasp for breath. He grinned sheepishly at Bellatrix who could only give him another eye roll despite the smile on her own lips, “You’re lucky you’re so pretty or I’d never have let you get away with that.”

[sascerides]

Autumn - A short story

Summer wakes her with a kiss. The kiss is cold like morning dew but Summer’s heart is warm. She knows this. She knows because they have danced this same dance together. Year after year after year. Longer than either of them can remember. Summer wakes her with a kiss and she opens her eyes to Summer’s face. Her red lips. Her sun-bleached hair. The wrinkles at her eyes when she laughs and takes her hand.

Summer wakes her with a kiss as the late morning sun shines through dirty windows. Coffee is brewing somewhere. The cat is still asleep. Rolled up in a ball of black fur. Soon, he will open his orange eyes and they will walk together.

Summer’s cat is ancient by now. A fat old tomcat stretching in the morning sun. She cannot tell if Summer has the same cat every year, or if she picks up a new ginger stray at every maypole. But here he is, year after year. Stretching his body and trotting after them as they walk down the street. Her own, young black cat is full of energy still. He disappears for hours catching mice and birds in the long afternoons. But he is always there, always close, following her steps wherever she goes.

Summer wakes her with a kiss and takes her hand. And for a while they walk through the city together. Summer, always barefoot, getting goosebumps in her sundress when they embrace on train platforms and while sipping coffee on park benches watching the ducks. The late summer breeze turning colder day by day.

Summer wears her hair loose and her smile bright and her kisses taste like strawberries. In her youth she is roses and sunshine and the soft, blue waves. She is the long grass swaying in the wind and the tips of the willow’s branches playing with the river. Even when she is old and tired and fading away she shines still golden with her laughter. She lounges on long afternoons rocking slowly back and forth in her yellow rocking chair as clouds move over the blue skies. Even when her face is tanned and weathered and worn and her smiles make crinkles in her skin. Even then, she still sings softly under her breath. Her voice carrying like a stream through mountains as she picks flowers for her hair. And everywhere Summer goes, so does her cat. He is slow and warm and steady. He will lick your finger and roll on his back so you can scratch his fluffy tummy. But just like Summer he will change his mind within a heartbeat and hiss at you.

Summer has a temper. She will love you and she will smile but she will shout and cry and scream. She is the thunder in the night and the clouds bursting rain upon the fields. She is the forest roaring in an August storm. She will drown you if you let her but she will always dry you again. 

Summer is easy to love and she likes i that way. She is a giver and a carer and she wants to be adored, but she is not one to laugh at.

Summer wakes her with a kiss, cold as morning dew. She wakes her with a kiss and takes her hand, and for a while they dance together as the apples ripen and the wheat is harvested. As the sea caresses the beach and coats begin to colour the streets.

For a while they dance together but Summer is weary and old. Her bones are growing cold and her fingers growing stiff. She watches the sun set earlier and earlier as the days pass and one day she smiles a sad, tired smile and she lays herself down to sleep.

Summer wakes her with a kiss but soon she is alone again.

She doesn’t need a name. When people ask her she will make something up, but they seldom do. She could have called herself Autumn, Autumno, Anonna or even Phthinoporon. Here they call her Herbst but that does not matter. In other places they know her as Sügis or Fómhar or Höst. It does not matter because she has been here longer than them and she knows who she is. She does not need a name. She has many names and none and their words are only fleeting.

She prefers to go unnoticed. She dresses in browns and reds and yellows, she wears her boots with flat soles and her lips with no colour. She lets her hair grow wild, catching autumn leaves in her thick, black curls as they hug the shoulders of her coat.

Summer likes to be adored and Winter wants to be admired. Spring wants to be awaited and longed for and praised at her arrival. But her. She prefers a quiet existence.

She is books in cafes and warm drinks enjoyed outside. She is the autumn breeze running through the streets. In her youth she is fast and fierce and fearless. She is the storms ripping up ancient trees and the rain hammering on windows. But she is also the warm, golden autumn sun. Dancing across the city squares and reflecting in the painted windows of churches. She is a soft breeze in the trees and the drizzle of a quiet rain.

When she begins her work the city is a contrast of grey concrete and green trees. By the time she is done it will be dark trees and grey concrete. It will be cold winds and warm boots but that is for the one who comes after her. In her time, she is golden and she paints the city to match. She is the golden light of the sun reflecting on shop windows. She is long, warm afternoons and the people drinking coffee on street cafés saying that perhaps summer hasn’t quite left them yet. She is early nights and dark ones and she is the flowers wilting. She crowns every tree with a halo of gold and she turns the parks into a rainbow of green, gold and red. Hers is the golden hour and she stretches it to last for a month.

She wakes up young in September. Her skin is smooth and her steps are light. Her eyes are bright and her laughter is in the wings of geese flying south high above the city. In her youth she is distracted. Wandering here and there. Leaning close to Summer in the passing breeze and kissing her cheek with soft lips.

In the beginning she is slow and inconsistent. She brings a bit of cold and she brings an early night. She touches leaves when she fancies and watches them turn gold at her touch. She lets the sunflowers wither and the winds pick up. She breathes in the salt sea air and blows it out of her mouth like a storm. They watch her wind flow down the streets picking up leaves and making them dance. It makes Summer laugh and that is why she does it.

Then, Summer leaves her and she is alone. She is older and stronger and larger somehow. Her skin is thick and her hands are rough. She seizes the clouds with her fists and she turns them dark and broody. She spreads out her arms and spins around her self again and again and again whirling up a wind and sends it down the city streets. She laughs to herself when the people close their coats and huddle from the rain. She sings strong and fast and loud as her breath blows the rain against the windows and turns their umbrellas inside out. By the end, she is tired. Her hands are wrinkled and rough and her skin is thin like paper. When she sees her face in the puddles she create, she hardly knows who she is. The cat too, is growing older, greyer. He is slower somehow. Walking in her footsteps on his soft, soundless paws. She knows it is like this every year and it does not matter. Next year she will wake up again. Fresh as the morning dew with Summer by her side.

This is the way it has been for years and years without end. She does not remember the first time nor will there ever be a last. This is the way it has always been, but these days something is different.

These days Summer is briefer and angrier and dryer. She sets forests on fire and she whips up storms against the coasts. These days Winter is longer and fiercer and clings on to the land like a plague. The two are always fighting and screaming and crying. These days Spring can hardly carve out of month for herself. Spring who was always shy and timid and kind who now wakes up too early and only for her flower buds to freeze and die. These days. These past years.

Something is different.

She can taste it in the air and see it in the skies. She sees the scars of smoke the planes leave on her clear October skies. She sees the smog from cars obscuring the warm autumn sun. She sees the plastic among the leaves and the oil slushing in the waves against the cliffs. She stands on a street corner and watches the cars drive buy. The smoke from their exhaust pipes puffing out and upwards in clouds. She watches the humans with their eyes down and their headphones in. She watches them not seeing anything.

In her youth, years ago, these streets were fields. She would sweep in golden and bountiful. The skies were wide and blue and she would bless the crops with her fingertips as she passed. The people would dance and sing and drink in her honour and she would join them. She remembers dancing in barns with flowers in her hair. Her long black curls falling soft around her shoulders. Back then, things were different.

Now the people do not see. They do not care. They move in flocks and they keep their eyes down. They fight and shout and kill and cry while their planet crumbles around them. While their planet burns and drowns and freezes over, they walk on. She stands there. Silently watching as night falls and sun rises. She stands. Clenched fists and tired eyes and she feels the anger growing inside her. It whirls around her like a hurricane. At first, it is only on the inside. Then, it starts picking up leaves. She forgets herself and let’s it spread. Wind howling around her. Clouds gathering over her head dark and thick and angry. Rain falling hard on her shoulders and her hair. The cat hisses and hides under her coat, his fur already wet with rain. Her anger so hot and busy she does not care that people are turning to look. Ripping their gazes from their phones to watch at she gathers a storm around her.

“Let them watch” she thinks. “Let them see my anger”. “Let them feel my rage” she mutters under her breath as she sends a whirlwind down the street, letting the clouds grow and rise until they embrace the whole city. Perhaps this will wake them up. 

Her rage is swift and sudden. It sweeps over the city and she has no mercy left in her now. The trains stop running and the busses stand still on the roads. The people hurry from their offices and into their homes. She rips up trees in the parks and hurls them on the ground. She pushes over fences and signs and she sends them flying down the street. She darkens the skies and turns the roads into rivers.

She watches an umbrella being torn from the hands of a man in a suit. He puts his briefcase over his head and runs. Hiding from the rain and the storm. Hiding from her rage. She hears herself laughing as his umbrella tumbles down the street.

Perhaps this will remind him of how it used to be. Perhaps tonight he will tell his children how autumn used to be different. How she used to be kind and warm and generous. Perhaps. Perhaps he will remember she thinks. But humans forget things so easily.

The rain is hammering on the windows of shops and on the roofs of cars. She is standing there soaked to the bone in her anger and she feels the energy seeping out of her. She wakes up young in September and her skin is smooth and her laughter is warm. Now, she has no laughter left in her. Now she is tired and old and she feels the first frost biting at her bones. 

She sighs and the rain is but a drizzle, running down the street. The storm is clinging to the air but it is quieter now. Perhaps the people will see. Perhaps they will remember. She does not know and by now she is too tired to care. Perhaps there is nothing she can do to make them see.

Afterwards the rumours will talk of how the storm started. Of how some people say they saw an old lady with an angry cat. Standing at a crossroads with her arms raised and anger written in her face. With wild eyes and fire in her veins. Some will say she summoned a storm and some will say she calmed it down. Some will have watched her stand there for days and know that she did both. But they will not understand. Some will say they watched her grow older as the storm passed over her heard. That they watched her eyes grow tired and her back bend. That they watch the energy flow out of her as the rain flowed down the streets.

Afterwards, people will say that this was the night winter arrived and they are not wrong. 

When she wakes from her rage the sun is creeping over the horizon in a frozen mist. The world is bleak in this morning. Covered in frost. Pale and timid and hushed. Shivering under the cars and the hurried boot prints of dawn as she walks through the streets. She can smell the first snow in the air and she knows that she is close.

She walks slowly down the streets, as the last leaves let go of their branches. Her knees ache and her feet are cold. Her skin wrinkles and her fingers are stiff when she pulls on her gloves. She knows it is time.

She is close.

And then, she turns around a corner and she sees her standing there. Leaning against the wall of an alleyway. With her long, white coat and her black army boots, smoking a cigarette with her eyes to the sky. Her white Persian cat lounging over her shoulder like a collar. The first snow flakes melting in its fur. She is all youth and defiance now and she is happy to see her.

Winter embraces her, bends down and kisses her forehead, then her lips. They lock eyes and she knows she did her turn.

She can rest now.

Thank you for reading. If you want more. You can find more of my stories here.

This story was part of my 12 stories project and for this one I wanted to try something a little different. I tried to give this more of a feel of mythology or legend than my usual stories. Which is also why this doesn’t have any dialogue or a plot like I’d usually do. Hope it worked ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You can read more about my 12 stories project here. Again. Thanks for reading. Feel free to share, comment, whatever floats your boat - it’s all appreciated.

Also. Fun Fact. This story was more or less entirely inspired by this picture of a cat.

[christopher-eccleston-9th]

Put It Back Together

Put It Back Together

Part 1 – The Greatest Longing

Characters: Nine x OFC Mackie (Mackenzie); OC’s Philip, Francois (Frank)

Warnings: Mentions of drug abuse, some explicit language, some angst and a little bit of fluff ♥

Word Count: 2526 words

Author’s Note: Welcome one and all to my first official Doctor Who fic! It’s an OFC slash fic. As always, please leave any feedback! It’s greatly appreciated. Also, please note that this fic has NOT been edited. I will be giving it a once over tomorrow morning... hopefully.

            Today had been spent much like the same as every other these last two years: Mackie woke up, ate, went to work, came home and slept. Repeat. There were the odd days Mackie would occasionally break that routine if only to make room for the one friend she still had. His name was Phil. A tall, gangly chap with a shallow skinny face, blond hair and deep blue eyes. Phil ran a tiny, but thriving, electronics shop just down the street from the bar Mackie worked at. So, the occasional divergence was an acceptable one.

            Mackie was dressed in her usual attire as she strode down Baker Street towards Phil’s shop. She wore a ¾ length grey and white jersey shirt, denim skinny jeans, combat boots and square-framed sunglasses she seldom needed to wear in dreary London. A rare spring sun gave her the opportunity to wear them, which she was rather happy for. And there were few things to look forward to or be happy about in her life. Not since the Doctor had gone.

            She had already been travelling with the Doctor for two years at that point. Two wonderful years. Two years that now seemed like nothing but a dream.

            It was while she was backpacking across Scotland with some friends – both from her homeland of Canada and those native to the United Kingdom – that he first appeared to her. The TARDIS had broken down and there was a chap by the name of Jack Harkness in Glasgow who could help him. In reality, it had been a ruse to see who would be brave enough to take on a man like him; to leave all they had behind and travel with him through time and space. And Mackie – sass and all – was the only person to step up to the plate.

            Two years of friendship, of traveling through time and space and having adventure after adventure of their own, and he left her.

            Still, after all she had gone through, there was a packed bag at the back of her closet for if… for when he came back. Because he would come back… right?

            Tea in hand, Mackenzie – called Mackie by her friends – strode into the shop. In the window hung a ‘CLOSED’ sign. It didn’t apply to her. There was a small jingle from the bell as the door swung open and closed. Behind the checkout counter stood the aforementioned tall gangly man. A broad smile stretched his face, his lips peeling back to show a crooked set of large teeth. “Well, it’s about time you showed up,” he said, his soft English accent filtering through her ears.

Philip rounded the counter in a few long strides and enveloped Mackie in a hug with his long limbs. Her dark auburn hair, which today she wore in a messy bun atop her head, tickled his sparsely bearded chin. “Perhaps I didn’t want to see your old lumpy face,” she quipped, a small smile tugging at the edge of her lips – her Canadian accent differing from his. Her emerald green eyes lit up with happiness while she gazed into her best friend’s eyes, pulling away from his embrace to do so.

He was one of the few reasons she had left to smile.

“This lumpy face is happy to see yours.”

“Warts and all,” she said cheekily. “Right, here’s your cuppa. You ready to motor?” Mackie’s voice reverberated inside the cylindrical walls of her metal travel mug.

Phil nodded as he took a large gulp of the scalding liquid. If the burning bothered him at all he showed no signs of discomfort.

This is how they spent some of their Sunday mornings. Mackie would make them both a cuppa, they’d take a walk through the streets of London while enjoying their often-silent partner (and were content to be as such). Talking wasn’t everything. Both of them knew that. But it wasn’t to say that they never spoke. Silence normally meant that one or the other or perhaps both parties were troubled by something.

All the years that he knew Mackie she had never been this quiet. Ever since the Doctor had gone she had been uncharacteristically silent. She barely spoke of him or about her time with him. There was once a time that he’d could barely get her to shut up about it. Now? Now he couldn’t get a peep out of her; not even in regards to the weather.

It worried him.

Today, unlike any other day, her silence was heavy. It was tense and sad and layered with emotions and sentiments that he was altogether weary of. It didn’t sit well in the pit of his stomach and unsettled him. Silence like this held a meaning. There hadn’t been a silence like this since her father skipped out on them, returning to Vancouver and lived on the streets; snorting coke and shooting up heroin and slowly killing himself. It had taken her months to come out about the problem. The last thing he desired was to see her suffer with the burden that now shouldered here.

Gathering some courage, he finally cleared his throat. “I can practically see the gears working behind your eyes. What’s bothering you?”

Mackie slowed her pace and swallowed hard. Here green orbs widened as if she had suddenly remembered something absolutely horrific – as if she had forgotten why it was she was the way she was in the first place. A pink tongue darted out from between her lips. She slowly exhaled the breath that she had been holding and shook her head. “Nothing, Phil.”

Phil licked at his lower lip and bit it. He contemplated whether or not he was going to push this matter. The last time she kept it all to herself almost cost her his friendship. And though he would do anything to help her he didn’t want to go through it again.

“Well, I think we both know that’s a bunch of bollocks,” he said after a long moment of silence. The duo came upon the River Thames and leaned against the railing. Mackie didn’t answer, her jaw clenched and brow knitted with sadness. “Come on, Mack…” Phil sighed through his nose, looking first at her and then to the murky waters of the river before them. “The last time something like this happened was when Frank left. It took you six months to tell me. Blimey, it almost cost you your sanity and much more before you told me. Don’t…” Phil ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Don’t do this again.”

After a few long moments of silence, Mackie spoke. Her eyes were fixed on the waters before her. “Talking about it isn’t going to bring him back,” she said softly. “Just like talking won’t bring Frank,” she spat his name, “back.”

The young man knew exactly who she was talking about. The Doctor. Another sigh escaped him, this time coming from his lips. Once again, he licked and bit his lower lip before talking. “Mackenzie… It’s been two years – ”

“ – To the day – almost the very second,” she spat.

Ignoring this, he continued. “It’s been two years. You’ve got to move on.”

She snorted derisively and bit at the malicious smirk at the tugged at the edge of her lips. “You still know nothing, Phil. Absolutely nothing,” she spat. “I love a madman in a box – someone who I am never gonna see again – and no length of time is going to diminish those feelings. You wouldn’t understand.”

Phil exhaled sharply through his nose and grabbed Mackie by the shoulder, forcing her to face him. “I wouldn’t, would I?” he said firmly; almost angrily. “I’ve spent the better part of two years watching the person I love waste away. She’s carried the weight of the bloody world on her shoulders and thinks every day that no one notices or cares. She barely eats or sleeps or socializes. She’s pushed everyone she cares about away because she’s in a constant state of fear – fear that everyone is gonna leave her like the Doctor did.”

It wasn’t exactly the best time to express his feelings, Phil knew that much. Mack was in a lot of pain and perhaps his admission wouldn’t help anything. However, he refused to stand here and let her dictate what he didn’t and didn’t know. Phil was in full awareness of his emotions, thank you very much. Her face softened some. Her brow relaxed some and the scowled softened into something of a frown. “Two years, Mack… Two years among the many more that I’ve known you and I’m still here. And I swear I’m never gonna leave. You’re daft for ever thinking that I would – ah!” Phil said as she opened her mouth to interrupt him. He silenced her with a long finger pressed to her lips. “Now, I could careless if you don’t feel the same way – this doesn’t change the fact that you’re my friend above all. My best friend. It’s been that way since we were in nappies and I want it to be that way until we’re back in them at a ungodly age and yelling at each other just so we can hear one another from a whole two feet away.”

“But it doesn’t…” Mackie started.

“You’re right. It doesn’t change the fact that you miss him or that you love him,” Phil continued, still holding her by her bony shoulders. “But you can’t keep waiting for something that may never happen. And if you are – knowing you, your stubbornness knows no bounds – then you need to talk about it. You can’t be keeping all this rubbish up here,” he gently poked her forehead, “forever. You’ve got to start taking care of yourself, too.”

Mackie bit her lower lip. She nodded. He was right, of course, as always.

Phil smiled gently at her and pulled her in for a hug. “Right… I gotcha,” he said as her chin began to tremble. “It’s all right, Mack… It’s all right.”

And damn him for being right. Damn him for always being right. Damn him for always being there for her, always supporting her and fixing her when she could no longer find the way to pick up the pieces of her broken soul. Without him she would be able to sulk and brood and be sad in peace.

The tears came unbidden to her eyes as her anger subsided. Mackie’s long slender fingers grabbed at Phil’s jumper for purchase. A gentle sob escaped her lips. And another. And another after that until her tears poured freely from her. Phil’s skinny arms held her fast. He planted a kiss atop her head. His heart broke as she finally let two years worth of grief and suffering pour from her soul. And he was begrudgingly glad he was the one who would help pick up the pieces… again. Because the Doctor surely wasn’t.

After what felt like an eternity Mackie’s breathing was calm. She sniffled a few times here and there but she was no longer crying. He slung his arm around her shoulder and held her close. “How about we go back to my flat and watch Game of Thrones? We’ll order some take away and have a beer or two. Perhaps pick up a twofer –”

“Two-four,” Mackie corrected him with a chuckle.

“Right. That. Damn you and you Canadians with your strange lingo.”

His comment earned him a smile. “It makes sense – a case has twenty-four beers. Two-four. At least we don’t drink our beer piss-warm,” she jabbed back, poking him in the side.

He jumped, dancing away from her fingers. “Oi! That’s not nice.”

Mackie crinkled her nose. “Well, I’m not a very noice pursun!” she mocked his accent.

“I do not sound like that!”

“Oi do not soond loike tha’!”

The duo laughed all the way back to his flat. And the day was indeed spent watching the gruesome TV show. They shared cold beers and ate pizza and all sorts of sweets they bought from the corner store. The worries that plagued Mackie’s mind slowly made themselves scarce and she was able to smile a real smile. She was able to laugh and enjoy the time she spent with Phil.

When he was finally content that she would be okay, Mack was allowed to go home. She slipped on her jacket and jumped into her boots. The embraced at the door and she walked happily through the darkened streets of London. Perhaps not the best idea but she could care less now. The Doctor was far from her mind and the day spent with Phil in merriment was at the forefront.

A smile split her face as she recalled the day. True to his word, they ordered take-away and bought a two-four of beer. They had at least half of the case each, spreading their drinks slowly throughout most of the day and well into the night. They quoted nearly each line with uncanny accuracy and debated various theories and their plausibility. All in all, it had been a good day. Fantastic, even.

Fantastic.

The word slowed her steps. And the man she swore she had all but forgotten mere minutes before was now at the front of her mind.

It’s strange how something as simple as a word can send your life hurtling in a direction you thought were heading away from. Sounds, people, words, places: They can ruin you if you aren’t careful. And the Doctor? The Doctor’s catchphrase was the fickle thing that brought the pain rushing back.

The smile slowly left her face and her body grew numb.

The rest of the walk home was spent remembering all the things she would never have again. She would never see his smile, hear his voice, smell his distinct scent or go on adventures together. She would never read books in the ever-growing library of his or spend lazy days in Scotland exploring the countryside in a time before Man. Noting would be the same. Never again.

Mackie fumbled with her keys into the lock of her flat, numb to the rest of the world. The silence that engulfed her was deafening.

But then… Then there came a sound. It was a soft wheezing that slowly and steadily grew louder. A gentle breeze rustled her hair. Mack stood up straighter. The sound beckoned her to turn around and face what she knew would be there. With a thud and a clunk, the wheezing stopped. And there it was: The blue police box. The TARDIS. Something she believed she would never see again was suddenly there. It was like it had never left.

There came a gentle creak as the TARDIS’s door opened. Out stepped a tall man. His ears were large and floppy. His dark hair was closely cropped to his head and a toothy smile lit up his face. He wore his unmistakeable black leather jacket and jeans, his purple jumper and black Doc Martens.

Mackie looked as if she saw a ghost - but he seemed to take no note. “Well,” he said stepping from the doorway of the TARDIS. “Are you ready to go, Mac and Cheese?”

Well, what do you think? Do you want to be tagged? Please leave me an ask with your feedback, comments and whether you’d like to be tagged in the next part.

~nine ♥

READ PART 2 HERE

tag forever: @badwolfinthetxrdis

[skyler10fic]

The Promise of Paradise

By Skyler10

Summary: Rose is an art teacher missing her long-time boyfriend, PhD student John, while he is away on a research trip to Hawaii. Then she has the brilliant idea of surprising him after her summer break begins. Little does she know, he has a surprise of his own planned for her.

Notes: For @doctorroseprompts: reunions. Though do I really need an excuse to write pure fluffy beach/island fic? Not really. Getting an early start this year. ;) Also proposal fic because we can never have enough of those.

Read on Ao3

Rain splattered onto the window sill next to Rose. She was safe and warm inside, but the grey skies matched the state of her heart. She felt a bit silly. She was a born Londoner. Dreary weather was in her blood, generations back. Even more so, she had always rolled her eyes at those girls who got so emotional over missing their boyfriends. It sounded so 13 to even think it. 

But here she was, cursing the time difference and counting down the days until his return as she clicked through photos of John’s most recent fishing trip in Hawaii. “Miss you! Love, Your Doctor,” he had signed off the email with her nickname for him. He had one more week of work, then two weeks of relaxation planned into the program’s schedule while others on his team finished their duties. Rose had asked (ok, maybe whined a bit. But only a bit!) if he could come back a tad early, but the team’s leaders wanted to minimize costs and simplify travel arrangements, and since it was all paid for by the university, John couldn’t really argue. He had to wait to travel home with the team.  

As much as it hurt her heart for him to be half a world away these last two months, she was so proud of him and happy for him that he had this opportunity. He was earning his doctorate, finishing up the last of a very prestigious research trip to the Mauna Kea observatories. It had a been great honor for him to be invited, and he was making vital connections for his career. Soon he really would be a “doctor,” and they would have a whole glorious summer together before they resumed teaching in the autumn.

She turned back to grading her class’s photo essays. These art students were some of the best she’d had, so it wasn’t too hard to stay positive and focused at work (well, sometimes it was still hard). But at home, the flat seemed so empty without his voice and manic energy and random dancing. Her life felt too quiet, used to his exuberant presence. They had been best mates through uni, dating for nearly two years, and living together for six months before he’d left for Hawaii, and yet he still surprised her every day in the best way.

Surprises… The idea struck Rose like lightning. She sat up straight and smoothed down her hair from where her fingers had been tangled in it. Before she could get too excited, she checked flight prices for the first week of her summer break. London to Kona… well, it wasn’t cheap, and she’d have to navigate the Los Angeles airport, but she could do it. Nine days to wait until then. Nine days sounded a lot better than three weeks, but she still wished it were tomorrow. Her finger hovered over the “book flight” button. A weather alert popped up on her screen, informing her that there was no end in sight to the spring showers for good ol’ London town. Boyfriends aside, it was definitely time to head to a more tropical island than the one she inhabited.  

She squealed to herself as the confirmation screen loaded with a palm tree and a beautiful beach scene. She added “bikini shopping” to her schedule for after work tomorrow and returned to grading her students’ assignments, resisting the urge to just give them all top marks and look up travel videos. As sad as she would be to say goodbye to these talented young artists forever, these next nine days couldn’t pass fast enough.

While he was eating breakfast, John’s phone chimed with an incoming message. He jumped and immediately felt guilty, as he wasn’t sure who else in the rented beachside guesthouse was awake yet. His insides warmed however, when he saw “Missing you!” and a video of Rose winking at him and blowing a kiss looping on his screen. He smiled and asked if she had time to Skype. She did for a few minutes, so they caught up on their days (well, the previous day for him). And he showed her the beach view as he did every morning that they talked. Something seemed different about her, however. She seemed… perky. Not that Rose wasn’t usually perky. She was well known among her friends and family for being a ray of sunshine, in fact. But this was different. A sad thought crossed his mind that perhaps it wasn’t that she was any more perky than usual but that she had been unusually blue without him and was simply adjusted to his absence by now. A bolt of distaste turned his stomach at that. He definitely didn’t want her getting used to a life without him. Just as he was beginning to wonder if she actually was finding life without him more pleasurable than life with him, she snapped him out of his melancholy thoughts.

“Hey, you ok?” she asked, concern lacing her tone.

“Hm? Yep! You know me, always alright!” he responded automatically.

“Not distracted by a pretty girl on the beach?” she teased, keeping her tone light but unable to mask the tinge of insecurity from someone who knew her so well.

“Never,” he assured without hesitation. “Just wishing you were with me.”

“I know. Me too,” she sighed. “But it won’t be long now. You’ll see.”

John didn’t miss the twinkle in her eye as she said the last bit. They rang off with their exchange of “I love you”s, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the change in her and the way she had been so confident that these last three weeks would fly by. He wondered if she was planning a surprise for his homecoming. His thoughts turned naughty astonishingly quick (though really not all that astonishing if he remembered he was a man in love with the most beautiful woman in the world and he had been away from her for two months). His pulse quickened, and he spared a glance to the clock on his phone screen and the photo of her there. He had time for a nice, long shower in his en suite before his presence was needed at the university. Yep, Rose was definitely wrong about this one: It was going to be a long three weeks.

Rose raced through LAX. Due to a delay leaving Heathrow, she had had just enough time to grab something to eat and make it to her gate for her flight to Kona… until the gate was changed.

“Ma’am,” a bored gate agent called out to her when she finally found the right place. “Please slow down. We’ve only just begun boarding and there’s no fire, so please have a seat until your group is called.”

Rose nodded, unable to respond verbally through her huffing and puffing. She collapsed into an empty chair and took a swig of her water bottle, then looked around the gate as she caught her breath.

A kid of about 10 looked up from her book across the aisle.

“They always tell you to be here earlier than you have to be,” the girl explained. “That way they have time for everyone to get on.”

“Yes,” Rose responded. “That’s a good plan. Can’t have everyone getting on at once, can they?”

The girl smiled. “You’re from England, aren’t you? I want to go there someday.”

“Best place in the world in my book, but of course, it’s home, so I would say that, wouldn’t I?” Rose smiled back.

“It’s very far away,” the girl observed. “Why go somewhere so far like Hawaii?”  

Rose leaned in and the girl mirrored her. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“I’m great at keeping secrets,” the girl promised. “I’m the only one who knows that my best friend Lochlan likes James, but he’s too afraid to tell him. And I know Kimber didn’t really find the class fish dead. She forgot to feed him during her week to take care of him.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Rose couldn’t completely hide her giggles.

“Point is, I know a lot of things,” the girl explained and pushed up her glasses on her nose.

Rose liked this one. And she was too excited to keep her secret to herself any longer. The only people who knew were John’s teammates, and she’d only talked to Donna, the one teammate of his from the university here that she knew personally.

“Well, if you promise not to tell—” Rose paused and the girl nodded. “—I am going to surprise my boyfriend. He’s working in Hawaii, and he doesn’t know I’m coming.”

The girl gasped. “That’s so romantic!”

“I thought so too.” Rose grinned. “Let’s hope he agrees.”

“Of course he will, unless he’s dumb or something. He’s not dumb, is he?”

“No, he’s very smart. He’s a scientist. He’s going to get his doctorate soon.”

“Yeah, he’ll love it. Just make him kiss you at sunset. All my life, I’ve always wanted to be kissed on a beach at sunset.” The girl sighed dreamily. Her sincerity kept Rose from laughing at the girl’s wistful tone, but she agreed. If Rose had anything to say about it, there would be plenty of sunset beach kissing. And she had a feeling John would be just fine with that.

The second day of John’s time off was starting out to be a dud. He had already done the things around the island he wanted to do alone and everything left on his list that he still wanted to do reminded him too much of Rose. His teammates had brought home an assortment of pamphlets and brochures: luaus and dinner cruises and hikes to see waterfalls and helicopter rides… all things that made him miss her more and wish she were there. He’d thought about asking her to come, but he knew she’d appreciate some down time at home after the end of term and didn’t want to ask her to make such a long journey just for him. He still marveled after all these years that a catch like her would want to be with a nerd like him, but he would do anything to keep her.

Which led him to the shops on the other side of the island. He hitched a ride in one of the team’s rental cars with a teammate, Barry, and wandered around from jewelry store to jewelry store with his heart in his throat. He’d told Barry he was going to get Rose a present, something nicer than the typical souvenirs he’d picked up over the last two months, something special. His teammate had suggested pearls, but they both knew it was a pretense. Barry headed off to his surfing lesson, leaving John to wander alone with his anxiety and denial.

Every time he entered a jewelry store, he told the shopkeeper he was just browsing, but they all noticed he was only looking at engagement rings. When they tried to ask him about it, he got nervous and left, until a text from Barry, done with his surfing lesson, made him realize how late it was getting in the day. He shot a text back that he would just take the bus and not to wait for him, then he took a break from his quest-that-wasn’t-a-quest for some pineapple ice cream in a busy plaza. It seemed like couples surrounded him. Young families with chubby-cheeked babies, old soulmates still holding hands after all these years, teens showing off for each other with skateboarding tricks, and couples his and Rose’s age whispering and flirting as they walked. Two blonde sisters bounced ahead of their mum and dad, pointing to the ocean and skipping along. John’s heart lurched at how much the tiny sisters looked like Rose. He’d known for a while, maybe deep down since the day he met her, but seeing his potential future so clearly in front of him fortified the resolve in his heart. He wanted a life with her more than anything. He wanted it more than he was afraid of mucking it up. And he hadn’t missed the way her eyes lingered over certain diamond-themed magazine advertisements.

There had been one recently she’d gone so far as to dog-ear when she thought he wasn’t looking… He dashed over to a newsstand and flipped through the women’s magazines until he recognized the ad. This was the ring. He was sure of it. He purchased the issue and headed back to the jewelry stores. This time, the shopkeepers would have a very different customer on their hands. His heart was still pounding but he channeled his nerves into determination. And it payed off. He didn’t find the ring in the ad, but he did find one that was similar, and in his opinion, even more “Rose” than the one in the magazine. Better still, it was in his price range. His hands shook as he made the transaction, but when he checked the time as he left the store, her photo smiled back at him and calmed him, as always.

Ring acquired, he boarded a bus that would take him back to the guesthouse and watched out the window as a rainbow formed on the green, misty mountains. He broke out in a sweat again, however, when he realized the ring was really only the start. How would he actually propose once he got home to Rose?

When he got back to the house, it was time for dinner. He tucked the ring safely away in his room and joined the hubbub downstairs. The team shared about their research and joked around like the family they had become over the last two months. This part of the day always made him feel better, no matter how much he missed Rose. He’d sincerely miss these people and these evenings together between their daytime work at the university and night shifts at the observatory. He almost volunteered to go back to the observatory tonight even though he had all of the data he needed. But something stopped him in the way his teammates observed him.

“Hey John,” Donna, one of his colleagues from London, piped up. “Could you make a run to the Kona airport tonight?”

“Sure,” John agreed between mouthfuls of rice. “Who’s coming in?”

“Just a special guest.” Donna hid a smile behind her fork and exchanged glances with Barry, the teammate who had gone into the city with John earlier in the day. John furrowed his brow, ready to question what the big deal was, and why they wouldn’t say, but Donna caught sight of the time and rushed him from the table, saying he’d better leave now if he was going to make it on time.

“But how will I—?”

“Go to baggage claim,” she reassured as she put the keys to one of the team’s shared rental cars in his hand. “They’ll know how to find you if you take this.” She opened the fridge and handed him a clear plastic box with a lei intricately laced with small purple and white and pink flowers. This was clearly something special and not just the cheap kind available at every store and street corner. He just blinked at Donna, but she tutted at him and told him to get going.

A bit disgruntled at the way his team was behaving, he muttered to himself as he programmed the GPS and rolled down the window.

The evening air was refreshing, however, and his confusion melted away as he daydreamed about different ways to propose. He could take her to a posh restaurant, he could plan a picnic in the country, he could take her stargazing, he could take her away somewhere romantic… but where? He went through destinations in his head… Italy? France? Was Paris too cliché?

The long drive to the airport went quicker than anticipated and he found his way to the baggage claim area. He wandered, holding the lei like a homing beacon. He felt utterly stupid. How would he know who this mysterious visitor was? It’s not like he had had a lot of contact with the outside scientific community, unless it was someone he knew back in London…

That’s when he saw her. Oh, it was someone from London alright. Someone he knew every inch of.

She let out a little high-pitched noise of happiness when she spotted him and ran into his arms. He stood there dumbfounded until she was almost to him, then, on impulse, he picked her up and spun her around at the last second. He set her back down on her feet and stared at her, but before he could ask what she was doing there, she pulled him in for a passionate snog. He lost himself in kissing her back until an airport security guard cleared her throat and raised an eyebrow at them as a silent warning to move along. He remembered the lei, now fallen to the ground. He draped it over head.

“Hello, Rose Tyler. Welcome to Hawaii.”

“Mmm,” she hummed happily. “Aloha, Doctor.”

“I’ve missed hearing you calling me that.”

“I’ve missed everythin’ about you.”

“That too.” He picked up the handle of her luggage and rolled it to the rental car with one hand while hold her hand with the other. He could tell she was exhausted from over 20 hours of travel, but his brain and heart hadn’t stopped short circuiting from her presence. She’s here! She’s really here! She’s here in Hawaii! She’s here in Hawaii with me!

On the drive back, she told him all about her secret plan and the nine days of waiting and working out the details with Donna and the cuteness of little American girl she’d met in the airport in LA. He told her again about his teammates and all the places he wanted to take her. She fought her drooping eyelids but made it back to the guesthouse without falling asleep. She woke up more, however, after meeting the team and having late-night dessert with them.

Donna cleared their cake plates just as John was about to volunteer to take Rose’s bag up to his room.

“Actually, Rose has one more surprise for you.” Donna winked at her partner in crime (that is, criminally romantic holiday planning).

Rose turned to John and took his hand in hers. “I, um, it’s ok if you don’t want to and want to stay with the team, but I kind of booked us a little bungalow not far from here, just on the other side of the beach. I wasn’t sure how much room you all had here… and we could come back for team dinners if you want…”

He saw her blush and how the rest of the scientists were listening in, waiting for his response.

“Rose.” He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. “That sounds lovely.”

“Yeah?” She looked up at him shyly through her lashes.

“Yes.”

“Go on and get your stuff, John,” Donna urged, shooing him from the room for the second time that night. “You’re going to love it, Rose. I went and checked it out, you know. And if Lee could get off work long enough to come here, we’d have had it booked already, let me tell you.”

“Thanks, Donna,” Rose laughed. She enjoyed Donna’s presence so much and was always grateful for her when John had to attend those dry, long, pompous university events and took Rose along. Eventually, Rose was all caught up on John’s teammates and informed of the best stories to tease John about from his time here. They made sure she knew the important inside jokes and welcomed her into their geeky family.

“Alright, ready to go, love?” John asked as he appeared with his luggage in hand. Rose said goodnight to the research team and thanked Donna once more. The two headed out the front door, promising to return the team’s rental car once they had one of their own.

Both of them were so exhausted by the time they got to the cozy little beach house Rose had rented that they hardly had time to take out their contact lenses, collapse into bed, and cuddle together before falling asleep. The next morning, John had intended for the two of them to wake up together and enjoy a lazy, slow reunion snog that he hoped would turn into a lazy, slow reunion shag, but of course, he woke at his usual time—far too early for Rose to be awake. He let her sleep through her jet lag and travel weariness, unable to bring himself to kiss her awake despite how much he wanted to. He watched her instead, still marveling that it wasn’t a dream that she had come all this way. The next best thing to an early morning shag, he figured, would be to show his love with breakfast. He left a note on his pillow next to her and took the car to the nearest ABC Store to see what he could find.

Rose awoke slowly, in a fog. She rolled over to John’s side of the bed, but her heart sank when she didn’t find him there. Had it all been a dream? What day was it again? How long until her trip? Her mind cleared and she realized there was something paper-like stuck to her cheek. She lifted up from his pillow to see a Post-It and his handwriting: “Gone to get breakfast. Be back soon. Love you, Your Doctor.” A warm rush of happiness shot through her. Two weeks with her love in paradise. Life couldn’t get more perfect than this.

She stretched and put on her glasses so she could take in the view. Donna had been right. This little beach house was utterly adorable. She parted the white sheer curtains to reveal a blindingly bright day and shimmering ocean down a steep hillside. Tall seaside grass dotted with black lava rocks turned to fine tan sand which turned into white and teal water, eventually stretching out into darker and darker blue. Kids with a kite were already running through the sand, and boats—increasing in size the farther away they were—sailed across the horizon.

Rose peeled herself away from the idyllic view to get ready for the day (she was particularly eager to shower and change into fresh clothes). She emerged clean and ready to explore the rest of the house right as she heard John get home with breakfast.

“Good morning, love,” she greeted as she entered the kitchen where he was standing with his hands full of grocery bags.

“You’re awake!” He beamed and traced his eyes over her pink tank top and denim shorts. She noticed him checking her out and cleared her throat.

“Looks like you’ve been busy.” She gestured to the bags in his hand as he blushed at having been caught ogling her. And he hasn’t even seen my new bikini yet. She tried to hide a smile as she the thought crossed her mind. He always made her feel sexy, even when she was fresh out of the shower and not wearing any makeup.

“Ah, yes.” He set down the bags on the kitchen counter and began unloading various pastries and fruit and boxes of tea and cereal. He handed her a hot cup of the famous local coffee and took a bottle of orange juice for himself out of a drink carrier. “I got a little carried away… We are going to be here two weeks, after all.”

“Good thinking,” she praised and took a muffin, the coffee, and a bowl of fresh-cut pineapple. He grabbed a donut, his bottle of orange juice, and a banana.

“Have you seen the view?” he asked as he led her to the dining area.

“Only out our bedroom window. ‘S incredible.” She noted he was passing the table and chairs indoors and reaching for a door she had yet to open.

“Then let me show you this!” He opened the door for her, juggling his breakfast in one hand, and revealed a breathtaking scene of a sunny balcony with a table and chairs for two overlooking the beach. A tall palm tree stretched overhead, providing just enough shade. “I explored a bit this morning before going out for breakfast.”

“You know what?” Rose mused, settling into her chair and observing their surroundings, then turning back to her boyfriend.

“What’s that?”

“I think this is going to be the best holiday we’ve ever taken.”

“Oh Rose Tyler, you have no idea.” He grinned at her. She took it to mean that he knew more about the island than she did and already knew she would love it, but he couldn’t stop thinking about that ring hidden in his luggage. He had worked out a plan while he was driving to get breakfast. Forget the overly predictable fancy dinner or kneeling down on one soggy knee in the sand or all the clichés. If he waited until later in the trip, or even this evening, he was not only afraid he would slip and give too strong of a hint, but that she would see it coming and he’d get flustered and ruin it somehow. Or he’d chicken out and disappoint her. So he had plans to get it over with early on in the afternoon so they would be able to enjoy the rest of these two weeks without having to make it to a reservation on time or a thousand other things that could go wrong if he waited until later.

“What do you think about seeing a waterfall?” he asked around mouthfuls of banana. “There’s one in particular I’d like to take you to not far from here.” He nodded to a brilliantly green mountain covered in greyish blue mist.

“Sure.” She took a sip of her coffee as she realized she hadn’t really thought through her plans for what they would do when she got here beyond a vague list of things she thought they’d both enjoy and where he had already mentioned wanting to take her. Back in London dreaming about this, she’d just been so eager to be with him, it hadn’t really mattered what exactly they’d be doing together on which days. “Is it a long hike?”

“Nah. Well, not too difficult, but it is pretty cool higher up in elevation so we might need jackets. And we can take water and snacks in my backpack.”

“Snacks?” she giggled. “We just ate breakfast!”

“You won’t be making fun later when you want some nibbles!” he teased. “Plus, what’s a hike without trail mix? Can’t have that.”

Of course, he needed the backpack for another reason, but he couldn’t tell Rose what he was planning on hiding in the inside pocket. He was careful to wait until she was busy in the bathroom pulling her hair back in a ponytail—when he was sure her attention was elsewhere—to shove the tiny box in the inside pocket, careful to zip it shut and cover the pocket with their jackets. He tossed in the water bottles and snacks he’d purchased at the store that morning. He even anticipated her reminder to pack the sunscreen so she wouldn’t have even one excuse to open the backpack herself. He guarded the bag carefully all day, trying to prevent her from needing to dig around in it without arousing suspicion from being overly weird about it.

The cool mist on the mountain kept them from getting too sweaty, and he was right that the hike was mild enough that they wouldn’t feel sore from it the next day. A few other couples passed them along the way, but John seemed content to stroll along, so Rose didn’t rush him, despite her excitement to see the waterfall. The wait was well worth it, however. They heard the rumble long before they approached the lookout point, but they were overcome with awe when they turned around a moss-covered corner to reveal the raging waters only feet away.

Rose pushed up her sunglasses to see it better and to avoid getting water droplets on them. She could hardly take her eyes off of the waterfall, but she noticed he was rummaging around in the backpack and was afraid he was going to miss the moment. “Oh John, look! The sun’s coming out from behind the clouds and it’s making a rainbow!”  

The rustling beside her stopped and she turned around to see if he was looking, expecting his arms to wrap around her from behind at any moment and not feeling them.

But when she glanced up, he wasn’t there. He was on one knee. Rainbow diamonds of mist floated around him as he smiled up at her nervously.

“Ohhh,” she exhaled shakily as she realized what was happening. A crowd of fellow hikers was gathering on the outskirts of the lookout point several feet away, just out of earshot with the roar of the waterfall drowning out his next words from being overheard.

“Rose Marion Tyler, you are everything to me.” He opened the ring box and she gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, probably since our first real date after being best mates for so long. Falling in love with you has been the greatest adventure of my life. You are the future I want, and I realized while we were apart to never take that for granted. What do you think about spending the rest of our lives together? Rose, will you be my wife?”

She nodded and wiped at her happy tears, causing their audience to clap and cheer. Their cheers increased as she pulled him up and snogged him thoroughly.

“Yes, yes. I love you,” she finally answered when she needed a breath. “Marry me.”

He nodded and kissed her again, but cut it off short when he remembered the crowd nearby.

“Oh, I suppose I should give you this.” He separated them and opened the ring box once more, this time sliding it on her finger. It was just snug enough that she wasn’t worried about it coming off but also wasn’t worried about it getting stuck or being too tight. “What do you think?”

“It’s… perfect,” she answered breathlessly. She admired it in wonder. “How did you know?”

“Saw your magazine, you’d marked the page.” He shrugged. “Lucky me, I have an eidetic memory, eh? Found it in a shop yesterday, as a matter of fact. Had no idea I’d need it so soon, of course. Thought I’d have weeks to work out the details, until I got home.”  

She laughed, positively radiating delight. “Our surprises worked out well together, didn’t they?”

“Oh yes.” By now, the other hikers had simply moved around them and were paying more attention to the waterfall than to the newly engaged couple, so he dared to kiss her again briefly. They parted and moved to the railing overlooking the waterfall. Several other hikers offered their congratulations and to take their photo, which of course, John and Rose said yes to. The happy couple took a few selfies too and hiked back down the mountain to text out their favorite photo to their family and friends to announce the good news.

“She said yes!” Donna crowed to the lab full of scientists. The team gathered around the photo on Donna’s mobile where Rose was looking at the camera, holding up her hand with a glimmering ring and a smile that outshone even the diamond. John was kissing her temple and holding her tight, eyes closed in bliss.

No one was surprised when they saw very little of John and Rose for the next several days. After all, they were lovers in paradise.

[festivalists]

In the mood for Transylvania

With the Romanian TIFF slowly but surely emerging as a must stop for every film professional, not just for the ones curious about local cinema, we are happy to offer you Patrick Holzapfel's notes on the contemplative week he spent in Transylvania. Just like last year, he shares his experience entering the cinephilia space-time continuum, only this time peeking far beyond the snows of Sieranevada.

It is odd to be writing again. I wonder how one can come back to a place one has been before, as the same or a different person, watching the same or different films. How often do we have to come to a place until the memories connected with it become real again? Festivals in general give the impression of being always changing, while they seem to be the same from year to year. Cluj-Napoca, it was again. The huge Transylvania International Film Festival which would once again prove that you do not need many cinemas to project films.

I have seen it, and like last year it greeted me with rain and sticky weather. Like with so many festivals, the trip is part of the experience. Especially when being able to do it by car. Why? Well, because you might win a spring screen wash for your car at a Romanian gas station (I asked “Why did I win?” and the answer “Because you tank!”), or you can witness a dog not only running on the street in front of cars but doing it in circles in a roundabout. Moreover, for the first time in my life I had to pass through a mudslide while a policeman was observing it and shrugging his shoulders. In my imagination, I was swept away from the mud. Then I arrived in Cluj-Napoca with my muddy car. I was very happy to own a spring screen wash. From my hotel room I could see the whole town. Traces of the sun behind the clouds.

Why do I write about these matters that do not seem to be related to cinema? It is because I think they are related to cinema. Traveling to a foreign country is always about comparing it to images one has of it. In terms of cinema, this means you can see who is a “documentary filmmaker” and who does not care about the real world. Documentary filmmakers, like Christian Petzold, Thomas Heise, or Angela Schanelec in Germany, give an image of a country that holds true when you travel there. There is something you know about a country without ever having been there. Something cinema knows. It is not facts but sensibilities, and it is memories becoming material. In the case of Romania, it seemed to me again, the absurdities are very well depicted by cinema, the beauty and poetry are not.

However, I know of someone who would have jumped right into the mudslide: Buster Keaton. I decided to open my personal festival with him as the war – a so-called cine-concert with Diallèle accompanying THE GENERAL (1926). The musical trio with its wreaking sounds focussed on the idea of movement in the film as opposed to the idea of gags. It is an approach that works particularly well with THE GENERAL, because the speed of the film is its oxygen. Oh, this cross-cutting splendor. The music was taking the side of the machines, not of Keaton. Due to that, the actor seemed even more out of place than he is anyway. It was a rather nice way to start the festival even if the digital copy seemed to be a Blu-Ray (maybe it was that was just the bad quality of projection in the Student's Culture House, but it certainly was not projected from film).

Some thoughts on silence. There was very little of it in the theatres here in Cluj-Napoca. It was a cell phone paradise. Nobody seemed to bother. Sounds and lights everywhere. Is it too much for a festival to ask people to shut down their mobiles during screenings?

Another silence gone – Šarūnas Bartas. His cinema tells the story of a frustration, the frustration with words. Whereas in his first works he stunningly avoided them, now he has become some sort of prophet of the non-speaking. It is a paradox, though, as his characters talk a lot about not-talking. But his latest film FROST (2017) is much more than that. It is a journey into questions about the inability of touching and the impossibility of truth. Nevertheless, what remains is the absence of silence. Yet, silence is resistance as it is shown in Jean-Pierre Melville’s beautiful and cruel THE SILENCE OF THE SEA / LE SILENCE DE LA MER (1949), part of the director's retrospective at the festival. In the first row a young lady was sitting with a laptop as a live-subtitling device. The light of that screen (why does she have to sit there?) were louder than the words of the film.

I had to face it: Cluj was loud and joyous again. It was not a cathedral of cinema, nothing holy here, just people enjoying cinema. In the festival trailer, a guy eats cabbage and afterwards an alien-like creature bursts out of his stomach.

So, in the morning I sat down in a park close to my hotel. There were some ducks here, an old lady was picking leaves from the trees, many lovers here, they did what lovers do. It was almost silent. I tried to think about what I had been seeing so far: a lot of noise, some silence.

Interlude. What it takes to show films in Cluj-Napoca, present them as a big event, and pay for hotel rooms for people like me:

Drink some Staropramen or Sâmburești wine, pay for it with your Mastercard, or get some money at Raiffeisen Bank. That is how your day should start. While you are at it, go to McDonald's, they even have a parking spot where you can put your Mercedes, baby. At McDonald's they show HBO, or TV5Monde should you prefer French. After eating a cheeseburger and having beautiful talks about the arts with representatives of the Ministry of Culture as well as some big shots from Creative Europe, you can fill in some gas at a MOL. It is easy, and you are also doing something for the culture, as they faithfully tell you in their commercial. Maybe some Nespresso for take-away. However, please be careful and wash your clothes only with Persil. I can not bare any other detergent.

And don’t forget to write to me. You can use DHL. You can also add the beautiful images you made with your Nikon. I could digitize them and watch them on my brand new BenQ LCD monitor. You could also send them digitally. Don’t you own a Samsung mobile phone that makes even better images? You could also call me with it. Internet should not be a problem with UPC. Neither is light with E.ON, neither is water supply with Water Coman SOMEŞ S.A. I guess you have everything you need? If there is anything you miss, you can also go to M@dd Electronics.

On Romanian TV they said “I love Cluj!” The ambassadors and other inspiring people from the world of institutes are also there. I could see them walk on television. Don’t hesitate to drink some Jameson Irish Whiskey with them. They are nice. Don’t drink too much. I heard AQUA Carpatica is better for your health. Maybe when you become friends with them you can also buy a Tenaris pipeline together. There was a James Bond film with Pierce Brosnan where they had lots of fun in such a pipeline. If you want to feel more beautiful, I recommend Avon, it is “the company for women.” Should anthing happen in the pipeline, or anywhere else, Aegon will be there for you.

Cinema, I’m lovin’ it.

The emptiness of the Ethnographic Museum in Cluj-Napoca reminded me of an absence. It is not an absence that is connected with something or someone in particular, but one of those absences one feels in the soul while looking at things. As I walked through a building that contained the peasant history of the region in instruments, clothes, and decor, everything seemed to be so touchable and so far away. In a brave and weak second, I could not resist – though it was forbidden, I put my finger on one of these dresses, feeling the colors under my fingertips, the material with my skin, yet, the history seemed gone. A peculiar sensation that even got stronger when I felt that looking at huge photographies of people actually wearing those clothes, or working with those instruments, spoke a lot more to me than the touch. Is this, I asked myself, the price you pay for watching too many movies, or just for living in this world? The images showed eyes of people looking into the camera, there was joy and poverty, struggle and beauty. They were stronger, in a way even more present than the objects. I could only understand the weight of these instruments, their function, and beauty while I was looking at the photographs. As if I was blind for the real thing. However, I was wondering, what is real about those instruments and clothes without people?

After a dream, I woke up to a screening of CALIFORNIA DREAMIN’ / NESFÂRŞIT (2007) by Cristian Nemescu, a film I had known already and loved. It was presented as a tragic and sad anniversary screening. Sad because director Nemescu died in a car crash while working on the post-production of this film. It tells the story of a meeting between a Romanian village and American soldiers passing through. It is at the same time a political statement, a light and romantic comedy, a coming-of-age film, a drama, a western, and an exploration about different forms of resistance. Due to rain and other issues, the screening started at midnight. So in the middle of the night, all the leaves were brown, and the sky was grey. It was uplifting and deeply touching at the same time. Again, I was wondering what spoke to me so much in this film. Is it finding oneself in those images, narratives? Is it really all about identification? I am not happy with it, I did not want to go to cinema to see myself on the screen.

As it is asked in the Golden Bear winner ON BODY AND SOUL / TESTRŐL ÉS LÉLEKRŐL (2017) by Ildikó Enyedi, what happens if two people see the same image, maybe look into the same mirror in a dream? Do they maybe become blind for the real thing, or do they only project themselves on the dreams of another person?

It was a day without structure. Cinema swallowed memories.

The Romanian Days had started. This line-up is the festival's flagship, because Romanian cinema keeps being exciting. I watched new films by Adrian Sitaru and Călin Peter Netzer, as well as many average to bad shorts. Sitaru’s latest offers a moral dilemma deeply concerned with the ethics of journalism and image-making. When you try to make people who suffered unjustly speak, and you know that the act of speaking makes them suffer, what do you do?

It reminded me of a note in one of my old notebooks: “Is filming stealing (time)?”

The issue of realism in Romanian cinema has been discussed on (too) many occasions. Yet, it catches the eye how certain ways of camera movement, color grading, or sound design are not connected to moral positions anymore. They are mere style. Due to that, every little change from what one seems to know comes like a surprise. There are not many surprises.

In the morning, the cleaning lady of my hotel took away my card, she came back and gave it to me. While arriving at my room late in the evening, the card did not work. I went to the desk, and they gave me another card, telling me the one I had was for a different room. I like the idea of a hotel where people have to find their room, because the cards / keys do not tell. I was sleeping in the wrong bed, maybe, like a baby that was given to another mother.

Flowers in the Japanese Gardens, some ducks searching for cover under a sunlit bridge, children screaming and scaring away the flowers. The flowers can not run. Yet they whisper to each other about hiding. Leaves falling to the ground, searching for a shadow. Someone let a tree die, here. It looks beautiful. The Botanical Garden in Cluj-Napoca is truly magnificent. I went there in order to hide, to look at water lilies reflecting suns.

Later I was going to see one of my favorite flowers in last year’s cinema – the one the protagonist is holding lovingly, moribundly close to his chest in Radu Jude’s SCARRED HEARTS / INIMI CICATRIZATE (2016). He is on his way to his love, he wants to give it to her. He bids farewell to the world and tries to live in it for the last breathe close to the sea. He is blooming but still dying. It is a film that exceeds wrinkles of suffering and instead gives an approach to death that consists of anger, desperation, and beauty. It is also concerned with the gap opening between what is said and seen, what is hidden and embraced by history and those writing it. Since I have seen it, I want to read Max Blecher’s writings. The film is based on his life and takes from his novels. I started reading his novel with a title that seems rather fittingly for my festival endeavors, Adventures in Immediate Irreality.

How an attempt concerned with history and its perception can be done rather clumsily showed CAMERA OBSCURA (2016), a documentary on cine-clubs during Ceaușescu that had above all a terrible soundtrack. It showed people telling redundantly their memories. In the end, it communicated its very clear message in titles – these cine-clubs are looked at as if they were pure propaganda instruments but they were much more and harm was done to their essential documentation of communist life in Romania during and after the Revolution. What is to be done with those films that only consist of what they talk about?

The flowers in the Botanical Garden had no messages. So before the screening of the not quite fantastic but decent A FANTASTIC WOMAN / UNA MUJER FANTÁSTICA (2017), I returned there. But all the flowers were in hiding. They were telling me, like Gustave Courbet, that we can only see what gets lit from the sun. I don't know... a festival can be such a sun, can't it? However, I am wondering, what if a sun chooses where to shine on?

There was more shadow than light on my last day in Cluj-Napoca. Nevertheless, I could see more than in the previous days.

Part of the bright shadows came from the long-buried Romanian classic THE ONE HUNDRED BILL / 100 DE LEI (1973) by Mircea Săucan. The film was shown in a newly restored copy that was so black and so white that Philippe Garrel, wherever he was, must have felt an itching in his left eye while watching it. Fittingly, it tells a rather dark story about two brothers, one a successful actor, the other – a drifter. They fall for the same girl but the film is, again, about more than that. It is about the unreality of dependency. The sound seems to be miles away from the image. People talk, yes, but the post-production voices are not meant to stick to the reality of the image. Instead they project themselves onto something which we know from being too late, a sensation close to an echo or something that resonates in a desire to be somewhere else. It is a bizarre and hypnotic film that must be watched again. It was followed by Radu Jude’s latest documentary THE DEAD NATION / ŢARA MOARTĂ (2017), which consists entirely of photographs and found-footage voice-over, telling or not telling about the history of anti-semitism in Romania during at the time of WWII. So, after all those flowers and doubts, cinema got me back when it started to open gaps between what we can and can’t see.

My week in Transylvania ends here. After a festival there is much to tell. It always struck me as funny to travel in order to sit through something that basically feels the same everywhere yet makes you travel again. It is like a double exposure of traveling. During a festival, we are at many places at the same time. One can keep the city or cinema at a distance. So, the sensation of memories intertwining with visits to places and films will always be distorted. It is highly dependent on the rhythm. TIFF has the rhythm of too much, too fast. Still, sometimes such an overdose allows for sudden freedom. It is like when Bresson wrote that the sound-film invented silence – a festival like this might remind us the true value of a single film and the time we spend with it. Curating at TIFF is looked at from the perspective of offering, bringing something, maybe everything. It is not about taste, morals, or values, it is about the market.

This is not necessarily a bad thing, though, because it might work and be understood like a convention for world cinema in Romania. Rarely have I visited a festival where so much is done to include the town and even its surroundings into the programming and the event as such. It feels like everything breathes TIFF, and the young audience shows that such an attitude can give the impression of cinema being alive. There is no possibility you have not heard of TIFF if you are local. Some beautiful encounters and impressions derive from such a presence.

However, the question remains if it is cinema that is alive or the event it is engraved in. Cluj-Napoca once again proved to be an island where such doubts feel out of place. It quite clearly tells people to have fun, to celebrate, not to repine. Considering developments in the Romanian industry bureaucracy, such a place is clearly needed and embraced by many. The festival is young, it wants to break with certain patterns, it is moving on where others hesitate. It looks bravely and sometimes blindly into the future. The beautiful thing about this is that it creates enthusiasm, the bad thing is that it does not ask you to look, it does not tell you anything about cinema as a festival. With this I mean there is no idea of how to look at films, how to project films, how to discuss films, or how to program films.

But don’t think too much. Take a # and dance me to the future of cinema.

If you are a film industry professional, you can watch films from Transylvania IFF on Festival Scope.

[konstantinwrites]

Treasures from the Roof of the Insurmountable, Part 1

Small Worlds XI (Wassily Kandinsky)

Hi friends! So, I ranked all 42 songs of the 2017 Eurovision Song Contest. It was as simple as comparing each song to every other and missing every social event for a month. I didn’t give /10 scores and didn’t add a bunch of space between songs to signify gaps in quality, like a cool blog would. However, many generous friends of mine reviewed these songs as well. For an alternative, reasonable point of view, theirs is here.

I understand that asking to listen to 42 three-minute songs on the Internet should be reserved for astonishing lovers, but I hope that you’ll give them a play. The reviews are based primarily on the studio versions, linked in the title, but for fun I more strongly recommend the embedded live performances. This turned into an epic nine-parter only by luck -- Tumblr wisely halts this kind of obsessiveness by setting a limit of five embedded videos per post. 

Anyway, I think you’ll like at least some songs. Not this next one, but some.

42: Spirit of the Night by Valentina Monetta and Jimmie Wilson (San Marino) (Returnee, Eurovision 2012, 2013, 2014)

I will make a conscious effort not to embalm you in Eurovision completely, but I have to bend here since Valentina Monetta breaks all unwritten rules anyway. This was her fourth Eurovision appearance, all for the Most Serene Republic of San Marino, in six years. San Marino houses less people than you saw this weekend, sure, but there are probably a few other musicians in the country that would like a boost to their career.

Maybe some of them were on stage for 2012’s timely “The Social Network Song” (titled “The Facebook Song”, pre-zucc), with which Valentina began her pillage of this contest. (If you have patience for exactly one hyperlink...)

 The lyrics incandesce:

Are you ready for a little chat?/And a song about the Internet It's a story ‘bout a social door/You’ve never seen before;

And the “Social Network” music video, all morning bedsheets and Safari browsing and wild leers into camera, is like the aftertaste of a burp from the dude who ran ARK Music Factory. 

Throughout the last eon, the early to mid 2010′s, peace still ruled. It was underpinned by dark respect for the creature, and fear, but effective and true peace it was. In Year 3, Monetta qualified to the grand final. Appearing in that show was supposed to be the prologue to another Sammarinese age of serenity. Yes, she breathed too hard and accidentally set the Finnish commentators on fire, then threshed her wings and flew out through the arena roof. Human Eurovision performers have gimmicks, too. It was our Monetta, we prayed to her benevolence, and she made other countries and micronational principalities respect us as well.

But we grew tired of living in fear ourselves. If our Monetta was truly done with this world, we would be happy to raise a new generation in peace. Families waited to resettle back to their birth land, planning carefully. At dawn, sometimes, you noted the unsavory magicks in the distance, still discharging in the air. The tribe elders knew that kids were their most important constituency: every evening, a few fun rhymes with the kids that made each of the elders look silly; every forgathering, the children could run off after roll call. Irreverence and joy, with which the children played games on the hills, was as crucial as the considered warnings that the adults were made to hear.

Come spring, at the agora, Elder Dendroch took his deepest breath of the year, all wheeze, as he screwed in the VGA cable to the projector, casting the San Marino 2015 Eurovision artist announcement onto the smooth side of the hill. During the countdown, even All-Naked Christoph went silent. This was to determine his capacity to continue to gyrate himself around the fire each morning without being clawed by Monetta and thrown into the nearest cactus. Her swift retributions of All-Naked Christoph was one of the few Acts that the tribe was grateful for; however, now they yearned for calm and agency. They were ready to pay the price -- and cover their eyes at breakfast.

What a cheer, then. It was, indeed, someone else for 2015. The slothful bards were worth their silver on this day, spooling blunt limericks on the spot, tribesfolk teary with laughter. The eyes of all, awash with joy and soapy bubbles, feasted on daydreams about this new era. Resettling back to town, with everything as it has been (apart from the bread, now a furry green pet), we gleefully watched Anita Simoncini rap -- for we could scream, “No!”. The year after that, Serhat proselytized us, trying to make what sounded like, “I am a dick tit” happen. We loved telling him that it’s not going to happen, and besides, he was the neighboring queen’s chief accountant and she was not letting him out on any more trips like that. Our power was back.

But, well... You saw the rest. You saw 2017. Not even Mostly-Naked Christoph thought that eurodance would rise again. Not even the gloomiest of the kids ever had in mind that Monetta was always in control, and that there is nothing that we can ever do but point our projector at the stars.

“Spirit of the Night” is a dance anthem structured around a conversation between two horny and dim-witted patrons of a San Marino club. “Hey, are you the one I dream about?/Baby, I am.” After successfully capturing his target’s interest with this awful line, the man proceeds to use amateur pick-up artistry to delve into the murky depths of her insecurity. “Every time I see you smile/There is sadness in your eyes.” 

Luckily for him, his quarry eats this obvious nonsense up. After connecting through dance, he seals the deal by revealing that he’s a hurt, insecure man who is in need of a woman to protect him. “Hey, are you the one to take my pain?/Just take my hand/I’ve been so hurt before, it’s hard to trust again.” Nonstop key changes and a reference to obscure weather phenomena attempt to mask the utter vacuity of “Spirit of the Night,” but nobody is fooled. 1/10.

Richard Hansen

41: Keep The Faith by Tamara Gachechiladze (Georgia)

Ten seconds in, this has all the potential in our supercluster. It becomes “Keep The Faith”, but that moody horn-driven bar can lead into a Jay-Z track, a Antony and the Johnsons symphony, or the title screen of “Swordfish”. But it becomes “Keep The Faith”, and it’s a little awkward; I live and work in Georgia, and super enjoy this country. 

However, this song is derivative garbage, devoid of any sensory pleasure. It has many siblings, songs of this type, all grey, parts-per-million pollutant specks. It’s a pure ballad and a very specific type of ballad, none of which have ever been enjoyable: pie-eyed on piano, throaty-vocaled, vowel-elongating, forcefully important, crudely pitch-raising, artless fat zeppelins of songs, avoiding melodiousness by purpose and not even by chance. 

I like the few seconds in the bridge where Tamara and the backup singers go, “Oh - ohhh - oh! - ohhh!”, and I like the final string cadences, the last two notes in the song. I wish they’d signaled the end to something not so comprehensively dopey.

Please also let me just add here that I adore “Mzeo” by Mari Mamadashvili, the Georgian winner of Junior Eurovision 2016. 

I’ve cried listening to it. I’ve showed her performance to many people. Don’t revoke my residence permit. Look at how much good stuff Billy wrote.

Having heard a plethora of Georgian music over the past year, I really didn’t have my hopes up going into this one. But I have to hand it to Tamriko, she may have actually pulled it off. The song’s video isn’t much to talk about, and I found the opening lyrics about hiding behind a veil and then panning to a woman in a hijab to be slightly off color, but the tune and subsequent lyrics are actually pretty cool. One might say the video had my sentiments shaken, but not stirred. That’s right, I referenced James Bond (Jamesi Bondi) and how could I not? The ominous violin, three-key piano repetition and horns - the song practically screams, “put us in the next movie!” and I happen to agree.

If we got rid of the whole weird hip-but-frowning aspect and replaced it with an unmistakable gun-toting secret agent silhouette, complete with tastefully nude female figurines, Georgia might actually have a hit on their hands. Don’t get me wrong, I am a big believer in letting music speak for itself and in many ways this song does, but at the end of the day it’s also a pop song and that music video HAS to be tight. Get this out to Eon Productions, Georgia; I’ll be disappointed if Ed Sheeran gets to do another title sequence.

As far as vocals go, Tamro fits the role pretty nicely - she can really belt it and it adds to the overall grandness of the song. As a matter of fact, grand is probably the word I would use to describe this. It’s the kind of song that makes you clench your fists and pump your arms dramatically and ceremoniously. Tamo’s powerful vocals and lyrics are engaging and entertaining; my only real worry is that with such a Bond-sounding song, people might have a difficult time seeing it as its own thing. Not to mention, if people dislike James Bond, they’re probably just going to see this as some hack interpretation of an Adele hit. While some might view it as lacking in theme originality, I see it as a distinguished work operating in a certain genre (a difficult one at that). I don’t think the sky will be falling on this song any time soon! Qochagh, Sakartvelo! 8/10.

Billy Moran

40: Gravity by Hovig (Cyprus)

The lifetime of this adult contemporary rockvomit is: released to the suffering masses, all 4th grade boys for three days repeat-blast “Gravity” on the family speakers, then torrent Battlefield and yelp and chaotically shake their faces to its menu music and forget about “Gravity” forever. No other integration of this song into a human life can be permitted.

This wailing, free trial-distortion-effects, tragically detached one-dimensional nonsense would take aback a NHL video highlights editor, and they’re immune to this stuff. “Gravity” is for a montage of, like, a corrupted toothpaste factory, where the toothpaste is evil. There is something a little demonic with the toothpaste. It’s been breached. There are lich in the toothpaste, hiding themselves and their sorcery, and they now terrorize users of toothpaste all over the world. Only those who still use tooth powder have not yet turned. With this paragraph, I have now released more beauty into this world than the Cypriot entry. I’m not proud of putting lich and toothpaste together. I know I’ll answer for this one day. Sometimes you have to drive a point home.

This is a solidly made pop ballad with a catchy chorus that I could see getting good radio play for about two weeks before being promptly forgotten. While somewhat catchy on first listen, it quickly loses its appeal and you realize there is nothing more there than another over-produced pop song that makes oatmeal look plain and generic. This song is the definition of standard, meaningless pop. It's begging for some sort of edge to it, some sprinkles to go with its vanilla. As is, I'd much rather listen to “Hook” by Blues Travelers.

Ryan Haskell

39: Dying to Try by Brendan Murray (Ireland)

I like Brendan’s voice. For 54 seconds, he makes a serviceable dyingtotry. I like that the first line of this Segway-speed ballad gets close to saying, “Take a leak of faith with me”. I like his tuneful delivery through the lightly layered first minute, and you could stroll to this and take sips of still water and feel correct.

Then the songwriters take out their game hunting rifles, trundle us into the basement and serve us a soup of impotent key change, never-ending chorus and string accompaniment, all of which we would spoon out of the dish in a less savage situation. You eat — you have to — belch, relax a bit, and then notice Brendan at the table, his meal long finished, as he mouths to you, “trying to die”.

As an American who grew up American, with American parents and American grandparents, I myself am American. That said, I definitely identify with the Irish a bit - they’re my ancestral roots and I root for the guys for sure. But I have to say, Brendan Murray, bud, you let me down. The song can be summed up in one word: boring. The kid looks to be about 15 and, sure, he has some pipes (little Irish pun there), but I have to believe these impressively high notes he’s hitting have more to do with his lack of pubic advancement and less with actual talent.

The music video takes us on the journey of love’s rocky road, complete with a daughter of Elrond and a poodle man that would make Dr. Moreau jealous. Perhaps I would have paid more attention to the lyrics if the featured couple were less visually jarring. I mean, the woman was fine… But the poodle man! That hair! There’s a million elf-y looking guys in Ireland to complement the girl, and they choose that guy!

My biggest complaint comes at the peak of the song’s rising action. Brian is walking through the grassy knolls of Ireland, as one does, and the viewer is treated to a beautiful melancholy landscape that just screams of Ireland. But instead of giving the listener something to complement the breathtaking view, we get a gospel choir harmony as Brian dives into his chorus. It was the perfect moment to incorporate cultural music - so poorly utilized by Israel - and Ireland missed it! If a lovely flute had accompanied Brian as the camera raced across the Irish shoreline back to our visually perplexing couple, I think I would have poured a shot of Jameson on the spot and shed a tear for all the struggling lovers in the emerald isle. Instead, the song loses its identity and all my invested interest is gone with it.

Brian, the wise fifteen-year-old he is, ever wary of love’s slings and arrows, tells us, “No one can promise that love will ever learn how to fly”, but I can promise Brian that his song won’t be flying to the top of any billboard charts. Maybe something a little more fun next year, huh Ireland? Sláinte! 4/10.

Billy Moran

38: My Turn by Martina Bárta (Czech Republic)

The indifferently mute student can be the most frustrating. Staring at the arithmetic poster for two minutes at a time, boring with their pen more and more millimeters of their desk hole, finding the right moments to sip a hidden can of Fanta with the vigilance of a mosquito pursuing a meal from a human absentmindedly playing the Chrome dinosaur game -- apathetic students cause little obvious trouble in class. However, asked to contribute to any task, their monastic silence and translucency can drop a teacher’s command of the classroom to the floor. Other students, especially ones wavering between “kind of paying attention” and the Frowning Face With Open Mouth emoji, sense the student’s apathy, think that the lessons are, indeed, for nothing, and mentally teleport themselves out of there as well.

Which brings me to “My Turn”. It would be out of date during Pangaea, but out of date is very often fine. The prime disappointment is that it has a harmonious, sentimental melody to throw around, as most ballads do, but concretely refuses to get out of the hotel elevator, or the Saturday morning wine tasting. There are many piano works like these; it shouldn’t be an excuse to bunt and be another, especially because it’s got a pleasant tune. I’ve listened to “My Turn” at least 30 times and can recall the main progression with roughly the same clarity as remembering why Fletcher Christian mutinied and vamoosed to Pitcairn Island, the Wikipedia summary of which I probably read once, or maybe someone told me. Before going home, Teacher Eurovision will leave an inspirational message for Martina on her desk. “You can be different!” The next morning it’ll only be used with a shout of, “Kobe!” and be another clump a few feet from the trash basket.

Czech Republic’s Eurovision results, 2007 (debut) to 2017:  28th in a 28-song semifinal; 18th in a 19-song semifinal; 18th in a 18-song semifinal; Not participating for five years (understandably); 13th in a 17-song semifinal; 9th in a 18-song semifinal, 25th in a 26-song final; 13th in a 18-song semifinal.

Czech selection committee: just put a donk on it. You’ll like the results.

Not only did Ms. Martina choose to submit a song written in English to the Annual Eurovision Ritual, helping the beast of globalization devour her culture and language, but she also submitted a song with lyrics so boring that they flee from my mind immediately after I’ve heard them, as if Gilderoy Lockhart himself has just charmed them directly out of my cerebellum. Lyrics: 2/10.

Luckily, the music video itself is far more interesting than the song itself. I’m at least 80% sure this video depicts what people experience while rolling on Ecstasy. Nude bodies of various age and shape, writhing in ways that are at once harmonious and cacophonous. Here an old white man finds peace in a warm-towel embrace of a large black man. There a bald man hangs his head in his ultimate shame only to be comforted by an equally bald woman. At one point the bacchanalian dancers just all freeze and turn their heads sharply to one side, staring at the audience with eyes that contain something between abject misery and ultimate pleasure. Disturbing! Music video: 7/10. I found this video hilarious. Personal enjoyment: 9/10.

Cody Phillips

[itsthecelia]

First week on the road . . .

Things started off intense, leaving my, what have become, friends/family of Colorado behind was difficult for me. Every questionable doubt rolling through my mind. Do I really want this? Should I actually do the shows? The Denver show, last Thursday, was all a daze. I was under so much pressure and stress to not only pack my life up, but leave it so quickly behind and somehow have to remain unemotional about the whole process. And what I was feeling inside, couldn’t totally be processed or expressed outwardly. It was all an exciting and emotional spiral. I play at The Mercury Cafe and all of a sudden my set is over. And thats when I realize it was beginning. I was leaving, to return, if at all, a completely new person. New incarnation. In the flesh. 

I am sitting here at a tea shop called “steep” in downtown Flagstaff sipping on a Lavender Mint latte with coconut milk trying to make sense of my life, this journey, and collect myself before I perform at Hops on Birch in a little while this evening. Reflecting upon the past week. How it slightly feels like its own lifetime, and overwhelmed by the extensity that is left, ahead of me. 

After Denver, I made my way up to Fort Collins where my two close friends from Denver followed me up to perform at the Open Mic event I was performing as a feature at. It was at a print shop called Wolverine. The event started an hour late but it all worked out just fine. There were three feature artists that night, Me, Anna Claire (collage artist), and Skye Mitchell (ancient photography/wet colloidal photography processing). There was a mix of things and the energy I felt was pretty reflective of the evening. 

The guy I had been talking to was fading, the foreshadowing was a bit hard. I just kept feeling the need to get out of that city. And I am planning to move there? I don’t know how I feel about it. I almost feel not good about it. But maybe I am just feeling the intensity of the journey I am about to take on and feeling upset about the games he was playing. People come into our lives for certain reasons, reasons unknown sometimes too. Every person teaches me something, something about life, something about myself. They shift me in ways maybe they don’t realize. Their ideas em-pregnant my mind and new thought babies are born. And once those new ways of perception exist, I just cannot go back to my old ways of thinking. I cannot interact with that person in the way I had before because I am no longer the person I was when I met them. They changed me. And when that happens, maybe the stay, maybe they go. I have no grounding and now I am about to float around the United States blowing in the breeze of life? Where am I going? Where will I end up? What will happen? What should I pursue? What should I let leave be?

The next day I have brunch with my friends in Fort Collins and hit the road to Colorado Springs to meet a recent friend Amy and possibly a friend Rence while in town. I drive to Colorado Springs, still feeling in a daze, still feeling somewhat home still. The weather was overcast and it mirrored the sadness I was feeling about leaving I think. I arrived in the evening and had a nice chat with Amy, her friend came over. His name was Zeus. Well, his nickname was at least. I left them to be and met up with Rence at a show at The Zodiac. Rence and I sat outside while the bands played and talked about touring and music and our journeys on the road. It was neat to talk with a seemingly kindred spirit about a life not many people know. We went in for the headliner act, who he knew, and we danced along to the vibrations of sound that penetrated our bodies, our spirits danced within us as well. I felt more human than I had in awhile. Just moving and flowing with life that was around me. It felt good. After the show we met at a local bar called Supernova which had a bunch of pinball machines, many flashing tv’s, different colored lights, and a bustling atmosphere. I could barely focus because of the over stimulation. This is where things started getting interesting. The music was loud but mostly good, until they changed the song to something less appealing. Rence and I headed outside to get fresh air and get away from the music. Rence has a distinct mustache and ironically I sat by another man with a very distinct mustache. Their facial hair drew a lot of attention. A drunk man came up to us and commented on their mustaches and my loveliness. We all bonded and this new stranger was now a part of our interaction. Another random human, who called himself Random Jay, came up behind us and started talking to us. He was asking me what I did, and I said I was a musician. He told me how he is a singer. I, slightly joking, asked him to sing for us.....and he did. He said, Do you know Bobby Darrin? I was like ummm yes, pretty surprised and excited about hearing an old name in the realm of music. He starts belting out a song by Bobby and gets into full character, even dancing. The world didn’t exist anymore for him, he was the song. It was hilariously beautiful. It was so human. He was so in it. 

I started to remember about life, the things that I had slowly forgotten over the year. To live. Live and be. Be in the moment. Allow the moment to be you. He was it. It was him. I saw life again and I felt just a little more alive then. I headed home full of life, crawled into Amy’s deliciously comfy bed (which she so graciously let me take for the night) and slept well. In the morning I was refreshed and her and I headed to Manitou Springs for the day. She likes spending time there and I like to get the inside scoop on people’s lives while I am staying with them if I can. I drank from the natural spring and felt healed. I was exploring, I was experiencing NEW things again. It felt good. Then we went to her favorite coffee shop called the loft and one of her good friends was there, Sean, and we talked with him awhile. Then we stumbled into some imports shop and I bought some fat incense lol. It was interesting to be experiencing Colorado Springs and such knowing Amy was moving back to Augusta in a week. It was like I got a snap shot of what her life had been for the year and then we were both seeing that chapter of her life off. I could relate because I had been doing that just a few days earlier in my home. Or what I was calling home at least.

Later I met up with Rence for Indian Buffet at this place called Nepal. It was so yummy and I felt like it was a good meal to have before I set off to Taos. After Indian food and good conversation (me ranting about Tesla mostly), I hit the road to New Mexico. The rain was starting and I was feeling more cleansed in a sense as I started my trek to Taos.

Heading to Taos felt so different than my past trips there though because I wouldn't be seeing Travis there and I wouldn’t be playing in a place I had been before. A lot of new experiences were awaiting me. At some point on the road, I saw someone stick their hand out the window to feel the wind. It was slightly raining still though. I remembered what beauty was, was life was about. To feel, to sense, to touch. I wasn't ready to open my window but I smiled at this beautiful moment I was experiencing. 

I make it to Taos and I pull into The Wereloft which is the home of the people I was staying with. It was in a bizarre location because it was kind of a warehouse and not a house, but they made it into a home. The front door was open when I arrived and music was blaring. The New Mexico wind was refreshing, familiar. I was home in a sense. I walked into the front door and yelled hello?! Marion ran down the stairs and welcomed me in and showed me my room. All the doors were open and the energy was open and flowing. I was glad to have arrived. 

The act of walking into a home is like walking into a portal of someone’s life. A different realm, a different reality. All of them and their stories exist there and I get to catch a glimpse into that. Exactly who they are and where they are in their life, but in a real, vulnerable, and raw way. His friend shows up after not long of me being there. We talk about sex, and travels, and random rotten iclandic shark meat. We are drinking New Mexico beer and freshly popped corn in the kitchen. Isa shows up a little later when we are all jamming, playing guitar, showing each other some of our songs. We take turns singing solo and playing together until we all get too tired to do it anymore.

The next day in Taos was rainy and chill. I get a lot of things done, booking, emails, posters, etc. I wrote a new song about how I was feeling about my life. It was a freeing feeling to be able to write something new, on the road. I don’t think I’ve ever written a new song on the road before. Never felt like I had the space. But they were working and I had the space to myself, and my being was ready. Later that night I head to the venue, Taos Mesa Brewing Tap Room which was downtown and set up. Marion, Isa, and their friends come to support me and my three hour gig. Some guys who were filming Ancient Aliens the next day in Taos came with them. (Fan girl squees). Good people, everyone who came. A random man named Joe was there at the bar and came up to me before the show welcoming me. I felt like I recognized him or met him before. It was bizarre. Later that night a man named Larry showed up. He looked a little crazy too but he was really nice. He told me he was from Roswell. He had to grey patches of flailing hair on each side of his head. He looked like some mad scientist or something. He helped me carry my speaker back to my car at the end of the night. Interesting characters I meet along the way. I was pretty tired after my gig but when I get back to The Wereloft, Marion and Isa are taking photos with a new camera they had gotten more recently. We all ended up talking about our pasts and Isa took our photos during the conversation.

I started to realize a lot about my past and my up bringing, who it had made me, who I wanted to be, knowing my fears of intimacy in a even more clear manner, but feeling less of a victim knowing I can do and be who ever I choose to be. But still not feeling ready to let loose energetically. It is conversations like this that I live for. Getting to know people and their journeys, their pasts, their challenges, their successes, philosophy on life, new ways of being, new ways of thinking. Reminding me who I am and reminding me who I want to be. Feeling more brave about being that and allowing myself to become that, but not totally ready either. 

The next morning I heard Marion singing in the shower and I think, why don’t we all sing in the shower more often? Shouldn't we feel so joyful in the morning that we want to sing. I was reminded what happy is in this moment. Realizing that I have drifted kind of far from the feeling but realizing I was headed closer to a joyous shore. I was inspired and feeling even more full of life. My mind is still not feeling used to this lifestyle though. But meeting these beautiful people has filled my heart to the brim. I was sad to leave and I think they were too, but the happy-sad sort of sadness. A light hearted sadness. I knew I’d see them again though. I leave them and head to a coffee shop for a little bit before I hit the road to Santa Fe. I stop by the coffee shop called The Apothecary which they had recommended to me. I wrote a little and texted a friend. It was really really storming now. Storms and rain are pretty rare in New Mexico so it was the talk of the town. But off I went, heading to Santa Fe to meet the next phase of humans.

On my drive to Santa Fe my good friend Zack calls me but service was shotty so the called dropped a few times. He asked me if I had made out with anyone yet. And not surprisingly I told him no. He updated me on his love life and I updated him on mine. It was nice to hear a familiar voice. I drove the remainder of the way in silence. I don’t think many thoughts were in my mind.

When I arrive in Santa Fe I go to a coffee shop called Iconik to get some coffee and send out a few emails and such. Then I text one of the hosts. They are ready for me to come over so I head to the place I’d be staying for the night. Raiannah was her name and she lived with Kyle. Kyle was at work at the moment I arrived. She told me about how she loved him but how their relationship was fading and how she was starting to detach from it. It was such a real and raw chapter of their life to walk into. It was something I could slightly relate to even. And I was glad I could be an ear for her at that time because transitions like that are tough. I played her some of my songs and she played me one or two of hers. She had recently bought this really nice travel sized Martin about a week earlier. She let me play it. Then we went to dinner at a place she liked to eat and roamed around the city noticing little things. There was art out on the lawn of a church and we commentated of its silliness mostly. We wondered down a few streets and I started to get a feel for the city. We ran into a friend she knew who was a musician. He was playing at a bar down the street so we headed there. Low and behold, they play swing dance music. My soul light up. And some guys with swing dancing shoes showed up. They asked me if I danced and I explained that I enjoy it but I am a beginner. They didn't seem to mind and they both had a few dances with me. I was becoming life again. I was moving with life and being, fully being. I was all smiles. I thought about Thom and how I missed swing dancing at License No. 1 in Boulder but I was also very thankful to stumble upon this evening in Santa Fe dancing with random strangers and coming slowly back to life again. We left after awhile but I was full. I was so happy to be alive and to be in Santa Fe. 

We get home right when Kyle got home and we all three spent the night in the kitchen sharing beers and playing music together and for each other. We would stop here and there and talk about life, death, meaning, and what ever else came to mind. My mind was twirling and buzzing. It was dancing about. To be having such meaningful conversations with these human beings about the realist shit was all I wanted to be doing in that moment. I also was in awe of their home because it was such a unique architecture. To get to the room I was sleeping in (on the top floor) you had to climb up a hole. It was so neat. I slept on the floor but it was aligning and refreshing. Although my dreams tossed and turned me, I felt refreshed in the morning at least. 

We all shared a wonderful breakfast that Kyle cooked for us (breakfast Burritos) and drank delicious coffee together until I was off to Albuquerque. They told me they were going to drive to Albuquerque that night to see my show. That was super cool. It is amazing how quickly I am making friends and supporters on this trip. We talked a bit about giving birth, death, and our life purpose for awhile and then I hit the road yet again, leaving them around 1 pm. The sky was grey but I think it was only sprinkling. What would Albuquerque bring?