#there is still a whole box of like a hundred mugs in my parents basement from when i unceremoniously abandoned the whole prospect

[mildmayfoxe]

this is so exciting the last time i did a giveaway was when i had my *tsy in college when i was drawing shit on CERAMIC MUGS and making LEGO JEWELRY (another lifetime) and the giveaway reward was a commissioned mug and i never ever made it for the winner. sorry to that person. but i'm not 20 and going through a bad breakup and trying to graduate college OR making shit on demand anymore. this time it's fun and i'm way better at running my business

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - Evolution of Pines

Ford attempts to give Mabel a science lesson.

~~~~~~~~~~

Takes place between Stanchurian Candidate and The Last Mabelcorn…

“BOB! BOB! BOB! BOB!”

Ford paused pouring his coffee when he heard the odd chanting coming from the living room, but then he heard the sounds of the television and he smiled to himself, guessing the kids were watching some program they enjoyed. Deciding he could take a tiny break from going over his old journals, he wandered towards the living room with the hot mug of coffee in his six-fingered hand.

He smiled at the doorway, seeing a young pair of twins share the big armchair, Dipper grinning and shaking his fists excitedly while Mabel knitted a new sweater with her eyes glued to the TV.

“Bob Dry the Science Guy!” The theme song and the kids finished, and the episode began.

“I’m going to take a wild guess and assume you kids are watching Bob Dry the Science Guy?” Ford asked, leaning against the armchair, greeted by an energetic man in a lab-coat.

“Yup!” Dipper answered. “It’s really good! He teaches about magnets, volcanoes, global warming, bugs, all sorts of things! You knew you were gonna have a good day at school when the teachers pulled out the old TV and the theme song plays.”

“He’s so funny!” Mabel laughed as Bob printed a picture of his parents to explain something and it exploded. “My favorite episode is when he talked about the desert and got chased by a camel.”

Ford watched the TV for a second as Bob Dry explained to his audience that when things copy, they slightly change, explaining evolution. He could definitely understand why both children would love the show, but his interest peaked and his smile crashed down when he heard his niece say, “Eh, I don’t buy it.”

Ford turned his head sharply, like a hunting owl, and managed to make a smile through his shock. “Wh-What do you mean, you don’t buy it?”

Dipper snorted and smirked, “Yeah, Mabel doesn’t believe in evolution.”

Ford swore he could hear glass break. “You… You don’t believe in evolution?”

“Not really.” Mabel said with a shrug, still watching the TV just as invested as she was a few moments ago. “I mean… monkeys, Darwin, it’s a nice story, I just think it’s a little too easy.”

“T-T-T-T-Too easy.” Ford repeated, swallowing hard and standing up. “Too easy? Wait, so, the process of every living thing evolving over millions of years from single-celled organisms is too easy?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Once the shock wore off, Ford was actually quite amused. To him, this was simply a child misunderstanding the knowledge offered to them, like teaching a child that 2+2=4, not 22. He chuckled warming and moved around the chair to be next to Mabel and got on one knee to be closer to her level. “Mabel, evolution is scientific fact. It’s just as real as the air we breathe or gravity or…”

“Oh, don’t even get me started on gravity.”

Ford stared at Mabel, confused and startled and maybe even a bit amazed. “Y-You don’t believe in gravity?”

“Oh, I believe in it, I just… I dunno,” Mabel paused her knitting to better explain her idea to her stranger of an uncle. “Lately I’ve just been feeling pushed down instead of pulled down.”

Ford snorted a laugh, caught it in his throat, coughed into his fist, and took in and out a deep breath. “You know, Mabel, there are times I wish my mind was like what yours is right now, so clean, a blank slate, an empty sponge so ready to soak up new knowledge. It’s truly a wonderful time.”

Mabel gave a timid smile back as he walked away, but something about what he said rubbed the young girl a wrong way. Needless to say, she was too distracted about what he had said to pay much attention to Bob Dry.

~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, Mabel petted Waddles in bed robotically, still thinking. Dipper came into the room in his shorts and t-shirt and turned off the main light, leaving only his lantern on, and she decided to ask her brother something.

“Hey Dipper, do you think I’m stupid?”

Dipper turned and stared at her. “What? No, of course not. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met! No one can think of as many colors and games and escape plans as you can.” He stood next to her bed and asked, “Why? What’s up?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Mabel bit her lip, hesitant to tell Dipper how she felt. But this was the first time since Ford came home that Dipper had paid her this much attention, so maybe she should seize her opportunity why she could. “When Great-Uncle Ford said those things it made me feel… stupid.”

Dipper had to take a second to remember what Mabel was talking about. “Oh.” And he sat next to her, legs dangling off the edge, to listen to her.

“Y’know, clean, blank slate, empty… I think… I think he thinks I’m dumb, and if the Author of the Journals thinks that…”

“Hey, hey,” Dipper put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “I’m sure he doesn’t think that. He loves us, we’re great. And even if he does think you’re not very smart, he’s wrong. You’re brilliant! You’re super creative and always thinking outside the box. Who cares if you think a little differently or if you don’t believe in something others do and vise versa. I mean, you believe in gnomes and not a lot of people do.”

Mabel snorted at Dipper’s slightly pathetic try at a joke, but she was still grateful. “Thanks, Dip-Dip.”

“Don’t start unbelieving what you believe in, sis.” Dipper advised, making Mabel laugh, and they both accidentally started singing a cheesy song that always got people hyped.

~~~~~~~~~~

At breakfast, Mabel and Dipper were eating Stancakes with the chef cooking up one more batch for himself. They were joined by Ford, who held a rolled-up poster in his hands, and he grinned at the sight of the only female in the room. “There you are Mabel, I wanted to talk to you.”

Mabel perked up and smiled. “Really?”

“Yes,” He unrolled the poster on the table and her smile dropped when it was about evolution. “I wanted to show you the proof that we scientists have collected over the years that evolution exists…”

“Oh boy what did you do to unleash the beast?” Stan groaned.

“Ford found out Mabel doesn’t believe in evolution.” Dipper answered.

“This should be fun.”

“... so you see, they found these fossils all over the world, stretching back as far as four-hundred million years ago.” Ford explained as this poster showed the fossils and what they looked like in life.

“Uh, wow.” Mabel said, holding her chin in thought. “You can actually see it.”

“Yes! See, you can.” Ford said proudly, glad he could help his niece.

“Now,” Mabel looked away, giving this serious thought. “Who puts those fossils there, and why?”

Dipper snorted into his milk and Stan bit his lip when they saw the look on Ford’s face. “Mabel sweetie, I love you so much.” Stan said as he sat down to have some breakfast.

“M-M-Mabel, Mabel, listen to me.” Ford chuckled nervously as he put a hand on her shoulder. “What about… What about thumbs?” He held up his own and further asked, “We human beings have opposable thumbs, now how did we get those without evolution?”

“Oh!” Mabel gasped and removed her hand from her chin to slam a fist down at the table. “Maybe the overlords needed them to steer their spacecrafts!”

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “While they do, evolution…”

“Great-Uncle Ford, can I ask you something?” Mabel said sweetly, with eyes filled with wonder and sparkles.

Ford grinned. “Yes, of course, my dear. Anything you want.”

“Okay, so, wasn’t there a time when the smartest guys in the world thought the Earth was flat?”

“Uh… y-yes…”

“And, up until sixty years ago, everybody thought the atom was the smallest thing ever, until some dudes split it open and this whole bunch of other stuff came out?”

“Um… y-y-yes, I suppose…”

“Okay, so, one last question, Great-Uncle Ford,” Mabel said. “Is there the teeny tiny-est possibility that you and every other scientist could be wrong about evolution?”

Ford was absolutely dumbfounded. He looked at Dipper and Stan for some sort of assistance or reassurance, but they only peered at him, interested in what Ford had to say now. The aged scientist cleared his throat; his niece’s logic certainly added up, and with all of that said, he felt that he was obligated to swallow his pride and croak out slowly, “There is a teeny… tiny… possibility… that I could be wrong, yes.”

Mabel blinked and put her hands over her heart in shock. Ford was ready to apologize if he had accidentally made her feel that he was so strict and by-the-book that he wouldn’t have enough humility to admit he could be wrong, but his jaw dropped when she said, “I can’t believe you caved.”

“Wh-What?”

“You just abandoned your whole belief system…”

“N-N…”

“... I mean, I didn’t agree with you, gut at least I respected you.”

“B-B-But…”

“Oh my gosh, how are you gonna go to another science convention?”

“I…”

“How will you ever set foot in another museum or planetarium again?” Mabel gasped sadly. “How are you going to face the other science guys? H-How are you going to face yourself?” And she puckered her lips innocently at her uncle, feeling sorry for him.

Ford had absolutely no clue what the heck just happened or how to respond. Feeling numb and needing a moment to digest, he slowly rolled up the poster, but rather than carry it in his hand, he cradled it like it was his own first born son, and hurried back down to the basement with as much dignity as he could muster.

“That was fun.” Mabel said casually as she popped another bite of Stancake into her mouth.

[werezmastarbucks]

Whitmore Guy - the ghost

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Kai Parker x fem!Reader slowburn

whatever gifs I’m going to use on this one, I hope the creators are okay with that

word count: 2044

warnings: none

“Have you seen the new IT guy yet?”

“The uh- what?” Ric was trying to consume a chocolate bar without taking his eyes or hands off the paper he was grading. Y/N sighed patiently – or, rather, to gain some patience. Every time she felt like yelling at Saltzman she took a deep breath and travelled down the memory lane back to the times when he was just a history teacher at school. Back when they were all teens with awkwardly round faces and acne, trying really hard to impress each other, and survive ‘animal attacks’ that just started happening in the town. She recalled thinking the new teacher was actually a vampire. The sheer stupidity of her, while Stefan Salvatore was literally sitting next to her.

Back then, Ric was still youthful, energetic, even handsome, as some girls claimed. Y/N always perceived him as a parent figure, the uncle you may bump into in a bar you go to with your mates to pretend you’re old enough. To think that this grumpy, scruffy grandpa thirty-hundred years old used to be that energetic, bopping teacher they could all trust…

“I’m saying, have-you-met-Mal-yet?”

“Huh?” Ric looked up to her, and his hand inserted the bar into his mouth quickly, so that he could start chewing.

“Are you doing okay, mister Saltzman?”

Y/N called him that when she was trying to be ironic.

“We got a new IT guy? Where the hell is he? I’ve been struggling with this thing for ages”, Alaric pointed at his laptop, safely shut, after it had vomited a siren-like crackling earlier that morning. God only knows what kind of websites Ric has been visiting.

“He’s been in for like, couple of days”.

“Yeah, that’s when the password changed, I saw that”, Saltzman frowned, “that note on the first floor, on the notice board, said that there was a treasure map or crap like this. The whole place has been running on mobile since Monday. Is he toying with us? Who hired him?”

“It’s ‘revenant94’.

“What?”

“The password”.

Y/N settled her coffee mug on the desk and stretched her back, checking the room for people simultaneously. They were alone in the teacher’s space; Y/N liked sneaking in here for lunch breaks or when she just felt overwhelmed, to socialize, bizarrely.

“Anyway, I’ve met him the other day. And he’s weird”.

There it is. The magical spot to hit, to light that hunting spark in Alaric Saltzman’s light green eyes. He has always been an adventurer first and everything else second. Vampire hunting was just a necessary measure in the dire conditions given to him at the point of his life.

“Bad-weird?”

“Weird-weird”, she still wasn’t sure they were completely safe chatting about this in here. She got up and closed the door gently. Then Y/N started pacing lazily between the unevenly placed desks, standing checkers to chess, in a mysterious pattern.

“He looks too good, and he acts too friendly. He is…” she tried to find the word, it was on the tip of her tongue, and yet, it escaped.

“Weird”.

“Your notoriously inaccurate gut feeling once placed an innocent man among monsters”, Ric reminded her.

She recalled that. That one time she was completely sure her neighbor Bruce killed her father, for reasons she wouldn’t be able to awaken anymore. In reality, they still didn’t know who did it, but it wasn’t Bruce as the man was away from the town the night it happened.

“Don ‘t you allow that maybe you think he’s weird because he’s cute? Sometimes you say weird when you mean adorable. Or angry. Or upset. You just generally like labeling people freaks”.

“Okay, you’re not taking it seriously”.

Ric threw himself back in the chair and sighed noisily. He studied the ceiling for some time.

“In our life, Y/N, we have every right to be paranoid about good things. After everything that’s happened every nice thing comes across as a warning. That’s a normal reaction. But if you think he’s off, I’ll check on him, sure. I mean, I will meet him inevitably, right?”

They looked at each other. Y/N shrugged.

 ______________________________________________________________

Ric wasn’t able to get ahold of Mal for the whole of next week, in fact, and it was strange how for the first seven days of Mal’s working Y/N was the only person who’s been talking to him. The guy even complained once that he felt like a ghost, which sparkled the whole new package of fiery theories in her. Then, the next day, she saw Mal chat with the English major student. In a rather flirtatious way, mind you; but it at least proved he was real.

Alaric was left a little puzzled after Mal had fixed his barely breathing laptop; but mostly annoyed.

‘How fast is this guy talking? Does he ever breathe or something?’

To her question, whether he was able to place Mal among any species of supernatural creatures, Saltzman replied something along the lines of yeah, a sickeningly energetic young man with ego, which in his language usually meant abnormal, but not alarming. Y/N was more than sure that Ric gave up on life and just tried to get away from the IT guy as far as possible. What happened to the previous one anyway? Some people said he’d left. Others claimed he just disappeared after Friday’s party at the Craze, a new bar opened almost on the border with Mystic Falls. Nobody really cared. Mal managed to charm just about everybody – that is, when people finally started seeing him – except a few very exhausted individuals who refused to enjoy life.

The feeling Y/N was getting about Mal was inexplicable, good, too good, in fact. She was torn between enthusiastic and careful; one feels that way when a person calls you in the middle of the night and tells you that you have won a billion dollars. How come you don’t remember buying the lottery ticket?

The fact that he had a girlfriend wasn’t all that important – Y/N craved companionship, not romance; her friends were enough but they were all carrying weight of, well, ten years of fighting this damn town. Mal didn’t have all that. He blasted music in the basement where he had built himself a mancave using old boxes and discarded cupboards from the science floors. He always smiled. He was smart. He didn’t take any shit from anybody. And for some uneven reason, he treated Y/N like she was his partner in crime. Maybe that was the most suspicious thing. Y/N always wanted an older brother, and all male figures she chose to act in that character, pushed back.

 _____________________________________________________________

Damon weighed the glass in his hand lazily.

“Caroline’s been livid with you about the dance party?”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her knee. Ever since Caroline graduated, she’s been delegating her tasks to Y/N, who apparently had nothing better to do than organize two celebrations every month. No wonder she completely forgot about the selection of music for that one party that was supposed to happen at the end of the month, vaguely described as a nostalgia flick. Many times Y/N got ready to say, hey, Caroline. I have my own shit to do. If you want these events, come back to the college, get a job and do it yourself. I have tons of crying young adults every day whimpering over their dead dogs and burnt deadlines, and frankly, I deserve four holidays a year.

But she never said it, somehow.

“I am turning into a pusharound”, she realized, as she stood up, walking to the Damon’s sacred alcohol table. She took a glass which burst in a welcoming ringing, and poured herself a little of smelly golden liquid.

“I thought you liked organizing things. Whatever happened to ‘I’ll make them all dance to Stevie Nicks until their butts fall off?”

“It faded, Damon, it went down into my shit storm of a work. I am drained. I’ve been feeling completely lost for the last six months”.

The vampire’s sharp eyebrows made a gracious swing. Every time Damon did his trademark face of an Italian statue Y/N couldn’t help but remember the years when she’d been helplessly in love with him. She and her knee-length socks, and lots of jewellery, and bravery of a suicidal teenager, she thought that was enough to win his love. The disappointment was bitter.

“Why’s that?”

“Eh”, she brushed it off, relaxing deep in the sofa, outstretching her feet, “autumn was nasty, you know that kind of seasonal decline, and then, no snow in winter, and bang, it’s cold spring, and you gotta not eat again because nervous… and it felt like it’s been two days since Matt died, but when I look at the clock, it’s already mid May, and I can’t believe it. I feel like I haven’t processed his death properly, and it’s tugging on me. But I don’t really know what to do at this point. Everybody’s moved on”.

Damon drowned his face into his glass with that preoccupied look he wore when he couldn’t cope with what he started. Sometimes, he could only listen. That was the least he could do for the girl. Listen to her babbling away, and remember that it could have been much worse, she could have been much further away from him.

“Thank God I have my buddy now and I even almost figured out what to do with this shit faced party. No more parties after this one… I’ll tell her I won’t organize stuff people don’t appreciate, I mean…”

“What buddy?” Damon intervened passively.

Y/N jumped up, balancing the glass in her hand, and decided it would be best to down it until she poured it all on Damon’s couch, and he tore all her hair out. She gulped whiskey in two breaths, trying to clench her teeth so that she doesn’t puke it all back. As soon as the drink flows down and reaches whatever cells there are, it will soothe her, and clear her head. She sat on her legs, piercing Damon with a concerned look.

“There’s this new IT guy at Whitmore. He’s too cool to be true, and everybody loves him, except for Ric, and I’m sure you’ll absolutely hate him, too”.

“Why’s that?”

“He’s very chatty and charming, like a complete psychopath. He’s got dead eyes but he’s incredibly funny, and we listen to the same music. He’s always up for anything. He’s too…”

The look on Salvatore’s face said he understood exactly the type of person this guy was. Damon met many a folk like that; take Kol, that idiotic creature that was draining life of every party of people. Or early version of Jeremy, depressed yet too loud, craving attention. Or even Forbes herself; now she’s a friend, but back in the times, she was unbearable. Damon still had vague nightmares in which Caroline was trying to get him to go on a picnic in her usual commanding squeaky voice.

“So, steer his energy in doing this dance for you. And go easy on yourself, little one”.

When Damon called her that, Y/N felt like she was sixteen again, laying at the den of a tiger, if tigers dug caves or, like, very complicated dungeons, with skulls of their enemies scattered and the suggestive fires blazing along the walls. She shivered internally, asking herself, how she had managed to finally escape Damon’s glamor. She remembered being completely heartbroken, and then suddenly, she wasn’t. Good for her.

“Yeah, I’ll get him to help me. But I would be stoked if you could examine him. Ric couldn’t take him, the guy’s too colorful. I have a weird feeling about him”.

“What kind?”

She was tired of shrugging with confusion.

“Just do it. You’ll see. There’s something wrong about him”.

“Do you always hang out with people you deem suspicious?” Damon sounded painfully familiar. Ric and him, they became almost like a married couple over the years. Same old narrative, sung in slightly different tempos.

“Okay”, he gave up. “I’ll come to your nostalgia flick dance thing, and I’ll take a look at him. Will that make you happy?”

She looked at the alcohol sanctuary again.

[theessaflett]

To All The Ghosts I’ve Loved Before: A Farewell Letter to 53a

Written by Elisabeth Flett 

Elisabeth perches on the bed mid-move, March 2019.

How do you say goodbye to something that can’t say goodbye back?

That was the question I found myself asking as stood in the middle of my boxed-up flat, my beloved home for the last four years.

To understand the magnitude of this impossible farewell we need to go back to June 2015, when a unhappy, stressed-out 19 year old first stepped inside 53a. Like so many other second year university students these days I was emerging battered and shaken from a disastrous flat-share, my fresher’s week hopes and dreams of a rosy uni experience from the year before long since gone. I was out of my depth, winging it and wearing my best jacket and quite a lot of make-up in the hope that the estate agent wouldn’t realise that I was still a teenager. Nightmarish images of the truly uninhabitable hovels I’d viewed the previous year with my soon-to-be new flatmates had played in my mind on the bus journey there, as had all the warnings from concerned friends that moving into a flat on my own would be a terrible idea. What would happen if I was burgled? What about if I became horribly ill and needed someone to look after me? As I stood there in the empty flat, the estate agent hovering impatiently next to me, I could see that at least the worry of this place being a hovel wasn’t going to be an issue. Okay sure, there were some cracks and peeling paint here and there, but compared to the underground basement off Brick Lane I remembered viewing in 2014 (no windows, mouldy sofa and nuclear bomb-site worthy toilet…the most worrying part was that I genuinely considered it as a possibility because we were so desperate) it was practically a paradise. The shower was in the main room. The toilet was in a tiny cupboard so small that you couldn’t really shut the door if you sat down on the loo.

It wasn’t much. But it would be mine, and mine alone.

“I’d like to put a deposit on the flat,” I said, trying to feel like an adult but only succeeding in feeling like a child pretending to be a grown-up. A truly terrifying amount of money passed hands, and that was it. I was moving into my first ever studio flat. Sure, it was on the same street as two strip clubs and next to a kebab shop, a nightclub and a taxi delivery service, but what could go wrong? Single living, here I came.

It seemed like a great idea until the first night on my own. Lying there terrified, I listened to every creak, every grumble from the traffic, and was convinced that a hundred axe-wielding murderers lay in wait outside my front door. What was that noise from the landing outside? Should I call the police? My parents, wearily supportive, took my hysterical whispered 1am phone call with good grace but suggested that since this was going to be my living situation for the foreseeable future I should find some way to cope with these entirely irrational fears of horror movie break-ins. Thankfully, it didn’t end up being a big problem; one night of not being hacked to pieces was all it took for me to settle down to the idea that I probably wasn’t going to be horribly murdered in my sleep. It was just as well, as not long afterwards I had my first real nighttime “Situation”…

Picture the scene. You’re nineteen. You’ve recently moved into a flat, on your own, into a part of London you don’t know. For all the above reasons, you’re a bit on edge anyway. And then, at 2am, you’re woken by an almighty crash. I’m talking loud. You lie there, wide awake, hoping that it was part of your dream. And then you hear it. The ominous hhhhssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

Worried now, you get up, turn a light on, blearily searching for the hissing noise whilst still mostly asleep. You grew up in a house with a gas cooker so in your sleep-ridden state you first check the electric hobs for any suspicious smells, then when that unsurprisingly doesn’t give you any clues you check the boiler in the hallway. It’s not that either. At a loss, you then step into the tiny toilet cupboard, noticing the floor is wet. Something has broken in the toilet, maybe? You idly notice a can of air freshener on top of the toilet cistern, move it out of the way. And then, very dramatically, the bookshelf on the wall - the one your father built himself but didn’t screw in quite enough, the one that had fallen directly down onto the air freshener can and by some mad, wild law of physics was balancing on its nozzle head, causing the air freshener to spray all over the bathroom, the one that now with no air freshener can beneath it continued its downwards trajectory - came crashing down onto my head, with all its contents along with it. Dazed, I lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, surrounded by broken bits of bookcase and battered paperbacks, and mused that this was definitely not on the list of things people had warned me about.

Some of the challenges I had to cope with were a little more expected, if entirely unwelcome.

I have, embarrassingly enough for someone who grew up in the countryside, a very real phobia of rodents, and discovering that I had a few mice for visitors in the winter of 2015 was enough to send me in a state of terror that I found very embarrassing but could do nothing to ease. My Top Two Least Dignified Mice Moments over the years were probably when A) a mouse ran across my floor and I screamed hysterically into the phone to a friend who had to then talk me down from the chair I’d jumped on when spotting the offending rodent, and was still stuck on despite the mouse having run off half an hour previously. B) was a little more traumatising; finding a dead mouse next to my kitchen bin and finding out that I couldn’t “pick it up and put it in the bin” as my Grandma impatiently suggested when I phoned her…because my knees actually gave out when I tried to pick it up and I just fell over whilst hyperventilating. Another London friend of mine very kindly rushed over and came to my aid. I was so grateful I even forgave her when she waved it towards me going,” Look, it’s all stiff!”

Various challenges came up over the years: the time that water came through the light fittings and dripped from doorways because a water tank on the roof had burst; the time that water came through the kitchen ceiling; the time that the toilet upstairs leaked into my Toilet Cupboard…three times in four weeks, but who’s counting; the time that my shower, fridge, washing machine and tap all broke in the space of a month; the time that the creepy guy next door tried to persuade me to take him in as a roommate despite there only being one bed in my flat; the time that the floor started to move; the very scary time a group of drugged up guys were hanging out outside the front door and wouldn’t let me in; the time I was stuck in bed with flu for three days and, as warned by those friends when I first moved in, I indeed had to crawl to the sink myself rather croak out a request for water to someone else. The front door was regularly graffitied. The electricity meter could only be topped up by a easily losable key card. The stairs creaked, and got steadily more creaky over the years, the front door lock broke more times than I can count and the street fights stopped being exotic entertainment and starting just being annoying within the first few months. I hadn’t quite anticipated the sheer level of noise the combination of shops and venues on my street would bring, and the long summer nights full of boomboxes blaring at 3am, screamed arguments about who sold who the wrong type of crack and people vomiting onto the pavement outside the apartment were not my favourite times at 53a. By 2016 I was in a relationship and my girlfriend at the time was not at all as keen as I was about seeing the whole thing as an exciting observation on modern society. “I think someone’s being stabbed,” she would darkly mutter to me as we lay in bed trying to sleep despite the traffic noise blaring outside. “There’s not enough screaming,” I would mutter back with a yawn. “That’s just your average fight. Go back to sleep.”  “I would if there wasn’t about fifty cars beeping outside your window. Oh, and now there’s a street cleaning lorry too. I can’t wait for you to move.”

In the end it was our relationship that moved on before I moved out of the flat, but having a second opinion on 53a did cast a few small doubts in my mind about the place. Was the traffic a little too unreasonable? Were the nighttime brawls a little too regular? Despite these musings I continued to love my little hide-away, my safe haven from the world.

How to describe 53a? 53a was:

chipped green paint

neon light

creak of floorboards

lamplight casting soft shadows at 1am

Radio 2 Jazz programmes and the smell of incense

overground train rumble

afternoon sunlight streaming through dusty windows

mug balanced on bed, laptop open

candle flickering,  polaroids on kitchen tiles

evenings full of laughter, mornings full of sleep

first hellos

last goodbyes.

This flat was always so much more to me than just a place to live. It was where I rebuilt myself, where I found the bits and pieces of my soul that had got lost, trampled and hidden along the way during the previous years and painfully, painfully, dragged them back to me until I was whole once more. It was the backdrop for my first love, and my first heartbreak. It saw dinner parties, welcome parties, leaving parties, parties where no-one showed up and parties where everyone showed up and brought a bottle of rum with them for good measure. It was where I practised for my final exams, where I decided what to wear for my first day at work, where I celebrated one year out of university, then two. This place has heard many words, some hard, some soft, and many ghosts live inside these walls.

It was the ghosts, in the end, who helped me decide to leave.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a difficult thing, leaving. Not for everyone, of course - there are some people out there who find change exciting, crucial to how they live their life. I am not one of them. Or rather; I feel like people who say that they like change just don’t notice enough about the world around them.

It’s almost impossible to “like change” if you begin to take note of every single little thing that is rudely adjusted around you, without the slightest warning or heads-up.

What do you think of when you think of an example of “change”? Chances are it’s something big.

Moving to a different job, maybe. Getting married. Or something a little smaller, like getting a new haircut. This is what I’ll call the “top tier” of change, and it’s the only tier that a lot of people notice as they go about their lives. There are, however, other levels below that “top tier”. Things that, if you’re me, clump together to make life just a little more hard to cope with, just a little bit more stressful.

For instance:

If the old bus stop pole that I’m used to seeing every morning has been replaced by a new, less dented bus stop pole, the seat I usually take has someone else sitting in it, the train comes at 8:57 rather than 8:55, the chair I like in the cafe I always go to has been moved to another table, there’s a different person from normal on the check-out and they’ve changed an ingredient in the drink I always get, I find out that the podcast I listen to on Tuesdays has started releasing new episodes on Wednesdays instead and then I get an email informing me that an upcoming rehearsal I was expecting to happen in one venue has been moved to a different venue that I’ve never been to before… That, for me, is a very stressful morning. Now, take that level of what I’m going to call Change Stress and apply it to something as enormous as moving house, especially from somewhere that has as much meaning for me as 53a. It took the front door breaking again, the thought of yet another summer listening to dubstep outside my window at 3am and a really stellar flat showing to convince me that it was time, but here I was. Moving for the first time in four years. And boy, it was hard work.

My moving house priorities would have seemed very odd to people helping me organise and pack my belongings. (…If they hadn’t been my aforementioned long-suffering parents, that is.) When there’s such a big uncontrollable change looming over someone as change-phobic as I am, I tend to bury into tiny details and get very annoyingly intense about them being just right.  “No, the tea lights go in the left hand corner of this box! We need to unpack everything again now. No no we can’t pack the radio there, it’s the third item that I’m going to put on my desk, next to the pen pot and opposite that picture frame!!!”  A total slide into insanity and Change Stress are hard to differentiate.

“I was walking around my East Village neighbourhood…you know…you live so much life in these very small blocks, and these routes that you take every day…You grow so much, you know, when you think about who you’ve been in this tiny amount of space… you’re living with the ghosts of yourself.”

The singer St Vincent might have been talking about her time in NYC East Village when she spoke these words in an GQ interview about her song New York, but they resonated with me as I watched the YouTube video in early 2019 sitting on my bed in London. It occurred to me that I was also surrounded by ghosts; both ghosts of myself and ghosts of people I had met, been friends with, fallen out of friendship with or had simply drifted away as folk tend to do at the end of university. The streets surrounding my flat were filled with memories, both good and bad, and 53a itself was groaning with the weight of so much life lived under one roof. 2015 was a long time ago, I realised. Everyone else in the polaroids on my wall from parties now long over seemed to have moved on. I should move on too. To have new experiences, to make new memories, and, in time, to make new ghosts.

Now, as the spring sunlight of March streamed through the windows of 53a, I looked around at the boxes and crates and felt a sense of profound loss mixed in with the fatigue and stress of moving and the excitement of what was to come. There was one more thing that I needed to do.

I laid a hand on the wall, breathed in the smell of wood, paint and dust. “Thank you,” I whispered.

It may have just be my imagination but I’m sure, just for a second, that I felt a slight energy through my fingertips, an acknowledgement of my farewell.

Maybe 53a could say goodbye, after all.