#this close to becoming a mr sarcastic fan page

[littlegreekhero]

I don't think we cherish Mr. Sarcastic enough as a society.

[skieswords]

Pull Through Part 1

Warnings for this book: Mentions of depression, alcohol and drugs, abuse and self-harming behaviours. Please do not read if any of these things will affect you, I have plenty of other stories on my page that are free from potential triggers❤️

Summary: Alex’s little sister Becca, is Sunset Curve’s number 1 fan. After her 16th birthday, her relationship with the lead guitarist becomes questionable, and she’s left trying to decide between following her heart, and respecting her brother’s wishes. Starts in November 1994.

Friday afternoons were always dull. Everyone's eyes were glued to the clock on the wall, heads slumped in hands, with the back row asleep save for one person. The only person paying any attention to the lesson was Gina in the front row, her comically large glasses falling down her nose as she scribbled notes from the board furiously. Becca tapped her foot absentmindedly, drumming her fingers on the desk as she stared out of the window. Her thoughts were on the essay she'd been issued last period, that she had no idea where to even start with. Was it on Shakespeare? Or the flaws in capitalism? Oh wait- that was what Mr Malcolm had told her would get her suspended again. She was jerked out of her thoughts by the scraping of chairs on the floor, and rustling papers as the class packed up and made their way out of the door. She sighed and pushed back in her seat, slinging her bag over her shoulder and trying her hardest to slink out of the room. 'Don't see me, don't see me, don't see me.' She crossed her fingers and prayed silently, ducking behind a group of girls, but her attempt to leave unnoticed failed miserably. "Rebecca, hold on a moment please." Becca cringed at her full name and turned to face her math teacher, false grin planted, eyes wide and innocent. "I wanted to talk to you about your math homework- or more accurately, the absence of it?" With an internal groan and a brief eye roll, Becca tried to formulate an excuse in her head, but failed. "Can I give it to you on monday morning?" Mrs Jacob, the math teacher, sighed, but nodded, a grim expression on her face as she turned back to her desk, waving Becca away. Breathing out in relief, she legged it out of the classroom. The corridor was basically empty now, with only a handful of stragglers hanging around, either for detention, or waiting for extra credit opportunities.

"Hey stranger, you coming?" Reggie appeared in front of her, guitar case slung over his shoulder, and hands in his jean pockets. Becca grinned at him, and searched her pocket for her locker key. "Two secs, got to grab my stuff." Reggie followed her to her locker and laughed as she opened it, revealing at least half a foot of paper sitting in a heap at the bottom. Becca shrugged and reached in, pulling out her skateboard. "Homework?" She scowled at him, shoving some paper into her backpack carelessly, and zipping it shut. "Alex told me to ask." Becca groaned and reached in to the warzone once more, pulling out her math textbook, before slamming her locker shut and stalking down the hall, Reggie following closely behind. "Who's driving today?" She turned to face him as they walked down the front steps of the school, face falling at his expression. "No, I'll get the bus." Reggie grabbed her arm as she tried to walk away, dragging her back to his side and shrugging. " He's not that bad. He needs practice, his test is next week." Becca groaned loudly, but continued down the sidewalk to where her brother's beaten up 1993 mustang sat, one headlight cracked, and scratches covering the doors. Alex had been given the car for his 16th birthday, and Becca suspected she would get something similar for hers. Although god knows she'd take better care of it than Alex did- his could easily pass as being 10 years old, not 2. "Hey trouble." His voice came from the driver's seat, and Becca bent down to lean on the window frame, her face blank. "Crash and I'll kill you." Luke grinned up at her, that ridiculous smirk that hadn't changed since elementary school, and she reached through to pull his beanie off his head. His smirk turned into a scowl, and Becca laughed at him, walking around to the rear of the car. The trunk was already sitting open, the boys guitars and school bags dumped among the empty water bottles and crisp packets. Becca dropped her own belongings in and slammed the trunk shut, taking her seat in the back beside Reggie. Alex turned to face her, pushing his fringe off his face. "How was math?" Becca shrugged and pulled one knee up to her chest, looking out of the window. "Bex. Math?" She rolled her eyes at him and groaned, throwing her head back against the seat. "It was fine. I've got homework." Alex nodded and reached into the footwell, tossing a can of juice at her. "I'll help you with it tomorrow?" Becca smiled and cracked open her can, taking a gulp and kicking the back of Luke's seat. He turned and glared at her, grabbing her shoe and tugging her forward, causing juice to splash up onto her face. They launched into a game of tug of war with Becca's leg, until Reggie leaned forward, and interrupted, pulling Luke's hand off Becca. "Is Bobby coming over tonight?" Luke shrugged and and turned back to the wheel, the car shuddering to life a moment later. Becca put on her seat belt and crossed her arms. "Hold on boys. This could get messy." She caught Luke's eye in the mirror and winked at him as he gave her the finger, before resting her head back on the seat, and tapping her fingers to the rhythm in her head, on the windowpane. He noticed, and smirked to himself, reaching over to turn up the volume on the radio.

When they pulled up to Luke's house, Becca noticed his knuckles turn white, as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. Opening the door and pulling his seat forward to let Becca out, he walked toward the rear end of the car and opened the trunk, frowning slightly. "Hey Alex? Could you uh, take my guitar to Reggie's tonight?" Alex sighed and nodded, taking Luke's place in the driver seat. Becca walked past Luke, who slammed the trunk shut a little too hard, making her jump. "Sorry Bex. See you tonight?" Becca smiled, waving over her shoulder at him. He smirked and bit his bottom lip, nodding his head before turning on his heel, and heading into the house. Alex started driving back to their house, tapping his fingers to the beat of the song on the radio. Becca started humming along, and he cranked it up a bit, whistling the tune through his teeth as they drove through their neighbourhood. Alex and Becca's dad was a lawyer, and their mom was a doctor, so they lived in a very nice area. They constantly made jokes about how their incredibly academic parents, a lawyer and a doctor, produced two delinquents. The gay drummer of a rock band, and a skater daughter, who flunked all but two of her classes. It was clear they were still hoping for clones of themselves, through their ridiculous insistance that they be called Rebecca and Alexander, names that both siblings despised greatly. This, and the constant pressure about college. They'd given up on Alex, because he'd already been contacted by a number of schools, wanting him for their music program, and he'd made it very clear that was what he was going to do. However, Graham, their dad, was currently on Becca's back because she was failing math, reminding her daily that she'd never make it to medical school with her current grades. "Ready?" Alex turned the engine off and got out of the car, walking around to the trunk. Becca followed him, picking up her school bag, and reaching out for her skateboard. She'd just grabbed the edge when the front door opened, and Graham appeared. Alex smacked her hand, making her drop it, and pushed the trunk shut quickly, stepping away from the car. He placed a hand on Becca's shoulder and gave her a push, sending her inside. "Rebecca, good day?" Becca nodded, and ran past her dad, head down. Alex watched her go and resisted the urge to punch the eldest member of the Mercer family, before locking the car and following her in. He heard her bedroom door slam shut upstairs, and sighed internally. "Hey sweetheart, how was school?" Alex walked into the kitchen and dropped his keys on the work top, running a hand through his hair. "It was good, mom. It still okay if I take Bex over to Reggie's tonight?" Julia smiled softly and walked over to Alex, reaching up to stroke the hair off his face. He towered over her tiny frame, 6 foot of blonde hair, sarcastic comments, and brightly coloured t-shirts. "Rebecca should study. You can go, but she's behind in school." Alex rolled his eyes subtly and nodded. "She won't study if I leave her. If I take her with me she can sit with Reggie's mom?" Julia considered this, and glanced around with a worried expression. "I have a shift tonight, and your father's gone out for a bit. Leave now, and as long as your both back by 10, you can take her. Make sure she works." Alex smirked, and grabbed his keys, before kissing her swiftly on the cheek and running up the stairs.

Becca's room was a soft grey, with one orange wall that had a large desk leaning against it, littered with sheets of paper. A black acoustic guitar, with a light coating of dust, sat in the corner, a red electric on a stand beside it. Another empty stand sat nearby. A Sunset Curve flyer hung above her bed frame, pride of place. Her built in closet hung open, clothes spilling out over the floor, and more hanging on the chair of her desk. Paper was scattered across her bed, Becca sitting up in the middle of it all, chewing her pencil. Her light brown hair sat in a bun at the nape of her neck, tendrils falling around her face. A knock on the door made her look up, and a pair of bright blue eyes met her own, as Alex stepped through the doorframe. "Leaving for Reggie's in 5, you ready?" Becca grinned,  jumping up and grabbing one of Alex's old hoodies from her closet. Slipping her feet into her converse, she looked up at her big brother, an innocent smile on her face. "Can you drop me off at the skate park?" Alex snorted and pointed to her school bag. "Not a chance. Grab that, I told mom you'd study." Becca rolled her eyes, but swung her backpack over her shoulder, throwing some of the paper from her bed into it. "Oh shit." Alex turned back to her with his eyebrows raised. Becca was pulling her glasses off her face, tucking the large black frames into her pocket. "Sorry. Now we can go." They headed out the door and down the stairs, Becca jumping on Alex's back when they reached the bottom. "Why don't you wear your glasses out? No-one minds them." Becca shrugged and rested her head on Alex's shoulder, only jumping down when they reached the car. "I dunno. They make me look dorky. Bobby's going tonight isn't he?" Alex nodded and turned the keys, the car giving a few shudders until it jumped to life with a roar. Becca groaned and threw her head against the head rest. "But he always flirts with me! It's so gross." With a surprised laugh and slight smirk, Alex started the well-known route to Reggie's. "He's been warned, but he tries to sleep with anything that moves." Becca raised her eyebrows silently, but snorted, and Alex realised what he said, his face flushing red with embarrassment and fear. "Uhhhh I mean, flirt. Yup. Totally didn't just make a sex joke to my baby sister." Becca laughed and punched his arm gently, kicking her feet up on the dash. "I'm not a baby- I'm sixteen in 4 days. And I'm only like a year younger than you." Alex rolled his eyes. "Maybe you need more help with math than we thought." �� Becca looked at him questioningly, as he turned left, away from Reggie's. "Got to check Luke's not still at home. His folks won't have taken him." Nodding, Becca started chewing her lip and looked out the window. Luke was the youngest of the band, only turning 17 a few months ago, and was the only one who couldn't drive yet. The sun was setting, the November chill drifting through the cracks in the car. When they reached Luke's house, the front porch light was on, and they could see into the living room. The Pattersons were all there, Luke's arms outstretched. They couldn't quite see his face, but by the looks of things, they were arguing again. Alex honked once, and Luke glanced out the window. He seemed to shout one last thing, before running out of the room appearing at the front door moments later, that ridiculous grey jacket thrown over his arm. As he stalked towards the car, Becca noticed his tearstreaked face, and felt something wrench in her chest. She clambered into the back seat without argument, pulling her bag with her. "Hey man, you alright?" Luke sniffed and rolled his eyes, nodding at Becca in the rearview. "Hey Bex." She didn't say anything, smiling weakly and watching his reflection in the wing mirror. He rubbed his eyes fiercely with his fists, and started to bite the little nails he did have, his eyes wraught with pain and anger. Becca wanted to say something, but didn't know what would make him feel better. "Hey guys, can we get ice cream?" She leaned through the gap and rested her elbows on the seats. Luke turned to look at her, his green eyes rimmed with red. They made brief eye contact, and she gave him a soft smile, tilting her head slightly towards him. "We have to get to Reggie's though..." Becca looked at Alex with puppy dog eyes, and Luke leant forward to join her, sticking out his bottom lip. "You two will be the death of me. Fine, but we're getting for everyone." Becca and Luke's fists connected, and Becca felt a shiver go down her spine as a deep chuckle erupted from Luke's throat. She sat back, and watched out of the window as Alex drove further and further away from Reggie's.

"We brought ice-cream!" Alex came barging through the door of Reggie's garage, where Bobby was in the corner tuning his guitar, and Reggie was sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table. "Hey man, running late?" Luke came through after Alex, dumping his guitar case on top of the piano and starting to unpack it. Reggie sat up and leant towards the ice cream bag, picking a tub out. "I thought Bex was coming?" Alex turned round and looked about him in confusion, rolling his eyes with a smile when she came through the doors dramatically. "She is and she did. Reg is your mom in? Or should I chill in the loft?" Becca came strolling towards the boys, empty handed, school bag abandoned in the car. "Mom's in, you can choose." Bobby put down his guitar, ran his hands through his hair, and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Hey gorgeous." Alex stepped in front of him, pushing him back gently. "Hey. She's still underage, still my sister, and still totally off limits." Becca laughed and walked over to the piano, leaving Bobby to groan at Alex's insistance that Becca would never date. "Hey, can I take this?" Luke looked down to her, and the pile of paper in her hand. "Uh sure, what's it for?" Becca shrugged and disappeared up the ladder, leaving Luke watching her with a raised eyebrow. But he didn't have long to ponder what she was doing, as Reggie started tuning his bass, and Bobby sat back on the couch, still pouting after Alex's telling off. Becca took her seat in the loft, settling into a beanbag with her stash of paper. The loft was small, but she hung out here most nights of the week, so she'd made it comfy. One wall had a few shelves on it, with her favourite books and a few blankets stacked on them. A large stack of Sunset Curve CD cases were piled up in the corner, t-shirt designs crammed in a box next to them. And in another corner, tucked behind her beanbag, was her guitar. Becca unclipped the case and slipped the strap over her head, strumming quietly. The boys made enough noise that they wouldn't be able to hear her in the loft, but she was careful anyways. It was a secret, that she played. Alex knew the black Martin was a gift from someone, so just presumed his little sister was too polite to give it back, or sell it. The electric was Luke's, left there years ago, and never retrieved. She adored the beaten up Fender Reggie's mom had given her when she was 12, and didn't have any plans to exchange it. It was covered in stickers, and she'd re-strung it so many times the tuning pegs were worn. There was an entire corner dedicated to vans stickers, collected from the 4 billion pairs Luke seemed to own. Becca and her guitar had been through everything together. She'd fought with her dad just after Alex's birthday last year, and after ignoring her for a week, she'd found a gorgeous black Martin resting on her bed. It remained untouched, as she felt like it would be an insult to Reggie if she accepted it. Besides, her old one was perfectly broken in, and felt familiar and heavy in her hand. She noticed the floor of the loft was vibrating beneath her, Luke's chords biting through the air forcefully. He was clearly upset. Becca sighed, slipped her glasses on, and picked up the sheets of paper in front of her, scribbling furiously.

And you use your pain 'Cause it makes you you Though I wish I could hold you through it

She picked through a couple of chords gently, frowning when she couldn't quite work it out. It must've been hours, because the boys had stopped playing. Tucking her guitar back into it's hiding place, Becca reached for a notebook sitting on the shelf, and pulled it into her lap, rewriting the words next to some verses she'd come up with in the past.  "Hey Bex, Alex wants to go, you ready?" Becca jumped at the sound of Luke's voice, scrambling to hide the sheets of paper sitting in her lap. She must have lost track of time, or reality, because the garage was silent, and Luke's watch said it was 9.30. "Uh, yeh, two seconds." She stuffed it into her hoodie pocket, and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Nice glasses." Becca's eyes widened, and she pulled the offending articles off her face, stuffing them in her pocket alongside her music . Luke came all the way up the ladder, and crouched opposite her, looking over the various sheets of paper. An orange notebook lay open on the floor, and he picked it up, scanning the page. "Damn, Bex, you write?" Becca jumped up and grabbed the book, dropping it onto the beanbag and sitting back down. "No. I just get bored listening to your guys stuff, it's poems and stuff for school." Luke appeared to be holding back a laugh, and was looking at her in utter disbelief. He knew she was lying through her teeth, but decided not to say anything, choosing to sit cross legged and continue flicking through the assortment of pages laying on the floor. Becca watched anxiously, and started putting stuff away, making sure her notebook was tucked away safely on the shelf where he couldn't see. "Some of these poems are really good. You should try putting them to music." Becca snorted and snatched the sheets out of his hand. "Fat chance, I don't sing, and I don't play." Luke appeared skeptical, but he stayed silent, frowning slightly as he started to pile up the loose paper. "Anyway, as I was saying, your brother wants to go. And I'm staying with you guys tonight." Becca nodded, and climbed to her feet, brushing down her jeans. Luke started climbing down the ladder, smirking up at her. She rolled her eyes, and followed him down, hugging Reggie before walking out to the car behind all the guys. Bobby took the front, leaving Luke and Becca in the backseat together. It wasn't late, but she felt her eyelids drooping as the car purred along the darkened streets, and with the boys all totally silent, it didn't take long for her to drop off to sleep. Luke glanced down at her head on his shoulder and smiled softly. His jacket was sitting in his lap, and he gently swung it over her, before turning his head to face out the window, watching the houses in Bobby's neighbourhood flit by. When they reached his house, he turned to say goodnight to Luke and Becca, frowning when he found them both asleep, Luke's head now resting on top of Becca's. Alex turned round, and rolled his eyes, giving Bobby a light shove to get him out of the car. "Sorry dude, I gotta have her home by 10." Bobby sighed, but fist bumped Alex and got out. "Thanks for the lift bro, catch you later." Alex waved at him and drove off, heading over three neighbourhoods to his place. The driveway was dark, and he let out a disappointed sigh as he realised his dad was still out. Oh well, at least they could go in undisturbed. Luke apparently was awake, sitting up gently so as to not disturb Becca. "Wake her if you want, she'll fall straight back asleep when she gets upstairs. "Nah I feel bad. Want me to carry her up?" Alex raised his eyebrows but shrugged, pulling his chair forward to let them out. Luke slipped one arm under Becca's knees, and pulled her head into his chest gently, letting it fall onto him as he climbed out of the car. His jacket still draped over her, he carried her through the door, slipping his shoes off at the bottom of the stairs. "Where's her room again?" Alex locked the front door and came up the stairs behind them, his fluorescent pink socks padding quietly on the cream carpet. "Opposite mine, up the stairs." Luke nodded and turned left on the landing, knocking her door open with his knee. "Liar." He scoffed when he saw the silhouettes of the guitars in the corner, and set her down on the bed gently, pulling a blanket over her. Curiousity got the better of him, and with a glance at her sleeping form, he couldn't help but move to the desk in the corner, picking up a couple of the loose sheets sitting there. Pages and pages of writing stared back at him, clearly the work of an extremely talented writer. He peered over his shoulder at her, smiling when he caught sight of the moon lighting up her face. "Hey man, you coming?" Alex appeared at the door, jeans swapped for a pair of sweats and a sunset curve t-shirt. Luke nodded, and grabbed his jacket off the end of Becca's bed before pulling her bedroom door closed gently, and walking past Alex to his room. Alex came into his little sister's bedroom, and pulled off her shoes gently, closing her curtains so she wouldn't be woken up too early. If dad was out, chances are he wouldn't be back til tomorrow evening. She deserved some extra rest. Becca listened as the door clicked shut, and smiled to herself. The weak scent of Luke's cheap ass cologne, and something that was unarguably boy, remained on her shirt, and she breathed it in, closing her eyes, and drifting back off to sleep.

[teawithshruti]

How did I keep myself sane amidst a pandemic - My thoughts on books, anime, and restaurants.

Yet another review of The Shining

A plot so well written you would want to go in room 217

Hi there! This blog comes to you from a bored 19 year old who has a knack for reading crime thrillers, watching murder documentaries, and loves watching MasterChef just to see Gordon Ramsay. LOL. And did I mention that she also happens to be a Stephen King fan, because who isn’t? So here is where I try and convince you that The Shining  is the best book ever written and how Stanley Kubrick completely butchered the screenplay, as well as why pasta is life.

Welcome to the Rockies!

The story takes place in the town of Boulder, Colorado, where our main protagonist Jack Torrance gets a job as a caretaker of the famous Overlook Hotel. Winters in Boulder are harsh, and the hotel remains closed as travel is not permitted with all the heavy snowfall. Now Jack is a recovering alcoholic with anger issues which led to him breaking his son’s arm prior to where the story begins. This made Wendy, his wife, question her marriage and the safety of their five year old son,  Danny. Danny on the other hand isn’t your average five year old who just watches cartoons and plays with toys. He is aglow with a psychic voltage, and has frequent blackouts. In the words of old Mr Hallorann, the hotel’s head chef, Danny’s a shiner. When the Torrances meet Mr Hallorann, he feels an instant connection with Danny. He warns Jack about the hotel and its sinister secrets and how the previous caretaker, Delbert Grady, killed himself and his family. But Jack is sure that this huge and lonely hotel with its splendid views is just what he needs in order to earn back his family’s trust. But going to a haunted hotel with a troubled marriage and a psychic son? Maybe not the best idea. But in his defense, Jack doesn't believe in ghosts. Little does he know that’s about to change.

Snowbound at The Overlook

The Torrance's begin settling in the Overlook. But as winter closes in and the blizzards cut them off from the outer world, the hotel seems to develop a life of its own. Meanwhile, Jack starts growing restless, craving for a friendly drink with each passing day. He also starts experiencing hallucinations, and wonders if they are withdrawal symptoms. Danny on the other hand is experiencing his own share of ghostly sightings, like the terrifying lady in the bathtub of room 217 who seems to have never checked out of the hotel. In one instance, he witnesses her climbing out of the clawfoot tub and advancing towards him with her bloated belly and dry hair as he stands frozen in fear in a blood covered presidential suite. This narrative by King with all its details is the truly the most spine tingling I’ve ever read.  Later when Danny’s parents find him in the room, a thumb in his mouth, that is when Wendy truly realizes that they are not alone in that strange big hotel. Jack goes and sees the tub for himself, but the lady from before doesn't want to greet him. Wendy, in tears, sees that both her husband and her son are being tormented by this place and begs Jack to quit the job. Danny later calms his mom down, who is weeping uncontrollably, by telling her not to worry as his daddy doesn't have the shining, so there is nothing to worry about.

Have you never heard of REDRUM?

Sure you have. Read it backwards.  Yes, you got it right. And so did Danny after seeing this word in his visions countless times. It so turns out that Danny is much stronger than he looks and after failing to possess him, The Overlook has turned to an easier target - Jack. As Jack slowly starts to lose his mind, he gives in and starts drinking again from the bar in the ballroom. His hallucinations keep getting worse to the point he actually sees Mr Grady, the previous caretaker / murderer,  and even has a talk with him. Danny sees his changing behavior and so does his wife, who just doesn't see the man she fell in love with in his cold, distant eyes anymore. With everything going on, Wendy takes Danny to their apartment in the employee wing of the hotel and locks them inside in fear of Jack, who is slowly slipping away from reality. But turns out this move from her proves to be disastrous, as Wendy keeping Jack away from his own son is the last straw for him. In one of his many hallucinations, Jack  meets his predecessor,  his buddy Mr. Grady and the two have a disturbing conversation about how fun it is to kill your wife. Yes , no one trumps King when it comes to the unique combination of horror and psychological thrillers packed into one nail-biting plot!

In other words...

The only thing I liked about the movie was Jack Nicholson’s excellent acting. Apart from that Stanley Kubrick let go of many crucial parts which were essential to the story. He eliminated the hedge sequence in the book, which was terrifying to just read. The ending was just a complete mess.  I get that you can’t exactly get all the details right of a 500 page book, but at least do justice to the ones you have chosen. Anyways I’m gonna go sulk in my room over this. Bye

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Is it too late to start Anime?

Hi there! Good to have you back! Ever since pandemic began, everyone’s been locked in their own house. So this led to me taking up a few hobbies like sketching and painting and binging on a whole lot of sitcoms.. My personal favorite is the alluring world of Anime. Several of my friends began watching it and I cannot exactly term it as peer pressure, but I did give in and start watching Anime too. And now my watchlist includes just a bunch of 2D characters with powers that even Superman himself can't fight. So this is my take on how a kryptonian can be defeated with Jutsu, as Mr Naruto would say. Lol. This one is for all the weebs out there. 

Manga and Anime are not the same!

To put it simply, manga is a Japanese term for comics and graphic novels, whereas Anime is the term for Japanese animations.. There are many similarities  between them, as they both have been created by Osama Tezuka, who is considered as the Japanese version of Walt Disney. Now have you ever seen a simple comic book? The one with black and white newspaper illustrations - like Garfield. Manga is just like that -  A book of illustrations. Now we arrive at the perennial question - Manga or Anime, which is better. Both of them are equally interesting, but I personally have a soft spot for anime. The intro theme songs, intense background music, and the beat dropping right before a big fight move, all these factors pack a punch. You don’t get that adrenaline rush from just a book.

My first anime - Demon Slayer

The story begins with the main character Tanjiro, who returns home after selling charcoal in town to find his entire family murdered by demons. Pretty intense right? His sister, Nezuko, survives but there’s a twist - she turns into a demon herself.  This makes him vow to take revenge and he sets off to train with Sakonji, who has trained many of the elite members of the Demon Slayer Corps. After many years of training and a painful exam called the final selection, Tanjiro finally becomes a demon slayer and is off on missions along with his sister, who unlike most demons doesn’t consume human flesh. On his missions he meets Zenitsu and Inosuke, who both have excellent powers of their own. My favorite story arc was when the highest ranking slayers, known as the pillars, were introduced. But my words won’t do justice to their powers they possess. So simply get your geek on by watching this short yet amazing series.

The Tale of Naruto Uzumaki

The hidden leaf village is not so hidden anymore! The series I am currently watching is one of the most popular anime from 2020 - Naruto.   The story is set around the shinobi villages and their ninjas and how Naruto Uzumaki plans on being the next Hokage [the most powerful shinobi] of the leaf village. He is trained by some of the best ninjas the village has ever seen. Before graduating from the academy, he was a hyperactive boy with lots of energy who just wanted to be the best. After graduation, he was placed in team seven, along with Sakura Haruno and Sasuke Uchiha. This team was trained by Kakashi Sensei who is known for wielding his Chidori and even the Sharingan. The sharingan, to put it simply, is a trait passed down in families. The Uchihas are known for their sharingans and hence it naturally comes to Sasuke as well. The mystery still remains unsolved as to how Kakashi got his sharingan, as he is not an Uchiha. But Naruto does have a super power as well. Not technically his powers per se,  but we can cut him some slack. After all it's not everyday you get to see a beast like the nine tailed fox sealed away in an 11 year old boy. In my opinion the story picks up Orochimaru’s entry, and it paves the way for Sasuke’s powers in the future. My favorite character has to be Sasuke Uchiha. With his effortless fighting skills and sarcastic yet cool personality, he definitely is an excellent shinobi. You have to start this show right away because once you have seen him use his fire style fireball jutsu.....the world just doesn't look the same anymore.

In other words...

My current watchlist includes Naruto Shippuden, Black Clover, One Piece, and a few other naruto spin offs. Anime was something I never thought I would like, but now as it turns out I can't get enough of it. So bye for now, if you need me I'll be at Ichiraku’s eating ramen with barbeque pork. And if you get this reference, have a bowl of ramen on me. K bye.

Home in a faraway land

Good to see you again ! Do you ever get that feeling of an intense craving for your favourite dish? Like say pasta or pizza? My favorite is pasta, but being raised in India, I can’t say no to a classic plate of butter naan and chicken tikka with a glass of buttermilk or chaas if you please. Of Course you can’t beat the taste of a home cooked meal, but let me tell you about the time I went to this amazing little Indian restaurant in Dubai with my family, and how the food there was absolutely heavenly. 

Out and About in Dubai

Skyscrapers, Sleepless nights, Gold Souks and gigantic malls - these are the visions  you'd usually get when someone mentions Dubai. Well, they're mostly right! I went there with my family about 5 years ago. We stayed at the Ramada, which was right next to the Dubai Mall.  The mall happens to be strategically placed next to the Burj Khalifa and we got lucky enough to see mesmerizing musical fountain shows night after night. The streets are spick and span, and everyone follows the traffic regulations dutifully. We also went for the desert safari, which was no less than an actual roller coaster ride. We also visited the Gold Souk, and oh boy. The name definitely fulfills its purpose, as the entire street is occupied entirely by gold stores. Huge gold ornaments are on display like clothes on hangers. I personally don’t have a thing for gold jewellery, but my mom had the time of her life there fawning and gasping over every store we came across. Shortly after our visit here, we came across this beautiful little Indian restaurant, and you can call me old school but at the end of the day, this girl needs a desi meal, because trust me room service gets boring after a while.

Peshwa - Not your typical 5 star restaurant 

Situated away from the hustle of the main city, this place still remains quite underrated. We stumbled across this hidden gem which saved us the efforts of getting back to the hotel for an overpriced lunch. As soon as we entered the restaurant, we could smell the aroma of a classic dal makhani  [ a simple gravy consisting of lentils infused with aromatic spices and hints of burnt chillies ] in the air. So we got a table and had a look at the menu and it was almost like being back home. The endless variety of gravies with paneer in almost every single one of them, to at least 6 different types of rotis, a little piece of heaven in this concrete jungle! We went ahead and ordered a simple meal of rotis and some paneer delicacy, along with dal and rice. Apart from the taste of the food, which was just heavenly, the overall ambience of the place in one word, was exquisite. The restaurant lived up to its very ethnic maharashtrian name. The food was served in those traditional style cutlery, reminding us of a simpler time.

A dish you just can’t miss 

If you have a sweet tooth like me, you definitely have to try the coconut barfi from this place. Made from desiccated coconuts, sweetened condensed milk, a finely ground cardamom, and a hint of saffron, this dish is a match made in heaven. It was freshly made and we could tell it by the intoxicating aroma of pure ghee [clarified butter]. So just for a day, give yourself a break from watching calories and try this mouth watering dish because here’s something to live for.

In other words…

The next time I’m in Dubai, the first thing I will do is find out if the restaurant is still there. And probably avoid the Gold Souk this time. I will most certainly go for the desert safari, because it’s not everyday you get defy gravity and drive through the sand dunes like in a Fast and Furious movie. Lol.  Also thanks for bearing with me throughout this blog. See ya!

[artificialqueens]

Gimme Love, 7/9 (Miz Cracker/Blair St Clair) - Grinder

AN: Sorry in advance, but this chapter is kinda short. But we do get more conflict, more drama. 3 more chapters! Who's pumped? No one.

TW FOR THIS CHAPTER: Brief blood mentions.

2020

Remember how I said I was on a journey towards happiness? In the beautiful world of Brianna Caldwell, life said, "Nah."

The next day, it was apparent that things were only getting worse.

"Ed Sheeran is still on board," Joey stated matter-of-factly. He crossed his arms, the safety visor making a rustling sound as he did so.

He was joined by Nina, Alex, and Michael. A few of the lab team were at their desks, trying to ignore the current confrontation, including Jujubee.

She looked as if she wasn't paying attention to the ordeal, but I knew Jujubee like the back of my hand, and she was listening. I couldn't help but want her to speak up and help me out here. But she hadn't spoken to me since the day before.

"Yeah, he is." I put my hands on my hips, standing at the front of the lab, while Joey and his friends sat there and looked up at me.

"Why, though?" Joey continued to question.

"God, we already had this discussion," I spoke quietly, looking to the side for some sort of distraction.

"Yeah, but you said you'd figure something out." Nina input.

"Yeah, you did." Alex joined in. I glanced at Jujubee in the hopes she'd join the conversation. Her eyes remained on the chemical she was working with.

"Why did you choose him in the first place? Why not…" Michael paused, deciding to join the argument, "Bill Nye...or someone who actually has an interest in Space and Science."

"Yeah, for real. Like, you do realise that in years to come, when kids read about 'Neil Armstrong - the first man on the moon, they're gonna flip the page and see 'Ed Sheeran, confirmed the first man to enter another dimension.'" Alex added.

"Like, how do you even explain Ed Sheeran as a choice?" Nina held a hand out in questioning.

I finally found a crack and slipped back into the conversation, "Because your project manager is a disaster when she's drunk and makes stupid choices without even thinking."

"We know, Brie. You were drunk." Joey rolled his eyes like he was tired of hearing the same story.

"Maybe you should stop drinking." Alex squinted his eyes.

"Yeah, we don't wanna go there, but maybe this is a problem," Michael added to the point.

My eyes were becoming wider with every word they were saying. This was absolutely ridiculous. Again, I was hoping Jujubee would argue back, but she remained silent.

Nina, however, was the one to interject, "Jesus, guys. You're taking it a bit too far." She stood up and gathered her lab coat, "Look, we all do dumb shit when we're drunk. She's not a mess, OK?"

Joey laughed. I held back from calling him out for the time that I caught him hiding in the closet playing Candy Crush for an hour.

"Well, even so, she should take this into consideration," Alex suggested.

"And do what?" I unfolded my arms and held them out by my side, "call him and say 'JK, Ed. It was just a joke, Ed.'"

"Girl, you're the one who got us into this mess. You figure it out." Alex raised his voice. How very fair of him. I was the one who had to deal with this problem, yet they were the only ones who seemed to care.

"Mess is a bit of a harsh term." Nina pointed out.

"Exactly, there is no mess here. Juju and I have already figured this out," my gaze shifted towards her again, hoping the mention of her name would cause a reaction. Nothing, "So I'd appreciate it if I could stop getting all this flack. I don't need flack from you," I pointed at Joey, "I don't need flack from you," next, at Alex, "or you," then Michael, and I moved my finger in Nina's direction, "or...Jesus Christ, you're having a nose bleed."

Nina's hand flew straight up to her nose, pulling away and examining the red liquid. "Oh, my Lord!"

She tried wiping it. But more blood poured out like a faucet that had been slowly turned on.

"Can you just...get out of here and get that cleaned up?" It sounded bitchy. But I was panicking. I never did well with blood. Therefore I looked away and hid my face.

"Thanks for helping, boss." Joey practically snarled, handing Nina a bunch of tissues. Like hungry wolves following the scent of the blood, the 3 men followed her out of the room, Joey still scorning at me as he left.

It was just me and the other scientists left in the room.

I turned and moved to one of the counters, picking up screws and bolts as if I was actually interested in them. But I couldn't ignore the presence of my best friend.

Hearing shuffling, I turned. She was standing up and gathering her things.

"Juju." I approached her.

She only quickened the packing up process.

Reaching her bench, she was already turned in the direction of the door, "Juju, are you just gonna ignore me all day?"

Finally, she looked at me, adjusting her bag strap, "There's nothing to say."

"Oh really? Well, you can decide to drop me as a friend, but you're still working for me, so we need to communicate."

"OK," Jujubee shrugged, "Well, what do you need to discuss with me that's work-related?"

She got me there. Licking my lips, I breathed out with a quick sigh. "OK, look, last night, we didn't end on a good note. I'm not saying I was wrong, and neither were you. Can you just please set that aside and talk to me?"

She squinted her eyes. "So, I'm supposed to just let the problem keep building?"

"Juju!" I briefly raised my voice, a few of the other scientists glanced in our direction. Jujubee looked uneasy now. So I lowered my tone again. "OK. I'm just gonna say it. I fucked up. I fucking...wrote her a creepy message, and I don't know what to do, and I have no one to talk to about it."

She let out a sarcastic laugh, "You're still looking to use me as your therapist. You learned nothing from what I said, Brianna."

I was silent, incapable of speaking anything else.

She looked away to the ground, "This is taking up my lunchtime."

And with that, she moved to the door, the sound of her heels like a clock ticking down.

"Juju, what can I do?" I held my hands out by my sides. "How am I going to make you satisfied?"

With a hand opening the door, she was frozen for a moment. I thought she would have walked on and ignored me. But she looked over her shoulder and said, "When you realise she's not the one who cares about you."

She left the room, pulling the door closed. The noise caused me to flinch.

I turned around her words in my head.

Two of the scientists were whispering, one glancing at me. I felt my chest become tight. "Hey. This isn't a social gathering. Get back to work."

Despite their astonishment, they moved away from each other anyway.

I instantly felt like a bitch. Technically yeah, it was my job to keep everyone working. But I rarely raised my voice.

I left the room, seeking peace and quiet.

Sitting in my chair, I held my hands in my head, staring at the redwood desk. Moments like these should have felt like a luxury, just sitting there, relaxing. But my mind was racing with too many thoughts.

I had no idea what I could do to make amends with Jujubee. But I could try and sort this Ed Sheeran problem.

Loading up my emails, I opened the thread with Ed Sheeran (which was actually only 3 messages and most likely with his manager).

I hit reply and started typing.

'Listen, Ed. There's been an issue…'

No.

'Dear Mr Ed Sheeran, we regret to inform you…'

'Hello, Ed. It's Brianna from…'

'Ed, big fan of the work, but…'

I squeezed my eyes shut, already feeling exhausted, like each press of the backspace button represented a loss of a brain cell.

For all the achievements I had earned throughout the years, for all the accomplishments, why the fuck was this so damn hard?

The telephone rang, causing me to jolt. A sigh left my lips as I tried to breathe. Pressing the speaker, I said, "Jackie, what's up?"

Jackie, my receptionist, spoke, "Hey, honey. Your Mom's on line 2."

My hand clenched around my pen, already feeling that familiar sense of dread.

"OK, thank you," I spoke quieter.

I hesitated for a moment before finally clicking line 2.

"Hi, Mom," I uttered.

"Hi, baby." She said quietly. "How are you?"

"Fine." I lied. "Nothing really new here. How about you?"

"All good…" she sighed, then paused briefly, "Actually no. Things aren't good. I...lost my job. The usual, they found someone better. And I've been trying so hard to find a job."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, and on top of that," she sighs again, "Brie, honey, there is no easy way to say this; Piggie's sick."

My breath caught in my throat, but I tried to remain calm. "What's wrong with him?"

"They said it's Lyme disease, Brianna. I...I don't know what's going to happen." Her voice cracked.

"Look, don't worry. I'm gonna send you money right now. It should cover the bills. He'll be - -"

"No, I didn't call you to ask for money." She said quickly, "I was just wondering...I know you're busy and everything…"

Fuck. My eyes squeezed together, hand tightening around the phone.

"But...I would love to see you. It's been nearly a year now." Her tone softened.

And immediately, I wanted to say no. Considering the circumstances, a visit would fuck with my head. Seeing Piggie, my emotional support through teenagehood would crush me.

"You there, baby?" She asked.

"Yeah," I whispered.

"I just...I don't want to be alone. What if the medical treatment fails? I'm gonna have no one, Brianna. I don't want that." She pauses again, and my chest tightens, tears filling my eyes. "Brie, baby, please come."

I can hear the pain in her voice. But I can't help but feel that sense of fear, the anxiety.

"Don't leave me alone to deal with this, please. I'm at my lowest. And I don't know if I could do it all by - -"

I hit 'end call'.

I put the phone back and rested my head in my hands.

I knew this was my fault - our strained relationship. I could only see that now, how emotionally unstable I was. That sounds like a joke, right? I just didn't expect it to be this bad.

Nothing was getting better.

-_-_-_-_-_-

2004

I threw my bag in the back seat before climbing in the front. My hair was soaked from the rain. I literally just ran from the school to Mom's car, not even outside for that long, yet so much rain.

I said nothing, only rubbed my hands together to keep warm.

"So, the schools flooded?" Mom asked.

"Yeah."

"The whole school?" She looked past me and to the building, an eyebrow raised. "It doesn't look that bad."

"It's just the shop classes and cafeteria, to be honest." I put my hands between my thighs to make the warming up process happen quicker.

"That's a bit unnecessary to send you all home."

"Yeah, well, I'm not complaining."

Mom fired up the engine, and we were set for home. There was a moment of silence that fell among us. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But when she turned the radio down, I knew we were in for a discussion.

"That's not the only thing the school called me about today." She started.

"Oh?" I looked out the window. I don't know why but I assumed they had finally exposed me for smoking around the back of the building. But it was doubtful as I had stopped during the Summer.

"They're concerned about you, Brie." And so was she, now that I could hear it in her tone. "Your grades have only gotten better the slightest amount."

"Well, I can't just go from a C to an A in a matter of days." I still looked out the window. "And besides, I'm staying behind every other day for extra studying."

"Are you sure you're not just flaking and hanging out with Jujubee instead?" There it was, the accusatory tone.

I looked at her now. "No? And if it makes you feel better, you can call her Mom and ask. How's that sound?" I scoffed, "God, I don't need this. Not like I'm dealing with enough at school anyway."

"Well," she was silent for a moment as if daring herself to speak again, "Not that I'd know, I mean, you don't really open up to me about school."

"Yeah, because there's nothing you can do about it." Was I wrong? What could she do? Barge into the school with a gramophone and yell, 'Stop picking on my daughter!'

"About what?"

I rolled my eyes, "Doesn't matter. I don't wanna talk about it."

I could practically feel the way she held back from rolling her eyes.

"Well, the only other thing I can think of is that you're too focused on all this space stuff." She sounded more irked now. "You need to focus on your future, not all this make-believe crazy conspiracy theory shit."

"Oh, that crazy conspiracy theory shit that my Grandpa enjoyed?" My tone was slowly raising.

"I didn't mean it like that. I'm saying your Grandpa didn't make a living sitting around and fantasising about all of this stuff. He knew the difference between having a career and having a dream."

"Well, God, not like my interest hasn't got a thing to do with my future prospects, Mom. No. Who would have thought." The sarcasm was thick in my voice.

"Whatever it is you're striving towards, it sounds more like a dream to me. You need a more stable plan." Mom flicked the indicator quite aggressively.

"Oh my God," I laughed, "That's hilarious. You have no idea what I'm striving towards. You can't even tell me what it is."

"Does it matter??"

"Just shows how much you give a shit about me, right, Mom?"

We pulled up to a red light to Mom's delight because she pulled the handbrake.

"How dare you." She seethed, "How dare you speak to me like that. I have done nothing but give a shit about you all these years. I have been there for you, every nervous breakdown, every time you wanted to cry but wouldn't, every time you needed your Mother the most. I was the best Mother I could be because I know that deep down you were hurting." Her voice cracks. "I know that you struggled for so long, what with your parents and all, but I've done all I can to give you what they couldn't. I held you. I loved you. But now, what I'm getting back is this...attitude. All I did, Brie, was express my concern, and you immediately went on the defence." She paused again before lowering her tone, "And I know you want to hold on to this space stuff, so you don't lose someone else. And I know you're in pain. But is this actually what Grandpa would have wanted??"

We held each other's gaze for another moment before the light finally turned red. She started driving again.

But I wasn't done. "Really? All of that and for what, Mom? God, you have no idea what Grandpa wanted for me. If only you knew what he asked of me when he was lying in his deathbed."

"And what was that?" She raised a brow.

"It doesn't matter." I crossed my arms and was back to looking out the window.

"Of course." She stated.

"Just...stop, please. My grades will be better. Now, we're done having this conversation."

I could feel her seething, the heat of her anger radiating through the cramped vehicle. But she said no more.

Not even for the rest of the night.

[pluto-art]

Syncytium - Chapter 3

Title: Syncytium - Chapter 3 - Sodium Bicarbonate Words: 7,115 Rating: T

Fan Fiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13712482/3/Syncytium

As always, I recommend the fan fiction version, which includes all italics. Other than that, enjoy the full story below the cut!

September 16th, 1993 - 11:48 PM

Two little feet raced pitter-patter down a chatter-filled hallway in A.C.M.E. Arts & Sciences, its occupant laden with pen and petition, eagerly calling out to any hapless individual that came her way as that ever-present tam-o-shanter bounced atop her head.

"Signatures! Come put down your signatures! Sign the petition! Bring baseball back to A.C.M.E.!" Olivia called out, her little jingle ringing in its thick Scottish accent down the corridor and bouncing off the walls. "Baseball for all! Hear you shout! Let them know or we'll strike out!"

Like a fuzzy brown bullet she shot through the school, passing students and teachers, janitors and gym instructors, nearly running into the wall on two occasions, and receiving a sharp reprimand of "Watch it!" or "Land sakes!" from those whose book pages and scarves she ruffled on her flight down the hallways.

"Let your voice be heard! Put your name down! Have a- OOF!"

Olivia gasped as she landed on the hard, linoleum floor, having been knocked back by something tall and firm. She shook her head and looked up... and up... and up, into the stern face of Basil, teacher of Advanced Science and Deduction. Even for a mouse he was rather lanky, towering above Globetrotter and practically a giant to Olivia. The only other mouse in the school who reached his height was Pinky. He glared at her, one eyebrow cocked in silent judgement as he peered down from above, a great slab of papers cradled snugly against his side.

"Oh...," Olivia mumbled, gulping as she quickly stood up, face scrunching, and shook off her clothes, her little tam-o-shanter and petition laying very sorrowfully at her feet.

Basil sighed.

"Young lady," he began, bending down to pick up her hat and place it securely back on her head. "This is the third time this week we've met under unnecessarily chaotic circumstances and it's become... rather an interference in my daily schedule. Would you kindly keep harnessed certain frivolities at play, Miss Flabbergast?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Basil," Olivia muttered shyly, and not unkindly. "I'll be more careful."

She picked her clipboard with petition up off the floor, a little embarrassed.

"Sign my petition...?" she ventured, holding up the paper for Basil to see. He bent down to get a closer look at it.

"What's this for?" he asked.

"It's for a baseball stadium!"

"Baseball stadium?"

"Yes!" Olivia said, nodding excitedly. "So we can get sports back to the school!"

"Sports?" Basil nipped, practically spitting out the word as though it was a nasty slur. "Miss Flim-Flam, the last thing this university of science and culture needs is a bunch of dimwitted degenerates galloping about chasing after a ball. You'd do better to abandon the whole matter, in my opinion."

Olivia hung her head.

"But I doubt it will amount to anything," he continued, picking lint off his cardigan in a snooty fashion. "The most you could hope for is ten signatures, at least. Continue on your hapless venture if you must."

"Really?!"

"Yeeees yes yes. Now, run along."

"Thank you, Mr. Basil! I'll get more than ten. You'll see!"

"Jolly good," Basil replied curtly, sarcastically, pausing to flick a piece of dirt off Olivia's jacket. "Good day to you."

Olivia watched him as he went, his long shoes snapping click, click, click against the floor. She drew out a long breath of utter relief. Basil was fairer than Globetrotter. Anyone was fairer than Globetrotter. However, he still could get a bit cross when rubbed the wrong way, and it certainly wasn't the first time she'd gotten on his irritable side. She'd have to be more careful.

And so, as she continued her trek down the school hallways, calling out as she went (a bit more quietly this time), she jogged rather than sprinted, slipping between passerby with an "Excuse me" or "Pardon" and taking extra precaution not to bump into any more teachers, especially Globetrotter...

"Petition! Come you all and sign! Redefine!"

Maisy tossed Olivia an annoyed glance as she ran past, huffing a little and flipping back her hair as she dug through her locker.

"Since when did the principle allow kids to run around the school? I didn't think he'd be cool with that," she muttered.

Next to her, a chocolate-furred mouse leaned against his adjacent locker, deep in silent conversation as he texted rapidly on his phone.

"Why do you care?" he asked, not looking up at her.

"I dunno. It's just... This is like... a high-profile university, right? There shouldn't be any kids."

"We're kids."

"Um... Excuse me. I'm like... nineteen."

"Yeah. That's young, Maisy."

"Whatever," she spat, flicking her hair back again as she found what she was looking for: a red pencil with yellow flower print slapped all over it.

"Olivia is Flaversham's daughter," Gadget spoke from across the hall at her own locker, snapping her bulbous goggles atop her head as a matter-of-fact. "Everyone knows that." Tillie nodded next to her.

"Okay, but, like...," Maisy continued, pulling out a journal and tucking it under her arm, "... he works. When does he have time to watch her? He just lets her run around the school?"

"Well, isn't Mrs. Judson her nanny?" Tillie offered helpfully, albeit rather quietly. "I think that-"

Several students sprinted by. Tillie paused to let them pass before continuing.

"I think that she watches her in the nurse's office most of the day and lets her run errands."

"Yeah, but-," Maisy began, before being cut off herself as another batch of students trundled by, and then another. "But that doesn't give her leave to just-" More students. "To just run around whenever she-" Even more students. By this point, she could barely even see Gadget and Tillie. "Oh my gosh! I hate not having neighboring lockers!"

"It's lunchtime, Maisy," the male mouse said beside her, closing his phone with a sharp snap. "We should get going."

"Ugh. Fine. I'm starving anyway."

And so off they went, quartet heading for the cafeteria at the prompt hour of 12:00 PM, taking care not to bump into anyone as they entered the huge room.

Unlike the rest of the school, this area was terribly outdated. Or, rather, it had none of the classiness that the majority of the facility offered. Far from being dressed up in a mahogany coat, with comfortable seating, double-pane windows, and classical music that pumped itself like oxygen through the more casual areas of the building, the cafeteria resembled nothing less than something vomited out of an 80s shopping mall. The blue and purple paneling; the flashing neon food signs; the Whitney Houston music trapped perpetually within the speakers. It had it all. Students called it "The Flashback" or "The Blot", depending on who you talked to. The space had been heavily renovated a decade ago in an attempt to reflect the aesthetic at the time, and if the principal in office hadn't been ousted at the time for his radical ways the facility may very well have looked quite different by this point. As it stood, the cafeteria was an eye sore for some, a breath of fresh air for others, and it was a popular spot in which to congregate. If nothing else, the music was a relief. There was only so much Chopin one could take.

Chatter filled the dining area as the quartet entered. Already the tables were filling up, the smell of pizza and dumplings heavy in the air. Once upon a time, the food had reflected the decor: posh, healthy, and expensive. And then, of course, the cafeteria had been renovated, and with it the menu. No one had ever bothered to change the hot dogs back to ham; the grilled cheese back to caviar. Lemon sherbet tasted much better than shitake, and the students liked it that way.

"Think they're gonna have the jelly sauce again today?" Gadget asked, standing up on tip-toe to peer over at the food counter.

"Ew. Gosh. I hope not. That stuff is gro- HO MY GOSH," gasped Maisy.

"What?" Gadget asked, looking around, eyes wide. She hoped another wasp hadn't broken into the cafeteria again. Two had welcomed themselves in in the last week and she didn't think she could handle the stress another day.

"He's here," Maisy stressed, clutching at her heart and grabbing hold of Gadget's shoulder rather tightly.

Tillie and Gadget followed her gaze all the way across the floor to the food bar. There stood Pinky, dressed today in lab pants and a blue and gray striped shirt whose sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Had it not been for the ridiculously long white lab pants that spilled over his shoes, Gadget thought he might have looked rather fetching. As it stood, though, he didn't. Maisy thought otherwise.

"Ugh. He's so hot."

"So hot he melts your brains?" the male mouse quipped, back to texting on his phone.

Maisy shot him a nasty look. Tillie didn't even notice.

"Wow. Clam chowder special," she mused, completely serious as she stared, astonished, at the counter.

"You're focusing on the food?!" Maisy exclaimed, flabbergasted. Tillie remained oblivious.

"Oh, I hope Mrs. Brisby isn't too early today. I rather like lunch break...," Tillie mused, loosening her shawl a little.

"But you also like her classes," said Gadget, smiling.

"I do. They're fun."

"Learning about weeds is fun?" asked Maisy.

"Agriculture is more interesting than you think it would be! You should try it sometime. It's fun!"

"Tillie, the only fun thing about this school is the lunch break."

The dark-furred he mouse with them rolled his eyes, his hands in his pockets.

"Seriously, Maisy? Not even the Chemistry class is interesting?" he mentioned, incredulous.

"Okay, well, that is a little bit interesting..."

The he mouse sighed.

"You're incredible. Our parents are paying good money for this school. You should be grateful. Come on. Let's stake a seat."

A few tables down, a gaggle of mice, moles, and a rat or two sat, chattering loudly. One of them, a black-haired mouse in a frilly, once-piece dress, sash around the middle and dark hair tied up in a bun, stood up in her chair and waved in their direction.

"Maaaaaaisy, girl! Come on! We've been waiting for you!"

"GIIIIRL! I was just about to ditch these losers! Gimme a sec!" Maisy called back, beaming. "Sorry, guys. I gotta go."

"Wha-..? But I thought we were gonna-" the male mouse began, taken aback.

"Sorry, Dex. I forgot I'd promised Marvell I'd be here at noon. We'll catch up later, I promise. Okay?"

"Yeah. Sure...," Dex shrugged dejectedly.

"Thanks, Dex. Bye, y'all!" said Maisy, and she ran off to join the loquacious group.

"Bye, loser!" Gadget joked back, shaking her head. "Airhead."

"Remind me why we hang out with her again?" Tillie asked, as the remaining three headed for the food bar.

Gadget shrugged.

"She's been my friend since middle school. I'd feel weird just ditching her."

"You wouldn't be missing much," Dex muttered, although there was a hesitancy in his voice.

Gadget threw him a sideways glance as she grabbed a tray, Tillie and Dex following suit.

"You know that's not true, Dex. She's a bit into herself, but you know she loves you."

Dex shrugged.

One by one, a steady line of students at the bar filed past the counter, picking off a box of salad here, a cup of macaroni there. Things reached a stand still at the chili bowl. Dex and Gadget stood up on tip-toe for a couple seconds, flattened back out on their feet, stared at each other, and rolled their eyes, sniggering. But of course...

The hold up, as per the norm, was Pip, one of the restaurant hands and the only chipmunk in the entire school. He was terribly chatty, not to mention contentious if you dared complain about any aspect of the food. Either something was wrong and he needed to comment on it, or someone he recognized as a friend had just crossed his path. Judging by the chipper tone of his voice, Gadget guessed it was the latter today.

"So what's with this petition? Lemme see that paper, sister!"

And he whipped from someone's hand a petite clipboard entrusted with several sheets of lined paper. He read through it quickly, nose almost touching the paper.

Gadget, Dex, and Tillie peered around the crowd ahead of them to see who had handed him the paper. Oh. Naturally.

There stood Olivia, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet as Pip perused her petition, a wide, expectant smile on her face. Was there no place she wouldn't invade?

"Hmmm," Pip mused, tapping his foot a mile a minute as his keen eyes roved over the paper one more time. "Weeeeeeell, I don't usually sign these things, buuuuut... baseball sounds like a worthy cause. Ya' got a pen?"

"Here you go!" Olivia squeaked happily, extracting from the inside of her coat pocket a blue pen and offering it to Pip. He took it swiftly and signed the petition just as fast.

"Just make sure you get me a position as umpire!" Pip said, handing her back the petition and pen.

"Oh, I will! Thank you!"

"Say, uhhhh... how many signatures you got on that thing so far?"

"Twenty-three!"

"Heeeeeey. That's not bad!"

"Come on, Pip!" a student piped up, brows furrowed.

"Yeah, we've got class!" a girl vole squeaked from behind the trio.

"All right, all right already! Sheesh!" Pip nipped back, rolling his eyes. "Hey. You keep gettin' those John Hancocks, okay?" he said, winking at Olivia.

"Um... Okay!"

And with that, she was off, not even bothering to grab an apple or a cracker, something that others cast glances at her for. Olivia passing up an opportunity to nab some food? She must mean business...

"She's so cute," Gadget mused, watching Olivia sprint around, on the hunt for more signatures, as she moved up a couple steps in line.

"Yeah," Dex said, arms folded. "She's a trip." Despite himself, he smiled after her. Little kids amused him sometimes, even if they could be a bit pesky underfoot.

As more students spilled into the cafeteria, fingers pointed, some quite shamelessly, in the direction of the food bar. Dex followed the invisible lines to a spot some paces behind them in line. But of course. They were all directed at the new teacher, Ronald Pinkus. The girls seemed particularly smitten, giggling and whispering and acting, in Dex's mind, perfectly idiotic. In fact, come to think of it, as he looked about the room, most of the girls were in deep conversation, their eyes trained on the same subject in the room, including Maisy's group. He shook his head. This was a university, not a middle school. Daftness came in all ages, he supposed.

"What?" Gadget queried, taking notice of the furrowed brow and the folded arms.

"Nothing," Dex muttered, shuffling forward a few paces as the line moved ahead. Both he and Gadget grabbed a plate of chocolate cake.

Gadget looked back at the new teacher and snickered.

"Don't let it get to you."

"She's just as bad as everyone else."

"Who? Maisy?"

"Yeah..."

Gadget shrugged.

"It's probably just a phase. Next week she'll fall for Basil again or someone."

Trays full, they set off to find a table. Tillie waved at them from a corner. They headed towards her.

"I dunno. I kinda...," Dex began, then stopped as they reached the table, sitting down with their trays. Tillie was already deep in her bowl of clam chowder.

"You what?" Gadget asked as she pulled her chair up.

"It's... whatever."

"What?"

Dex picked up his spoon, swirled it around in his own bowl of clam chowder, then set it down. Screw it. He grabbed his fork and dug into the chocolate cake instead.

"I miss when we used to hang out more."

"What are we talking about now?" Tillie asked, only half-interested.

No one said anything right away. Gadget picked at her sunflower seed salad for a minute, then spoke.

"You're her brother. She'll come back around eventually."

Dex shrugged again. He was about to shove another large piece of chocolate cake into his mouth when something lightly bumped his elbow. He turned and looked down. It was Olivia.

"Sign my petition?" she asked, her little whiskers upturned in a wide smile.

Dex couldn't help but mirror that infectious grin. In the distance, something... someone... caught his eye. It was Maisy. She frowned at him and shook her head. Dex frowned back. He took the clipboard and pen from Olivia's outstretched paws.

"You know what? Sure, kid. Baseball, right?"

"Uh-huh! We're going to have a mascot again, too! I hope..."

He handed her back the clipboard and pen and ruffled her hair, or, rather, the top of her tam-o-shanter.

"Break a leg, kid."

"Thank you!" she beamed, and off she went.

Dex smiled. In the background, Maisy shook her head. Dex snapped his fingers and winked, finger-gunning her. She rolled her eyes and went back to talking to her friends.

"Ugh. He's such a tease," complained Maisy to her company, twirling a strand of her long, golden hair as she sipped soda through a straw.

"He just cares about other people. Heck, I signed her petition," the black-furred mouse said. "How come you never hang out with your brother anymore? He's been lookin' kinda sad..."

"He's not even my real brother, Marvell. He's just my half-brother. You know that. Do we look like we're related?"

"But y'all used to be so close! What happened?"

Maisy shrugged.

"I dunno. We just... shifted."

"Don't you mean 'drifted'?" offered up a boy rat next to her.

"Whatever," Maisy shrugged. "Anyway, what do you guys think of him?" she smirked, jerking her head in the direction of Pinky still in line at the food bar.

All at the table turned their heads to look at him. He seemed to be picking out quite an odd assortment of foods: a hot dog, two cups of custard, and several pieces of cheese - just cheese. Every person that passed him a "hello" he greeted with a chipper "Good morning!", and his attitude towards the servers was polite and enthusiastic. Those around him couldn't seem to keep the smiles off their faces. Even the students generally known to be more reserved or stuck up couldn't help but throw him a curious glance. He was, for lack of a better term, "sunshine-y".

The boy rat popped several corn puffs in his mouth, his dry expression unchanged.

"He's kind of a twink, isn't he?"

Maisy slapped him on the shoulder playfully.

"He is not!"

"Dude. Come on..."

"He's not that young," Marvell said, filing her nails as another of their group, a white mouse in a red shirt and with a yellow sash tied about his neck, came and sat down beside her, a cup full of fizzy raspberry water tottering dangerously on the edge of his tray. "He is kinda cute, though..."

The white mouse set down his tray carefully... but not carefully enough. Slip went the cup, the mouse grabbing it before its contents could spill out entirely.

"AH!" Marvell yelped, jumping a little. "Stuart, that's the second time this week!"

"Oh, dear. I'm so sorry, Marvell!" the little mouse said, apologizing profusely as he skittered off towards the food bar. "I'll go get some napkins!"

"Awww, man. I just washed this," lamented Marvell, picking up a corner of her frilly blue frock, now tainted with fizz. "Well... At least it's just water. I can work with this, right? Looks kinda... sassy?"

The boy rat sat up, the better to look at Marvell's new fashion statement. The water had painted the rounded edges of one side of the dress. It could have passed for an interesting pattern if one squinted hard enough.

"Yeah, sure. You could pass it off as the new look," he suggested, smiling.

"Hm," Marvell replied, smirking as she sat back down, ringing out the dress edge.

Maisy didn't seem the least bit phased.

"I think he's kinda hot," she said, eyelashes fluttering as she sipped at her soda noisily.

"Hotter than Globetrotter?" sniggered the boy rat.

"Okay, Globetrotter's in his own league. Okay? I can never compete with that."

"Ummm...," Marvell mumbled, covering her mouth in a vain attempt to hide her embarrassed smile as she pointed to a figure behind Maisy's back.

"What?" Maisy asked, craning around slightly to look before swiftly turning back 'round in her seat again, shoulder hunched as she visibly blushed. "Oh my gosh," she whispered, burying her face in her hands.

The boy rat beside her could barely hide his laughter as Globetrotter walked past them, his nose deep in a very thick, very red, and very heavy-looking book. Had he actually been paying attention to their conversation Maisy might have had more reason to involuntarily add a bit of color to her cheeks. As it stood, however, he had not, and so continued towards the bar, oblivious to the fact that he was now fifth in line behind Pinky.

"That's astounding!" Pinky exclaimed, tray of food all but forgotten as he leaned across a glass awning in front of him, totally invested in Pip's latest story. "But... how were you able to keep the syrup layer from separating?"

"Oh, that's easy!" Pip replied, and on and on he went.

Two students ahead of Pinky peered back, interested. Others behind him simply chuckled... or tapped their foot impatiently. To Globetrotter it was complete gibberish. The culinary arts was a branch he rarely dabbled in unless absolutely necessary. Although I do make a mean rigatoni, he thought to himself before shaking his head disgustedly. Where the heck did that come from? He was supposed to be engulfed in Brownian Motion and Stochastic Calculus, but, as it stood, he found his attention inexplicably pulled towards a much... lesser subject. It was unfathomable how anyone could be so intrigued by such mundane topics as the properties of pancakes and how effectively one might prepare them, but the fanaticism with which his coworker now described it was almost... infectious. Nevertheless, Globetrotter frowned as he checked his watch. 12:18 PM. They were wasting precious time. He was wasting his precious time.

"Will you move along already!" he called out, voice peppered with vexation. "I've got class in twenty-seven minutes!"

"Oh! So sorry!" Pinky called back, paws quickly grabbing hold of his tray once more. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Pip. Good luck with your pancakes!"

"Same to you, my good man!" Pip squeaked back. "What a pleasant fellow," he muttered to himself, smiling as Pinky walked off towards the refreshments bar, laden with food.

Globetrotter huffed and moved forward, grabbing a single bowl of fruit and a cup of cottage cheese on his way down. As he passed the pasta section, he paused, reached out a hesitant paw towards a plate of spaghetti, then quickly snapped it back, sighing and frowning sadly as he moved on to the refreshments, grabbing a banana on his way over and angrily slapping it down on his tray.

He stopped beside Pinky, who was humming and pouring himself some English Breakfast tea. Globetrotter huffed again. Flavored water - a poor man's excuse for caffeine. How anyone could drink that stuff was beyond him. He went for the coffee, pulled down the carafe lever... and grumbled. Empty.

"Is there any place in this building that can afford a mouse a decent cup of coffee?!" he whined, popping his empty cup back onto the others.

"Oh, that's a shame there, isn't it? Have you tried the tea, Brain?" Pinky offered helpfully, as he popped a lid on his own steaming cup.

"I refuse to bow my knee to such a lowbrow form of refreshment," Globetrotter bit back, picking up his tray. "And it's Brian, you nincompoop."

"Well, how do you know you don't like it if you don't try it? Poit!" Pinky replied, unfazed by the retort.

"If I liked it I'd drink it. Good day to you."

And off he went, choosing a spot as far back in the room as possible, Pinky sadly watching him as he picked out a table devoid of occupants. Pinky looked back at the empty coffee cup, a light whimper escaping him as he stared at it dolefully. He turned back to focus on Globetrotter, who was once more lost in his big red book. Students who sat nearby gave him as wide of a berth as they could. Pinky's ears drooped. What a sad little man, he thought. But it wasn't long before they perked back up again. Why, yes. Of course! Beaming, he set his tray down at an occupied table ("Watch this for me, will you?"), and rushed out of the cafeteria, leaving several students at the table to stare after him, puzzled.

Flip. Globetrotter turned a page of his massive tome, popping a grape in his mouth and crunching down on it satisfactorily. Flip, flip, flip. He looked to his right. A girl mouse sat nearby, also buried in a book. A huge pink bow sat atop her head. He recognized her. She was one of his students. Teresa, her name was, if he recalled correctly. She was one of his brighter subjects, but struggled with the occasional mathematical theory. As it was, her nose practically brushed the pages of a book that Globetrotter recognized by sight alone: Calculus by Gilbert Strang. Teresa sighed deeply, her unironed brow effectively relaying her frustration. She looked up... and jumped a little as she noticed Globetrotter staring at her, a light pink almost the exact color of her bow kissing her cheeks. Globetrotter slowly ducked back into his own texts, his peripheral vision catching Teresa shifting her seat over a notch in embarrassment.

A paw reached out to grab for his coffee, and he looked up when it touched nothing. Right. No coffee... Sighing, he popped another grape in his mouth, biting into it rather harder than necessary. Nearby, at another table, several students whispered.

"Did you find out what he teaches?" a girl vole asked, her question laced with ardor.

"Yup. He teaches Trozology," replied a male rat next to her, a pair of thick headphones hung about his neck.

"What the heck is that?" voiced another female rodent at their table, a cream-furred mouse decked out in purple - purple shirt; purple pants; purple socks; purple everything.

"I dunno," the rat shrugged. "Sounds kinda cool, though."

Globetrotter frowned. His ears twitched as tinkling laughter echoed from another table beside him.

"I knooooooow. He's so cute!" chuckled a rosy pink-eared mouse. She spoke in a barely-contained whisper along with the rest of her group, all of which sported bulky backpacks laid out on their table and decorated with all sorts of patches, stickers, and keychains. "I hope I can get a spot in his class!"

"I think he still has slots open!" one of her friends, a field rat, spoke up. "As far as I know, though, no one's actually signed up."

"Whyyyyyy? He's adorable! I'm gonna sign up just so I can stare at that face every day," a girl hamster said.

"What if you don't even like the class?" the second friend spoiled. "Maybe it's a dud. And we don't really have time in our schedules for another course..."

They all paused sadly and contemplatively at this. Then the first girl perked up.

"Well, I guess we'll get him all to ourselves then. If no one else likes the class then we'll stay just for the teacher!"

"Yeah, until every other girl does the same thing. You know we're not the only ones with the hots for him," the hamster said, taking a swig from her soda bottle.

"Well, then I guess we'll just have to fight for him," smiled the rat nonchalantly as she picked at her nails.

"Fight for him?!" yelped the other girls, covering their mouths at their loudness. "Oh my gosh. Seriously?!"

"Yeah! Anyone who comes up, we'll tell 'em to meet us at the park at two. No knives. Just like... nail clippers and hair curlers or something..."

"No no! Wait! We tell them to meet us at the baseball stadium!" offered the hamster, soda pop forgotten.

"You mean the one Olivia's petitioning?" the girl mouse asked. "It's not even built yet!"

"Yeah, but when it is we can tell them to meet there!"

"Winner gets dibs. They get to call first date," said the rat.

"And the loser has to pay for the dinner tab."

"Yeah!"

"Oh my gosh, you guys are so funny," the mouse chuckled.

They all laughed gaily.

Globetrotter's frown deepened, his mouth hanging open, another grape suspended in mid-air. Was Pinkus really... that popular? He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the conversations now swimming about his consciousness, when yet another light exchange, a distant one this time, caught his ears.

"... thinking of actually dropping Globetrotter's class to take that Ronald guy's one. It's just as many credits. Probably way more fun."

Globetrotter gulped. He tried reading a sentence in his book, only to find that he kept gracing the same words over and over and over again. Blast it. He couldn't concentrate. He plopped the book down on the table and went to devouring his cottage cheese, all around him oblivious to the private war going on in his mind.

Why do you care what they think? They're kids. They're idiots.

Yes, and have you forgotten what happened when Basil came to the school two years ago? They went gah-gah over him, too.

They didn't all abandon my class!

Nooooo, but half of them did. And Basil taught a required course at the time. Same as yours. They all went for his. He was much more interesting than you.

That's neither here nor there! I'm still employed, aren't I? My class is still sought after.

For now, and only because it's required. This new guy is significantly more popular. What if his class becomes required? What if it's worse than before? What if you become... old hat?

"No!" Globetrotter yelled, out loud. Half the cafeteria paused to stare at him. He sunk in his seat a little. How embarrassing...

In mock resoluteness, he grabbed the book before him and went back to reading. But he was only truly pretending to read, the bright crimson covers a pathetic excuse for a hole in which the frightened mouse hid.

The truth was that, despite his behavior being anything but amicable, his notorious reputation in the school had garnered him something akin to a celebrity status over the years. The course was required, certainly, even though he wasn't the only teacher who taught it, but the struggle to survive the rigorous schedule and harsh grading system he doled out had become a flat out challenge to the students. How long could you last? Would you manage to nab the ever elusive 'A' during a semester? One pupil even became famous for handing out "I Survived Globetrotter's Class" t-shirts. They hated the teacher, but reveled in the challenge. It was something that Globetrotter became ironically comfortable with over the years. Being notorious was better than not being noticed at all. He couldn't abide the thought of being second fiddle; of falling into obscurity. He'd never had reason to be concerned about it for seventeen years, even during Basil's "reign", but now...? Now he had legitimate competition. In all his years at A.C.M.E. Arts & Sciences, he'd never known an instructor so heavily discussed, so quixotic, so beloved, even on the very first day of his employment. Pinky was new and different, in all the wrong ways to him, yet in all the right ways to the students. And it terrified him.

On a sudden whim, he whipped out a pen from his inside jacket pocket and wrote feverishly on a napkin in front of him. He didn't see the tall figure approach him.

"Hello, Brain!"

Globetrotter practically leapt out of his skin.

"AH! Wh-... You..! Don't... do that!" he remarked, hastily stuffing the napkin and pen back into his coat pocket. He clutched at his heart, taking deep breaths as he rested his head in his palm.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Brain!" poor Pinky replied, resting a hand on Globetrotter's back comfortingly. Globetrotter shrugged it off, literally.

"And don't touch me! I just... h-had this... p-pressed," Globetrotter snapped, still catching his breath. "Who knows where your... paws have... been..."

"Oh, well, they haven't been far, Brain. They're always at my side! Ha-ha!"

Globetrotter cocked an eyebrow up at him, speechless. There was no way anyone could be this inordinately stupid.

"Mind if I join you?" Pinky asked, all innocence, that perpetually sunny smile never leaving his face.

"As I matter, of fact, I-"

"Oh, thank you!" Pinky initiated, grabbing a chair and pulling it close up to Globetrotter. Too close for his comfort. Apparently, personal space was something of a foreign concept to this character. "You know, I don't usually eat in public. Don't want to miss The Brady Bunch, you know? Hm hm. But it's rather nice out here! I might come and sit with you more often."

Heaven forbid, Globetrotter thought, ears reddening.

"Would you kindly refrain from mentioning that abomination of a tv show in my presence? It sickens me. And I don't appreciate your unnaturally close proximity."

"Come again?" Pinky asked, cocking his head.

"Move," Globetrotter said, managing, with difficulty, to push Pinky and the chair he sat in over an inch.

"Well, you could have just asked," Pinky chuckled, still smiling. He complied, scooting his chair a couple more inches away from Brain.

"Thank you," bit Globetrotter, turning away from Pinky and directing his attention back to the giant tome in front of him. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like a little privacy."

"Oh, but, I came to give you something!" Pinky exclaimed, and Globetrotter, despite himself, shiftily looked over as the lanky mouse dug in his pants pocket for... something. "A-ha! Here ya' go!"

And he handed him... a teabag? No. Not a teabag. It was too big to be a teabag.

Globetrotter took it from him tentatively, two fingers holding it away from his body as if it might explode.

"What is it?"

"Chicory root! I just thought that, well, when you couldn't find any coffee it reminded me of my mum. She used to be a big coffee drinker, too. She stopped recently, but she still missed the taste. Chicory root tastes a lot like coffee, only better! M-Maybe you'd like it, too?" Pinky offered helpfully, a tinge of shyness peppering his smile.

Globetrotter looked up at Pinky, nonplussed... and a wee bit confused. No one ever gave him anything; not unless he directly asked for it. To be fair, no one was ever bold enough to even attempt to show him much kindness, seeing as the result was often times a sharp reply and a sinister glare. This newcomer obviously hadn't learned the rules yet.

"Teachers... don't usually give me gifts," Globetrotter admitted. "Not unless I ask for them." Nevertheless, he pocketed the chicory root.

"Perhaps that's because you don't ask nicely, Brain? People give you lots of things when you're nice to them!"

It wasn't so much the statement itself, but the boldness of its deliverance that took Globetrotter aback.

"Sooooo... you're saying... I should be nice... to get rewards?"

"Oh, no, Brain! That would be taking advantage! You should be nice to people, 'cause, well, it's nice! And then they're nice to you! Don't you like making people happy?"

"No."

"Not even a little bit?"

"No one has ever given me reason to."

"Well, maybe they would if you showed them a little smile!"

And he actually stuck two fingers up against Globetrotter's cheeks, pushing up on each side in an attempt to draw something close to a grin on his drooping face.

"Ohhhhhhh. There's that smile, Brain!"

"Would you get off?!" Globetrotter blasted, waving his arms around as he flung Pinky off of him. "I told you not to touch me!"

His cheeks and ears burned red at the sound of laughter nearby. Some of the students had been watching and were now drowning in a hushed fit of giggles. Naturally...

"You dimwit. If you're still sitting in that chair in five seconds, I shall personally have to harm you," threatened Globetrotter, cheeks reddening worse than ever as his paws balled into fists.

"Do I get a prize if I leave in four?" Pinky smirked.

"One..."

"Or maybe I'll get one if I stay longer! It pays to be persistent sometimes, Brain."

"Two..."

"You know, you're rather funny when your ears turn red. Nya-ha-ha!"

"FOUR...!"

"Going, Brain!"

And with that, he was off, picking his food up off his tray to take back to his room, giggling to himself and humming, of all things, "Camptown Races" as he headed for the doors. One of the teachers, a Dr. Dawson, smiled at Pinky as he walked past him. And Dr. Dawson... Oh, have mercy. Dr. Dawson started singing along with him.

"I say. I do recognize that tune, young man!" Dawson said, grinning warmly. "Camptown ladies sing this song! Doo-dah! Doo-dah!"

"Camptown race-track five miles long! Oh, doo-da day!" Pinky sung back, beaming.

Others joined in. Still others. Soon, almost the entire cafeteria, minus Globetrotter and a few stragglers, was decked out in song.

"Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! Bet my money on the bob-tailed nag! Somebody bet on the bay!"

And with that, everyone burst out into hearty laughter, Pinky's wail the loudest of all. He and Dr. Dawson exchanged a friendly word or two, shook hands, and with that, Pinky departed, leaving a trail of chuckles behind.

Globetrotter blinked, his mouth hanging slightly open again. Whatever had happened was... terrifying. This bloke didn't just have an effect on the students, but on the whole school. Even the teachers were getting involved! It was official. This needed to end. He had to be stopped...

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Pinky was still humming "Camptown Races" all the way back to his classroom. He'd just reached the door when a little someone came pitter-pattering down the hallway after him.

"Mr. Pinky! Mr. Pinky!" she called, hat bobbing wildly up and down on her ruffled, furry head.

"Hello, Olivia!" Pinky said, grinning from ear to ear.

"That was amazing!" she gasped, panting. "Mrs. Judson said she could hear you from the nurses' office. She was singing with you!"

They both giggled at this.

"Well, tell Mrs. Judson that Mr. Pinky is glad she enjoyed the song!" Pinky said.

"Oh, I will! I will! By the way, umm... do you have any more classes planned?" Olivia asked, tucking her paws behind her and rocking back and forth, the pink cheeks only complementing her humble posture. She looked awfully cute.

"Hmmmmm. Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Is that a Friday?"

"I think so."

"Yes! Yes, I will!"

"2:00 PM sharp tomorrow, little lady," Pinky said, winking at her.

"2:00 PM sharp, Mr. Pinky!" Olivia repeated, saluting him. "I'll see you tomorrow!"

And off she trotted.

"Oh! Olivia!" Pinky called.

Olivia stopped and turned around, her mouth in a curious little 'o' shape. Pulling a hand out of his pocket, Pinky tossed her a bag of crisps. She caught it with a trained paw.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, popping open the bag and tossing a chip in her mouth as she ran off and around a corner.

"Olivia!" Pinky called again, a hand to his mouth.

"Hm?" she queried, popping her head around the corner.

"How many signatures?!"

"Thirty-seven!"

"Woo-hoo!"

"Woo woo!" she called back, before flying off once more.

Pinky smiled, giggling to himself, as he turned the door handle and disappeared inside.

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

Author's Notes:

- Marvell is an original character created by a friend of mine who goes by the cognomen of "Geeky". You can find her lovely art and cute character on Twitter at: GeekyBlackGirl

- Flip phones weren't exactly in wide use in '93, but I cheated here for convenience's sake and story purposes.

- The book that Teresa was reading, as well as the book Globetrotter carried around with him, are actual published works. Stochastic calculus is, apparently, a very advanced form of the subject. Brain considers it light reading.

- Your typical volcano science project is partially composed of baking soda, which, in turn, is made up of sodium bicarbonate. The whole thing is a reference to Globetrotter's explosive personality, and how he views the current predicament as such: one big problem on the verge of erupting and destroying his position if he doesn't do something... and fast.

- Globetrotter going for the cottage cheese and fruit, while sadly eschewing the pasta, is due to the fact that, in this story, he has terrible bowel and diarrhea issues. He's been told by his doctor to avoid certain foods, but finds this... a struggle at times. I dunno why I decided to give him this problem, other than the fact that it amuses me. Lol.

- Olivia is a lot of fun to write. :)

[cagestark]

Better Late Than Never//1

And Merry Christmas to YOU

Aka I started another project that I will take twenty years to finish. But @starkerflowers prompts were just too fucking good.

About: With interest in his work waning, famous writer Tony Stark (under the pseudonym AE Potts) changes his entire public relations platform, which includes hosting a meet-and-greet contest where one lucky fan will get to spend the day with him. That one lucky fan is Peter Parker. Peter is 21. Will contain nff, alcoholism, suicide attempts, character death (not major), drug mentions, anxiety, anxiety attacks. 

Read here on AO3. 

-

Tony is awakened from a drunken, dreamless sleep by a tub of envelopes and small packages being upended over his head. He jerks upright with a shout from where he was slumped over his writing desk, upending the (empty) bottle of whiskey that had lulled him to sleep. Pepper stands over him, impeccable in every way he is not.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, pushing envelopes off of where they have pooled on his lap. “You could have taken my eye out, Peppercorn. What are you trying to do, perform Lingchi on me? What is all this?”

“Fan mail,” she says. Her voice is stern and unsympathetic. The first time she’d found him passed out drunk over his desk, she had panicked and nearly called for an ambulance. The next handful of times she had just covered him with a blanket and regarded him with sad eyes the next morning when she brought him coffee. But those were ten years ago. Not to mention, all in her first few weeks on the job— “Social media is revolting. You never answer fan mail, you never do Q&A’s, you haven’t done an interview in almost a decade.”

“Fuck this,” Tony mutters, opening one drawer. “Where’s my whiskey?”

“In your bloodstream, I’d imagine. Don’t brush this off, Tony. Sales are waning. We need to make some serious changes in our PR or I’ll be putting in my two-weeks’ notice.”

That gets Tony’s attention. Pepper hadn’t threatened to quit after his last book when he’d killed off one of the most popular characters (one of his personal favorites, may she rest in fictional peace) and the public had flipped their shit. She hadn’t threatened to quit years before that when she walked in on him hunched over his desk with a straw to his nose, three sheets to the wind on far more than just whiskey. She has the disposition of a mountain: unflinching and ever-enduring.

“You mean it,” says Tony.

“I mean it.”

His shoulders sag. He glances around the room: the mess, the junk, the empty alcohol bottles, the half-finished manuscripts. There’s a strange feeling in the back of his throat, acidic, like he might throw up. Or cry. When his mouth opens to say something sarcastic, something about not letting the door hit her on the way out if she expects him to play nice with the media, all that comes out is a broken: “I can’t lose you, Pep.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder. “You will. If you don’t make some changes. Okay?”

Maybe this is what it means to be balanced on a knife’s edge, where one way ends in pain and the other ends in terminal inconvenience. But he knows which one he has to pick. His whole life is just a big inconvenience, but pain? Tony has spent enough time with his hand flat against the stove’s burner to know that he’d rather die than feel it again, rather die than lose one of the only people left who can stand him.

He picks up the closest letter and tears it open, blinking heavily to clear his eyes. Pepper leans down to press a kiss to the crown of his head and then gags. “Take a shower, when you get the chance,” she mutters, smiling.

-

The letters start off by being good for one thing: his ego. Adoring fans have been writing to his penname and business address for decades since he put out his first super-hero novel, titled IRON-MAN. Pepper has chosen to give him recent fan-mail, considering he’s spent so long ignoring it that if he were to answer them in order of reception, he might encounter fans who didn’t even remember the letters once sent. Or ones who were dead.

They are all variations of the same thing. The handwriting changes, gentle feminine cursive to childish scrawling to neat block lettering, but the message is usually the same. DEAR MR. POTTS. I’VE READ EVERY BOOK YOU’VE EVER WRITTEN. I GOT YOUR NAME TATTOOED ON MY ASS. IRON-MAN IS MY HERO. I’VE NEVER READ PROSE AS LOVELY AS YOURS. WHAT IS YOUR SECRET?

At Pepper’s request, Tony drafts a generic letter to send in response, something about how he can’t respond personally to every letter but he wants them to know that he’s read what they’ve written and ‘holds it close to his heart’.

“It’s good,” Pepper approves. “Sign them yourself.”

“Good?” Tony says. “I was joking—this letter is trash. Anyone who knows me would see this for the sarcasm it is—”

“Then thank God none of the fans know you,” Pepper responds coolly.

She has a point. Tony has existed in relative seclusion since he first began publishing his works at 24. After twenty years, he’d managed to remain mostly anonymous. A pseudonym does most of the work, including non-disclosure agreements for his employees. Any time a presence is required, he sends Rhodey or Happy or Pepper even. Theory pages abound on the internet, sites devoted to finding out who the real AE POTTS is. Even though one picture leaked of him during the early 2000’s (a grainy godforsaken thing that didn’t even show his best angle), there were still some disbelievers. One popular conspiracy theory is that AE is Pepper, considering Tony stole her last name to use as his own.

Maybe that’s why his declining image in the media bothers her so much.

A week later, Tony’s hand has a cramp the way it hasn’t since he was a little boy learning to write his letters. Freehand has never been his specialty—it’s far too slow for the way his mind works, bounding a sentence, a scene, a chapter ahead. Signing so many letters is going to freeze his hand in a claw like position. He’s sure of it.

Then Pepper drops the next bombshell on him: the contest.

“It goes against everything I’ve been working so hard to do for the last twenty years,” Tony shouts at the zenith of their argument. “I do not want to be known! I don’t want the fame; I just wanted the goddamn fortune, is that too much to ask for?”

“Times have changed,” Pepper says through her teeth. She holds her own, spine straight. She hasn’t shirked away from his angry outbursts ever, not even when they were children growing up together in Manhattan. “I’m not asking you to do a 20/20 Special. I’m not asking for an interview on Ellen. I’m asking for you to meet with one fan. Have a goddamn lunch with them. If you can’t handle that, then you can kiss your fortune goodbye. Mark my words.”

Tony marks them. He fucking marks them, okay? When he’s drinking himself blind, locked in his office (good luck getting in now, Pep), they ring around his skull like a dime in the dryer. Sometime around dawn, she picks the lock on the door and mops his brow while he vomits in the tiny trashcan beside his desk.

“I’m not doing this to torture you,” she says with uncharacteristic tenderness. Her hand on his forehead occasionally rifling through his greasy hair is not what’s making his eyes prickle with tears—it’s the vomiting. Honest. He’s not that touch-starved. “You know that, right? I hate seeing you like this.”

“I know,” he chokes miserably, gagging again. So he agrees to the Willy Wonka Initiative. Pepper puts out the word that the infamous AE POTTS will be selecting a single fan to meet face to face. Anyone eighteen or older is eligible to participate, as long as they write a letter explaining why they should get it blah blah blah. A golden ticket might have been funner. At least then Tony might have had an excuse to wear the tacky purple suit and tophat.

In the meantime, Pepper reveals that she’s been having Happy screen his mail to only show him the happy letters—figures. His hate mail isn’t extensive, but it certainly exists, having increased exponentially since he killed off Natasha in the last novel.

FUCKING MYSOGINISTIC ASSHOLE, Cheryl from Newport tenderly writes. YOU HAD ONE GOOD FEMALE CHARACTER, AND YOU KILLED HER OFF. I HOPE ANOTHER WOMAN NEVER LETS YOU BETWEEN THEIR LEGS AGAIN AND YOUR DICK SHRIVELS OFF.

Tony thinks that’s pretty succinct. He posts it up on his desk propped up against the last picture ever taken of him and his mother. Killing off Natasha had been an idea he’d personally revolted against for months. Sure, it made sense that sensitive, strong Natasha would be the one to sacrifice herself in order to stop the villain from succeeding in wiping out half the universe. It made sense for a woman to be the one to give her life to protect others.

After all, hadn’t his own mother died trying to protect Tony?

The weekend after the contest drops on their social media platforms, Pepper texts to tell him that it’s being received far, far better than they might have ever hoped for. Already dozens of letters had been received, letters which must have been penned and mailed just hours after the news had spread.

Joy, Tony texts back.

I haven’t told you the best news, she says. That’s how Tony knows that the next news will be the worst news, absolutely the worst news of all. You get to pick the fan.

-

“Any letter catching your eye?” Pepper asks him over lunch in his office.

“They’re all the same,” Tony laments. Even his own ego can only take so much stroking. After a while, the fan mail has become mostly routine and lackluster, though he keeps opening it, keeps signing the response letters, keeps sending them out. “I’m going to end up picking one at random, Pep.”

“I don’t care how you pick,” Pepper says. “As long as you do—and as long as you’re ready to suffer with the consequences of your choice.”

“Suffer? God, I love the light you bring into my life. The unending optimism. The unparalleled faith and trust in me.”

Her eyes glitter even as they roll. “If you like me so much, you can buy lunch next time.”

Tony snorts, taking a large bite from his burger. “Gold digger.”

“I’ve seen your taxes, Tony. These days, there isn’t much gold to dig for.”

“Ouch, kill shot.”

-

The letter arrives only one week before the contest deadline. In the top drawer of his desk are three other letters from potential winners, mostly picked at random, sometimes because Tony likes their handwriting, sometimes because they say something funny that actually makes him laugh. When he opens up the letter from Peter B. Parker, he scans the first lines not intending to be impressed.

Dear Mr. Potts, Peter writes.

I’ve written you so many letters that it should be easy by now. I don’t know why my hands are shaking. Maybe I’m nervous because I know for certain that this one, someone will actually read.

I received my first copy of IRON-MAN when I was eight years old—yes, a little bit heavy for a kid that age, but my parents had just died unexpectedly in a car accident. My aunt and uncle took me in, and my uncle gave me his first edition. Iron-man’s story was one of the only things that got through to me as a kid. His struggle to come to terms with losing his own parents, his loneliness, his fear. The way he overcomes all of that and still goes on to do good…yeah. It meant a lot to a grief-stricken kid. Obviously.

Pretty much every birthday and Christmas, I end up receiving one of your books as a gift. My family and friends know me so well, I have nearly a half-dozen copies of AVENGERS (it’s one of my favorites). The things you write about are so close to my heart, so close to some of the experiences I’ve had in real life. My struggle with mental illness. My abuse and neglect. And the way you write these things makes me think…fear, I guess…that maybe you know something about them too.

I would love to get to meet you and talk about your incredible books. I’d love to get to know you. Not going to lie, as a fanboy, I’d probably be happy to just sit at the same table with you and have a meal. I’ll buy. We don’t even have to talk (okay I swear I’m not as desperate as I sound!). I’m sure you’ve received so many awesome letters, and I know that the fan you pick will be so, so lucky.

(Every letter I write to you, I ask if you could please return my book. It’s been five years since I sent it. I’m sure you don’t even have it anymore, maybe you threw it away from the start. But if you do have it, even if you don’t pick me to win the contest, it would mean so much if you sent it back. When I mailed it to you in Jan. 2014, my uncle was still alive. He’s gone now…anyway it’s one of the only things of his that I have left.)

Your fan always,

PETER.

PS: please disregard the last letter I sent…obviously.

Tony rereads the letter twice. He feels a swirl of emotion in his stomach, not dissimilar to the queasiness after a long night of drinking. This—this is what he sacrificed by being so closed-off from his fans. While he’d known that his fans were real and obviously human, a part of him had never felt the magnitude of it before. These are people with feelings and experiences. This Parker kid (a self-proclaimed fanboy) lost his parents too, and far younger than Tony had. In a car accident.

Maybe Peter hadn’t been there, hadn’t been in the car, hadn’t watched his mother parents go up in flames, but it’s still a tragedy all in its own right. And all at eight years old. Jesus Christ. This kid has been looking up to him for ten years and more, and he had no fucking idea that kind of dysfunctional altar he’d been worshiping at.

Tony goes into the private bathroom connected to his office and gags up—nothing. Drool. But it still leaves his mouth slimy, so he brushes his teeth until he’s spitting pink into the sink, and when he catches sight of the haphazard reflection in the mirror, he pities it. He leans forward to touch foreheads with it, auto-intimacy. Do better, some voice in the back of his head says, but it’s not his voice.

Happy picks up his cellphone on the first ring. Of the ninth call.

“What do you fucking want, Tony?” he hisses into the receiver. “I’m at the movie theater seeing that new Star Wars. You made me go out into the lobby—”

“Then I’m doing you a favor,” Tony says, cracking open the cap on a sparkling water. “Look, I have important questions, I wouldn’t have called otherwise. My fan mail—how much of it has Pepper kept?”

“Jesus, how should I know? Totes and totes full, at least—”

“Brilliant—”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself? I’m missing the movie!”

“Didn’t I say you’re not missing much? I’m asking you because Pepper will make me do it myself: I need you to find specific letters from one fan: Peter B. Parker. Address is Queens, but he could be from anywhere. I’m also especially interested in acquiring a package he sent me in January 2014.”

“Christ, could you be any more mysterious?” Happy mutters. “Text me the details you bastard, I’m not missing another moment of Mark Hamill.”

-

It turns out that Pepper is not only a saint in all ways previously mentioned, but she is a saint in this as well: his fan mail from the last ten years has been saved and meticulously organized by month and year of reception. Happy comes to Tony’s office in the city the next day with a package, the outside brittle but address clear.

The writing is the same script as the letter newly received from Peter, though the handwriting has become more mature over time. Neater. Confined. No more hasty slant from an enthusiastic hand. The kid’s contest entry is in the top drawer of Tony’s desk—the previous potential winners are now the cherries on top of the reject pile. His stomach is heavy as a stone while he tears open the five-year-old package.

Out tumbles a pre-addressed package that was meant to carry the book back to its owner, back to Peter. Then, one first edition of IRON-MAN, the cover a little tattered, the spine creaky. Also included is another letter, torn from a spiral notebook. He opens it with shaking hands.

DEAR MISTER POTTS

I KNOW THAT GETTING A RESPONSE FROM MY LETTERS IS A LONG SHOT, BUT I’M REALLY HOPING THAT YOU’LL AUTOGRAPH THIS COPY OF IRON-MAN AND RETURN IT TO ME. IT IS MY UNCLE BEN’S…

It goes on to describe how his Uncle’s birthday is coming up and Peter hopes to give the autographed book to his Uncle. Tony reads with a heavy heart, knowing now that Tony hadn’t bothered even opening the package, hadn’t tried to sign it—and even if he had, Ben hadn’t lived long enough to celebrate his next birthday. What a son of a bitch Tony is.

For the first time in three months, Tony goes home.

Most days he stays at the space he rents in the fancy Manhattan building, the one that holds his office and Pepper’s own workspace as well as the other people who work for him (Happy, Beck, Rhodey). The mansion outside Manhattan belonged to Tony’s father and his mother. When his mother had still been alive, it had been a cold place that he had endured staying at for her sake. After his mother had died, it had been a torture chamber, or worse—a stale, suffocating tomb.

Then Howard had died and somehow left it to Tony (probably out of some misguided duty to ‘keep it in the family’). Tony made a personal habit to visit it infrequently and stay there even less often; but Pepper maintains it for him, has it cleaned, keeps it safe. Uses it as storage, Tony knows. For his fan mail.

It takes up three entire rooms, floor to ceiling clear totes labeled with months and years. Just looking at it makes Tony feel small, ashamed of how little he cared about interacting with his fans. It’s no wonder sales were down. Searching for Peter’s letters would be like looking for a needle in a haystack—but he has to do it, and he can’t let Happy bear the brunt of the weight anymore either. This is on Tony.

So he begins pulling totes from the room and scattering their contents on the oaken table and floors of the dining room. Five hours and seven totes later, and Tony still has no letter from Peter.

Pepper finds him at midnight. She comes bursting in through the front door—Tony can hear the sound of the door colliding with the wall from the force she’s used—shouting his name. The hysteria in her voice chills him to the bone. It’s worse than the tone she uses when Tony fucks up; this is the tone she uses when there’s a Tragedy, when something is Wrong.

She finds him in the dining room surrounded by letters, kneeling up from where he was slumped on the floor. He must be a sight, but she is one too, her hair a mess, her eyes red. When she sees him, all the breath goes out of her, one hand clutching at her breast as the other grabs the back of a chair for support.

“Jesus, Pep, what’s happened? Is it your father, another heart attack—?”

“Why don’t you ever answer your goddamn phone, you bastard!” She says through heaving breaths. “You don’t leave the office for weeks and suddenly no one can find you, you won’t pick up your phone—”

It takes a long moment for the pieces to connect.

“Oh Christ,” Tony says, chidingly. “What, you were scared for me?”

She slumps into one chair and puts her face into her well-manicured hands. Tony drops back onto his ass. He’s not a good man, not a sensitive man. The last woman who had cried in front of him was his mother, and look at all the ways he had failed her. But the longer he sits letting Pepper cry, the more it feels like bamboo shoots growing under his tender fingernails. Fuck it. He gets up, knees creaking, and goes to her.

They sit side by side at the dining table no one has eaten at in twelve years. Pepper leans into him, her thin shoulders shaking. Shame makes his own eyes burn, because he thought what did she have to be afraid of? But maybe she saw his car in the driveway of the unhappy home he avoids and assumed that he’d come here to Hemingway himself. Maybe she sat in the drive steeling herself to come into the sight of his body.

“I’m going through the fan mail,” Tony says at last.

“I can see that,” she says. Her scathing tone drips with tears.

“I’m okay, Pep,” he says. He’s not sure if it’s true. He’s not sure if he’s been okay ever since he blinked awake upside down and suspended by the seatbelt in the back seat of his mother’s Cadillac, glass littering the roof (and the roof had become the floor, then, see? Because they were upside down), the smell of gas and smoke in his nose). Maybe he’s not okay. Maybe it’s all a fucking lie, but he’s not going to off himself. Not when there’s a mystery afoot. “I promise.”

She nods, one damp hand reaching out blindly for his. It’s an awkward angle to hold hands at, but he doesn’t complain. And awkward or not, it feels nice to be touched in a kind, even platonic way.

“What are you looking for?” Pepper asks at last, wiping at the wet, swollen skin beneath her eyes.

“Why? You want to help?” Tony asks.

“Might as well,” she says. “I always do your heavy lifting, don’t I?”

-

With Pepper’s help, they find the first letter. Somehow the Willy Wonka Initiative has reversed until Tony feels like a kid, ripping open chocolate bars, desperate for a glimpse of gold. At dawn, a cry echoes in the dining room startling Tony from where he was slumping against a tote, dozing.

“I’ve got one, Tony!” Pepper shouts. She’s barefoot, her panty hose taken off and folded on the table, her sensible jacket removed and slung over the back of a chair. Her rumpled shirt and tendrils coming free from her ponytail reveal how much energy she’s been putting into this with him—maybe to make up for her emotional outburst earlier, maybe like a mother humoring a child’s singular beneficial interest. “From Peter B. Parker, address is Queens, same as before.”

“What’s the date?” Tony asks. He slips in a pile of letters from last August and nearly breaks his neck. Wishful fucking thinking.

“Last May. Here—”

Tony takes the letter and collapses in a chair, his lower back grateful for the support. He recognizes Peter’s handwriting as he tears the letter open, and he can feel Pepper’s presence over his shoulder, reading along with him.

This letter is different from the others. Tony knows it right away. The first indication should have been the date; Tony’s most recent novel dropped early May of last year. His most controversial work to date, with praise glorious and venomous in kind. Which way did the scales tip when it came to Peter, Tony wonders.

I know that you won’t read this. I’ve written you twice a year since I was ten years old, and you’ve never written back. I don’t blame you. I’m sure you’re busy—I guess I just needed to get these words down somewhere, so that they exist, so that somewhere there is a record of me after I’m dead.

Tony reads the rest in a dazed blur. At one point, Pepper’s hand lifts to press against her mouth, but still they read on, huddled together for convenience and then for comfort.

In the letter, Peter describes the tragedy of his uncle’s death and how he felt personally responsible, and how after months of guilt, when he’d read about Natasha’s sacrifice, he’d decided to take action. Against himself.

If someone’s death can do so much good in the world, Peter wrote with shaky script. Then maybe mine could too. I’m not deluded or anything. I know that I’m not a superhero and that I’m not fighting against some sanctimonious super villain. But I feel like if my death could make May’s life easier, then I have to do it.

“Jesus. Tony, don’t read this—” Pepper reaches out for the letter but Tony nearly rips it in half trying to keep it away from her.

It’s not just for May, Peter admits. I’m ready to stop hurting, too.

Peter signs off, for good. Only it hadn’t been for good—Peter’s most recent letter had obviously proven that, and hadn’t he written it himself? Ignore my last letter, obviously, he’d said. Something must have changed Peter’s mind, but one thing was clear: it hadn’t been Tony. Because Tony had been so self-absorbed, so tangled in his own grief and ego and addictions he hadn’t even read the letter. If Pepper hadn’t saved it, then it might have been destroyed, no record left of Peter’s words at all.

“Tony,” Pepper says. She takes the letter from his fingers and he lets it go. His hands are numb. “This isn’t your fault. Peter obviously was unstable—he’d just watched his uncle being murdered in front of him. No one in their right mind would read Natasha’s death and think that you were encouraging them to take their own life.”

“I know that,” Tony snaps. Lying. Then: “I’m not an idiot, Pep.”

Maybe the biggest lie of all.

[ambidextrousarcher]

Sarcastic StarBharat Reviews: Episode 17: In which Kunti gets an unwanted child

I DISTINCTLY remember posting this and the next episode on my blog, but the posts have gone AWOL, so reposting, so that I can make the links on my List page for this series work. 

Everything is under the cut. I’m not tagging anyone, because this is a repost.

Potential triggers ahead, if you’re a Karn fan, so please be careful.

The episode begins at the scene the last one ended at, ie: Surya making an entry and promising a bright and famous son to Kunti. (He was famous, sure, but bright? Huh? Crap, #glitterwashalert) He says that he cannot stop the boon. Nope, canon fail #28. Surya could stop it, he didn’t want to, fearing ridicule from the Gods. Kunti did not want a baby, I’m not sure she knew canonically that the boon involves a baby beforehand, but she DID NOT want one. (Please note that here, Surya is much, much worse than the Gods that come in the future, who do what they do with her CONSENT. Yes, that includes Indra. Next time y’all want to lambast Arjun like ‘he’s Indra’s son’, please remember this part, which is actually canon. Kunti begs Surya to let her go. He doesn’t. The conclusion is obvious regarding Mr. Glitterwash.) Kunti pleads to be let go. (Please remember that Kunti is a CHILD.) She says that her father, her family are innocent. He promises her that she will be a virgin once more after the baby is born. As if that magically makes everything alright. (Consent issues, people. Major consent issues, issues that are never addressed, because y’all just want to roast Arjun.) She’s literally crying when Surya 3D-prints the baby onto her. Canon fail #29: Kunti’s pregnancies are all natural, according to canon.

Scene cuts to Kunti cradling a baby in her hands, singing the song Suryadev Sogaye… (It’s a beautiful song, really, catches Kunti’s emotions really well, but…sigh.) She’s packing a basket with lotuses, IDK what for. It’s canon that she packed it with jewels. She lets the basket with the baby float away. “Forgive me, my son,” she says tearfully. “I cannot make my father bear the fruit of my sins…” She asks Surya to protect his son, at which the Kavach-Kundal make their appearance. Canon fail #30. Kunti canonically demands the Kavach-Kundal before she agrees to sleep with Surya for the sake of her father and her people. Kunti is the reason he gets that, not Surya’s divine mercy or something like that. “Do not worry about my son, Kunti, he has my protection,” says Surya. Canon fail #31. Surya does nothing of that sort. Kunti is the one who canonically keeps tabs on Karna. Surya names him Karna. Canon fail #32. Karna is an epithet he gets after he exchanges the Kavach-Kundal from Indra for Vasavi Shakti. It is not donation borne out of generosity, in spite of his Asur vow, it is an exchange. No more.

His original name is Vasusen. But this can be pardoned, as he is always referred to in the epic as Karna. (This guy has just been born, and he already has canon fails galore.)

Kunti pushes the basket away and collapses in tears. “Karn!” she yells at the end. “Forget the past, Princess,” says Priyamvadha, her friend. “How can I forget? He is definitely alive somewhere, he is not my past until he lives.” “It is better to keep this a secret, Princess” “From whom? My would be-husband? Betrayal cannot be the basis of a marriage,” “But Princess,” says Priyamvadha, “who will marry you after he comes to know of this?” “Someone would be there,” says Kunti. “Someone who will not consider my mistake my identity, someone who will accept me with my truth…” The camera pans away from Kunti.

Scene switches to Hastina. “Pranipaat Bhabhishree,” says Honey Boy to Ms. Always Patnidharma. “Enter, Maharaj,” “Have I disturbed you?” She shakes her head. “I came here to ask of your blessings before leaving for Kuntibhoj,” “Always remain victorious, Maharaj, may your fame reach all over the world,” “Can you not call me Pandu?” Aw, Honey Boy, you’re actually sweet sometimes. “Calling a king by name is offence, Maharaj,” “But it hurts if you call me that! I feel guilty. This throne belonged to elder brother and his…” “No! If the throne was his, he would have gotten it. If he has not gotten it, it means that it is yours. You just need to become worthy of it.” “You came here to become the Queen, and…” “No, I came here to become your elder brother’s wife, and I am that. If I had come to become the Queen, I’d have married the throne,” She laughs. Ah, such a sweet scene. Shame it’s an extension of a canon fail.

“How can you be so generous?” “Because a sister-in-law is in the place of a mother, isn’t she? And a mother has only one wish. That her child should be happy, that he should get everything. I feel like I’ve gotten the boon of not 100 but 102 sons.” “Promise me, Bhabhishree, that you will call me Maharaj only when I am on the throne. Otherwise, consider me your son and call me by my name.” “Then I’ll call your wife by her name, too! Now, go to Kuntibhoj and bring my sister-in-law. I’ve never seen you, but I can say that any beauty in this world will not be able to refuse you.” “I have your blessings, so I am confident, but I don’t begin anything without the blessings of Jyeshth Bhraata.” Aaah. Such syrupy sweetness. I can’t stomach this. (I actually couldn’t, I closed the episode and came back two days later). “These blessings are from his side too, Pandu. His heart is still warring with itself, but he still loves you as much as he did before.” Did he ever love Honey Boy in this version? I kind of doubt it. “I have faith, Bhabhi. And my own devotion has not lessened. I promise you that I and my wife will always serve you and Jyeshth.” He falls at her feet. “Vijayi Bhav,” He leaves.

Camera focuses on the Kunti Swayamvar. Kuntibhoj gives a speech on how honored he is to host all these Kings. He requests them to respect Kunti’s choice and bless the newly-wed couple at the end. He calls Kunti forward. “I am not going to introduce you to these Kings because you’re going to choose your fate today” Huh? Where does that make sense? IDK where, except StarBharat writers.

“Pitashree,” says Kunti. “I’d like to ask a question to all the Princes present here. I will make my decision on the basis of their answers to the question, if you grant me permission,” “Of course, any girl has the right to ask questions in her Swayamvar. Kings and Princes present here, my daughter wants an answer to a dilemma in her mind. The man whose answer strikes her as right, will be her husband. I hope that causes no one any issues.” “The Prince of Ashwa may have problems, King Bhoj, where there’s a question of wit, the men of his family all fail.” Laughter ensues. A guy looks here and there. I’m nearly certain that no shit like this ever happens in canon. But I have no canon record of Kunti’s swayamvar, so I’ll count it as a fail later. Both the Princes nearly cross swords when they are stopped by someone, who’s obviously Honey Boy. “Do not disrespect the laws of the Swayamvar, Kumar. “Who are you?” “I am the King of Hastinapur, son of Kuruvansh, Pandu” This pompous statement echoes. “I request you to return to your places.” He turns to Kunti. “And I request you to ask the question.” “Maharishi Gautam’s wife, Ahalya had carnal relations with Lord Indra. Why had Lord Ram relieved her of that punishment? Did he not set a bad example for the future with that?” Okay, this is definitely canon fail #33. I am completely sure this wank DID not happen. “The answer to this is easy. A God can forgive any offender.” Says one of the two fighting Princes. IDK which one, and honestly I don’t care. Kunti looks down. Clearly she’s not pleased. “Then why weren’t Ravan and Bali pardoned? That’s partiality!” “Fine. Answer yourself then.” These two guys are fighting again, I see. “The answer is that perhaps He felt Ahalya should be free of it.” “But I think” says another Prince “that Ahalya, as a statue must have regretted what she did.” “No.” This is Pandu. “The truth is that Ahalya did what she did with Indra thinking that he was her husband” (Really? Seems Indra got better, at least a little, with time, unlike..) “Rama was a King, unlike the Rishi and a King needs to know if the offence was an offence or merely a mistake. Whether the intention behind it was wrong or not. If the intention was innocent, then regret and corrective answers are enough. Punishment is not needed. Thinking this, Rama must have pardoned Ahalya.” Melodious music plays as Kunti lifts her eyes, the garland and slowly walks towards Honey Boy, garlanding him, to the sound of conches and the beginning of ‘Mangalam Bhagavan Vishnu…’

Precap: “Where would my son be?” asks Kunti. Uh-oh. I’m already scared. A horse neighs and a boy rushes forward in a chariot. “Where would he be sheltered? Where would my son be? My child, my Karn?” Officially, I’m naming this Kunti Ms. Melodrama, I’d say. Please comment any alternative names. The boy jumps like a very large bat.

[letterboxd]

Life in Film: Ben Wheatley.

As Netflix goes gothic with a new Rebecca adaptation, director Ben Wheatley tells Jack Moulton about his favorite Hitchcock film, the teenagers who will save cinema, and a memorable experience with The Thing.

“The actual process of filmmaking is guiding actors and capturing emotion on set. That’s enough of a job without putting another layer of postmodern film criticism over the top of it.” —Ben Wheatley

Winter’s coming, still no vaccine, the four walls of home are getting pretty samey… and what Netflix has decided we need right now is a lavish, gaslight-y psychological thriller about a clifftop manor filled with the personality of its dead mistress—and a revival of one of the best menaces in screen history. Bring on the ‘Mrs Danvers’ Hallowe’en costumes, because Rebecca is back.

In Ben Wheatley’s new film adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s best-selling 1938 novel, scripted by Jane Goldman, Lily James plays an orphaned lady’s maid—a complete nobody, with no known first name—who catches the eye of the dashing, cashed-up Maxim de Winter (Armie Hammer).

Very quickly, the young second Mrs de Winter is flung into the intimidating role of lady of Manderley, and into the shadow of de Winter’s late first wife, Rebecca. The whirlwind romance is over; the obsession has begun, and it’s hotly fuelled by Manderley’s housekeeper, Mrs Danvers (Kristin Scott Thomas, perfectly cast).

Each adaptation of du Maurier’s story has its own quirks, and early Letterboxd reactions suggest viewers will experience varying levels of satisfaction with Wheatley’s, depending on how familiar they are with both the novel and earlier screen versions—most notably, Alfred Hitchcock’s 1940 Best Picture winner, starring Laurence Olivier Joan Fontaine, and Judith Anderson.

Why would you follow Hitchcock? It’s been 80 years; Netflix is likely banking on an audience of Rebecca virgins (the same kind of studio calculation that worked for Bradley Cooper’s A Star is Born). Plus, the new Rebecca is a Working Title affair; it has glamor, camp, Armie Hammer in a three-piece suit, the sunny South of France, sports cars, horses, the wild Cornish coast, Lily James in full dramatic heat, and—controversial!—a fresh twist on the denouement.

A big-budget thriller made for a streamer is Wheatley coming full circle, in a way: he made his name early on with viral internet capers and a blog (“Mr and Mrs Wheatley”) of shorts co-created with his wife and longtime collaborator, Amy Jump. Between then and now, they have gained fans for their well-received low-to-no budget thrillers, including High-Rise, Kill List and Free Fire (which also starred Hammer).

Over Zoom, Wheatley spoke to Letterboxd about the process of scaling up, the challenge of casting already-iconic characters, and being a year-round horror lover. [The Rebecca plot discussion may be spoilery to some. Wheatley is specifically talking about the du Maurier version, not his film.]

Armie Hammer and Ben Wheatley on the set of ‘Rebecca’.

Can you tell us how you overcame any concerns in adapting a famous novel that already has a very famous adaptation? How did you want to make a 1930s story relevant to modern audiences? Ben Wheatley: When you go back to the novel and look at how it works, you see it’s a very modern book. [Author Daphne du Maurier is] doing stuff that people are still picking up the pieces of now. It’s almost like the Rosetta Stone of thrillers—it tells you everything on how to put a thriller together. The genre jumping and Russian-doll nature of the structure is so delicious. When you look at the characters in the book, they’re still popping up in other stuff—there’s Mrs Danvers in all sorts of movies.

It remains fresh because of its boldness. Du Maurier is writing in a way that’s almost like a dare. She’s going, “right, okay, you like romantic fiction do you? I’ll write you romantic fiction; here’s Maxim de Winter, he’s a widower, he’s a good-looking guy, and owns a big house. Here’s a rags-to-riches, Cinderella-style girl. They’re going to fall in love. Then I’m going to ruin romantic fiction for you forever by making him into a murdering swine and implicating you in the murder because you’re so excited about a couple getting away with it!”

That’s the happy ending—Maxim doesn’t go to prison. How does that work? He’s pretty evil by the end. It’s so subtly done that you only see the trap of it after you finish reading the book. That’s clearly represented in Jane Goldman’s adaptation that couldn’t be done in 1940 because of the Hays Code. That whole element of the book is missing [in Hitchcock’s Rebecca]. But I do really like this style of storytelling in the 1930s and ’40s that is not winky, sarcastic, and cynical. It’s going, “here’s Entertainment with a big ‘E’. We’re going to take you on holiday, then we’re gonna scare you, then we’re gonna take you around these beautiful houses that you would never get a chance to go around, and we’re gonna show you these big emotions.”

After High-Rise, you ended up circling back to more contained types of films, whereas Rebecca is your lushest and largest production. How was scaling up for you? Free Fire does feel like a more contained film, but in many ways it was just as complicated and had the same budget as High-Rise, since it’s just in one space. Happy New Year, Colin Burstead is literally a contained film, that’s right. What [the bigger budget] gave me was the chance to have a conversation where I say I want a hotel that’s full of people and no-one says you can’t have any people in it. You don’t have to shoot in a corner, so that scale is suddenly allowed.

Elisabeth Moss and Tom Hiddlestone in Wheatley’s ‘High-Rise’ (2015).

The other movies I did are seen as no-budget or, I don’t even know the word for how little money they are, and even though High-Rise and Free Fire were eight million dollars each, they’re still seen as ultra-low budget. This is the first film that I’ve done that’s just a standard Hollywood-style movie budget and it makes a massive difference. It gives you extra time to work. All the schemes you might have had to work out in order to cheat and get around faster, but now it’s fine, let’s only shoot two pages today. We can go out on the road and close down all of the south of France—don’t worry about all the holidaymakers screaming at you and getting cross! That side of it is great.

You had the challenge to cast iconic actors for iconic roles. What were you looking for in the casting? What points of reference did you give the actors? I don’t think we really talked about it, but [Armie Hammer] definitely didn’t watch the Hitchcock version. I can understand why he wouldn’t. There was no way he was going to accidentally mimic [Laurence] Olivier’s performance without seeing it and he just didn’t want to have the pressure of that. I think that’s quite right. It’s an 80-year-old film, it’s a beloved classic, and we’d be mad if we were trying to remake it. We’re not.

The thing about the shadow that the film cast is that it’s hard enough making stuff without thinking about other filmmakers. I’ve had this in the past where journalists ask me “what were your influences on the day?” and I wish I could say “it was a really complicated set of movies that the whole thing was based around”, but it’s not like that. When you watch documentaries about filmmakers screening loads of movies for their actors before they make something—it’s lovely, but it’s not something I’ve ever done.

The actual process of filmmaking is guiding actors and capturing emotion on set. That’s enough of a job without putting another layer of postmodern film criticism over the top of it—“we’ll use this shot from 1952, that will really make this scene sing!”—then you’re in a world of pain. Basically, it’s my interpretation of the adaptation. The book is its own place, and for something like High-Rise, [screenwriter Amy Jump] has the nightmare of sitting down with 112 pages of blank paper and taking a novel and smashing it into a script. That’s the hard bit.

Armie Hammer and Lily James in ‘Rebecca’.

Current industry news is not so great—cinemas are facing bankruptcy, film festivals in the USA are mostly virtual, Disney is focusing on Disney+ only. How do you feel about a future where streaming dominates the market and the theatrical experience becomes, as we fear, an exclusive niche? Independent cinema was born out of very few movies. If you look at the history of Eraserhead—that film on its own almost created all of cult cinema programming. One movie can do that. It can create an audience that is replicated and becomes a whole industry. And that can happen again, but it needs those films to do that. They will come as things ebb and flow. The streamers will control the whole market and then one day someone will go “I don’t want to watch this stuff, I want to watch something else” and they’ll go make it.

It’s like The Matrix, it’s a repeating cycle. There’ll always be ‘the One’. There’s Barbara Loden in 1970 making Wanda, basically inventing American independent cinema. So I don’t worry massively about it. I know it’s awkward and awful for people to go bankrupt and the cinemas to close down, but in time they’ll re-open because people will wanna see stuff. The figures for cinemagoers were massive before Covid. Are you saying that people with money are not going to exploit that? Life will find a way. Remember that the cinema industry from the beginning is one that’s in a tailspin. Every year is a disaster and they’re going bust. But they survived the Spanish Flu, which is basically the same thing.

Two months ago, you quickly made a horror movie. We’re going to get a lot of these from filmmakers who just need to create something this year. What can you identify now about this inevitable next wave of micro-budget, micro-schedule pandemic-era cinema? I’ve always made micro-budget films so that side of it is not so crazy. There will be a lot of Zoom and people-locked-in-houses films but they won’t be so interesting. They’re more to-keep-you-sane kind of filmmaking which is absolutely fine. Where you should look for [the ‘pandemic-era’ films] is from the kids and young adults through 14 to 25 who’ve been the most affected by it. They will be the ones making the true movies about the pandemic which will be in like five years’ time.

People going through GCSEs and A-Levels [final high-school exams in England] will have had their social contracts thoroughly smashed by the government after society tells them that this is the most important thing you’re ever gonna do in your life. Then the next day the government tells them “actually, you’ve all passed”, then the next day they go “no, you’ve all failed”, and then “oh no, you’ve all passed”. It’s totally bizarre. Anyone who’s in university at the moment [is] thinking about how they’ve worked really hard to get to that position and now they’ve had it taken away from them. That type of schism in that group will make for a unique set of storytelling impetus. Much more interesting than from my perspective of being a middle-age bloke and having to stay in my house for a bit, which was alright. Their experience is extreme and that will change cinema.

Kristin Scott Thomas as Mrs Danvers in ‘Rebecca’.

It’s time to probe into your taste in film. Firstly, three questions about Alfred Hitchcock: his best film, most underrated film, and most overrated film? It’s tricky, there’s a lot to choose from. I think Psycho is his best film because, much like Wanda, it was the invention of indie cinema. He took a TV crew to go and do a personal project and then completely redefined horror, and he did it in the same year as Peeping Tom.

There’s stuff I really like in Torn Curtain. Certainly the murder scene where they’re trying to stick the guy in the oven. It’s a gut-wrenching sequence. Overrated, I don’t know. It’s just a bit mean, isn’t it? Overrated by who? They’re all massively rated, aren’t they?

Which film made you want to become a filmmaker? The slightly uncool version of my answer is the first fifteen minutes of Dr. No before I got sent to bed. We used to watch movies on the telly when I was a kid, so movies would start at 7pm and I had to go to bed at 7:30pm. You would get to see the first half-hour and that would be it. The opening was really intriguing. I never actually saw a lot of these movies until I was much older.

The more grown-up answer is a film like Taxi Driver. It was the first time where I felt like I’d been transported in a way where there was an authorship to a film that I didn’t understand. It had done something to me that television and straightforward movies hadn’t done and made me feel very strange. It was something to do with the very, very intense mixture of sound, music and image and I started to understand that that was cinema.

What horror movie do you watch every Hallowe’en? I watch The Thing every year but I don’t tend to celebrate Hallowe’en, to be honest. I’m of an age where it wasn’t a big deal and was never particularly celebrated. I find it a bit like “what’s all this Hallowe’en about?”—horror films for me are for all year-round.

What’s a brilliant mindfuck movie that perhaps even cinephiles haven’t seen? What grade of cinephile are we talking? All of the work by Jan Švankmajer, maybe. Hard to Be a God is pretty mindfucky if you want a bit of that, but cinephiles should know about it. It’s pretty intense. Marketa Lazarová too.

‘Marketa Lazarová’ (1967) directed by František Vláčil.

What is the greatest screen romance that you totally fell head over heels for? I guess it’s Casablanca for me. That would be it.

Which coming-of-age film did you connect to the most as a teenager? [Pauses for effect] Scum.

Who is an exciting newcomer director we should keep our eyes on? God, I don’t know. I would say Jim Hosking but he’s older than me and he’s not a newcomer because he’s done two movies. So, that’s rubbish. He doesn’t count.

[Editor’s note: Hosking contributed to ABCs of Death 2 with the segment “G is for Grandad” while Wheatley contributed to The ABCs of Death with the segment “U is for Unearthed” and also executive produced the follow-up film.]

What was your best cinema experience? [Spoiler warning for The Thing.]

Oh, one that speaks in my mind is seeing The Thing at an all-nighter in the Scala at King’s Cross, and I was sitting right next to this drunk guy who was talking along to the screen. It was a packed cinema with about 300 people, and someone at the front told him “will you just shut up?” The guy says “I won’t shut up. You tell me to shut up again and I’ll spoil the whole film!” The whole audience goes “no, no, no!” and he went “it’s the black guy and the guy with the beard—everyone else dies!” That made me laugh so much.

Do you have a favorite film you’ve watched so far this year? Yeah, Zombie Flesh Eaters.

Related content

Classic Gothic Literature to Film—Jennifer Boddaert’s list

Ava’s Dark Romance list

Ben Wheatley’s Life in Film list

Follow Jack on Letterboxd

‘Rebecca’ is in select US theaters on October 17, and streaming on Netflix everywhere on October 21.

[imagination-is-key-in-my-world]

Soul-mates

Request : A soulmate au with Alec would be super cute 😍 like maybe the reader gets hurt somehow and physical contact with soulmates helps heal or something?? And both the reader and Alec are trying to resist the soulmate pull cause they don’t get along at first but then just super fluffy and cute. Does that make sense? 😂❤️ (ANONYMOUS)

Summary : Have you ever heard of the bond that a Soul-mate can have? Imagine a Parabati bond but stronger, imagine healing within seconds because someone touched you. Well imagine how hard that must be when you get hurt but the one person who can help you, hates you.

Warnings : Strong language in parts. Magnus is a clear Disney Fan.

Pairing : Alec Lightwood x Reader

Word Count : 2,861

“Get off of me!” Alec yelled at you, shaking your free hand from his arm as you tried to help him up. It was the first mission that required the whole team's participation as the institute was alerted that Valentine and Jonathan Christopher were seen tracking down a Warlock in this particular area.

Alec had been cornered, and he was unwilling to let you help him out of his rough patch. In fact, he seemed irritated at your eagerness to help. You had been aware lately that there was this almost magnetic pull that drew you to him. But it was definitely one sided. Alec couldn't stand to be around you. He also hated it when people thought that he was weak. “I can do it myself!” pulling himself up and shooting an arrow in your direction. “Alec!” You cried, closing your eyes tight as you thought it was going to hit you. However, the impact never came. Instead the arrow flew passed your head and struck one of Valentine's forsaken smack bang in the centre of his chest. For a second, you thought that your eyes locked with his. Knowing it was a crazy assumption you slapped the thought away. This was Alec, the boy that flipped you off with his eyes, the boy who would make a sarcastic comment about any strategic plan that you had. Knowing full well that they were almost always successful, pissing him off even more. “Y/N!” Isabelle screamed from across the alleyway, advancing towards you with her whip at the ready. “Get down!” And yet it was too late, the impact of a sharp instrument entered your back and poked out through your chest. You watched stunned at what had happened. Noticing the blood drops hitting the floor at the end of the blade. Everything was quiet as Jace, Isabelle and Clary ran towards you. You could see the scene play out, plenty of screaming and crying. “Y/N?” But, Jace's voice was the only thing that broke through the silence at first, “Alec help me help her up will you?” “No.. I c-” Alec's stern voice was the last thing you heard before you fell into Jace's arms.

**

“There's my little girl!” Luke laughed when he saw you try to walk for the first time. “You can do it, come on.” The room was filled with muffled cheers, as they tried their hardest not to startle you. Your mother Jocelyn was eyeing you with a mixture of fear and pride, “Don't push her too hard Luke, she will walk when she is ready.” Clary was dangling a toy in front of your face as if you were a dog, guiding you towards her step father Luke. “She is getting better at this daddy.” She wrapped herself into Luke's lap, watching her little sister lift herself up from the floor and stand unsteadily on both feet. Everyone cheered louder than they expected which startled you. Resulting in you landing back down onto your butt with a substantial thud. A small cry left your lips. “No no no,” Luke rushed over to you picking you up and cradling you in his arms as you rubbed your tiny fists against your eyes. Something was strange about this memory, it wasn't as if you were remembering it from the perspective of the younger version of yourself. It was as if you were present there too, stood in the room watching it all play out as if it were a movie. “Don't cry little one, it's okay. You are in a family of fighters. If you fall, you can always pick yourself back up again.” Luke spoke to the small girl in his arms. “Do you hear me Y/N, pick yourself back up again!” This time Luke was staring right at you, the spectator. “You fell. Now pick yourself back up!”

**

The words that were directed at you with so much fear, it startled you awake. When you opened your eyes you found yourself to be in a very familiar environment. The institute infirmary, but you were all alone. Lifting your head ever so slightly you gazed at the gauze taped around the middle of you chest. A sharp sting erupted from you body when you remembered what happened. “Ah!” Crying out as you tried to reach for the area. The monitor that you were wired up to started beeping like mad. The sudden movement to observe your situation caused a strong sense of pain travel through you body, resulting in an increase of your heart rate. Sometimes it was a good thing that you watched all of those doctor programmes on the television in your free time. “You will heal, but it will be hard and it will take some time. It's a pretty bad wound you got there.” Alec spoke up from the doorway, arms crossed, his usual authoritative stance. He turned around as quickly as he had appeared, he disappeared through the door. Part of you had thought that you had imagined him there the entire time. Maybe a hallucination from the pain and drugs that they had given you when your healing rune had failed. You couldn't help but feel saddened by the fact that Alec was this way with you. Clary, your sister, became a Shadowhunter (in training) when she was 18 in order to assist in finding the Mortal Cup. However, your dad Luke trained you to become a police officer, something your mother Jocelyn hated, but hated considerably less to you becoming a Shadowhunter. Once your mother had died, Luke panicked. He didn't know how to protect you any more, and doubted whether you joining the police was the right thing for you. Becoming a Shadowhunter was tough, you were starting late and the one person who was assigned to train you was Alec. Only problem was, he never liked you. You didn't know whether he felt bad because you knew what he had done or whether it was something more personal. Clary had told you on many occasions when you couldn't help but tear up over it, that it was just the way that he was. Over time you thought that his hatred would decrease, but it didn't. He point blank refused to train you when you told him that you found some of his instructions too difficult to comprehend. Calling you a pathetic invalid, “it's not my fault you cant understand the basics of battle training!”

**

“I have a theory, a theory that may help us to understand why she is not healing.” Magnus spoke from in front of you bed. It had been a couple of hours since you had woken to find the ignorant leader in the doorway of the infirmary. Magnus was one of your closest friends at the institute. You got on with everyone, but he always made you feel like you were special, acting more like an OLDER brother. “Have you tried using a Soul-mate bond?” “What on earth is a Soul-mate bond? You mean like a Parabati bond?” Jace said holding onto your hand and squeezing it, his other reaching for his rune on his torso. Magnus shook his head vigorously. “No this is different. This is like.. How should I put it,” he paused and we all watched as he searched for the right words, “Disney, yes Disney.” The grin on his face, obviously showed that he was satisfied with his answer. But by our confused gazes he had to continue. “In a Disney film, Snow White was brought back from death by her true love's kiss. Sleeping Beauty raised from a coma after pricking her finger on a spindle all because of a true love's kiss...” “Wow Magnus, you need to stop drinking.” You said laughing, then regretting it as it sent a stinging paint to your chest. “So what you're saying is, I need to kiss someone?” Your head fell down as you knew there was no hope of healing. “Fucking hell, never kissed a guy and now I have to be prostituted out across the institute to see if they can stitch me back together, yeah no thanks.” You mumble under your breath, hoping your sister doesn't pick up on your cynical behaviour. “Y/N!” She yelled, he clearly heard what you said, 'damn' you thought. “I know it's not ideal, but you need to heal.” “Come 'ere then, let me kiss you!” You mocked Clary, holding your arms out in front of you. “Ew no I'm your sister!” Her faced grimaced at your request. “Aha! Not nice is it when you have to kiss people you don't like!” You both burst out laughing and from the corner of your eye, he was there again. Standing in the doorway of the infirmary. For a split second, you thought you saw him smile. “Before anyone goes around kissing anyone!” Magnus was holding a book in his hand. “There may be another way. It doesn't have to be a kiss.” Jace leaned over to read the book that Magnus held in his hands, scanning the page that he had been reading from. “It says here that a Soul-mate can heal all wounds. Transfer pain from their partner by a simple compassionate touch.” His smile faded, “Looks like it isn't me then.” You knew he wasn’t upset by it, he was only trying to lift your spirits. “Maybe next time, Jace.” He squeezed your hand and sat back down.

**

Two days had passed and you were slowly started to feel yourself again, even though you still had a gaping hole in the middle of your chest. “Can I come in?” It was him, Mr Head of the Institute. “You make the rules, so whatever you want Mr Boss Man.” Your arms went behind your back as you tried to lift yourself into a sitting position. “Fuck me, that hurt,” you muttered as the pain shot through your entire body. “Hmm?” “Nothing, Alec. What brings you to my humble abode?” At least you didn't lose your sense of humour in the accident. “Why did you do it?” He broke the silence, but still keeping his distance from you. Your confused expression on your face gave little away. “Why did you continue to protect me in the mission.” Your shoulders shrugged while you weighed it out in your head. “It's what we do, we are Shadowhunters!” “Bullshit! The only other person you would do that for is Clary, and she wasn't far from me. Why protect me?” He eyed up the floor as if it was the most fascinating thing on the planet. “When all I’ve ever done is given you shit.” “Why is that?” Taking a sip of water from your cup, your mouth all of a sudden very dry. “Why do you always act like you hate me.” It was his turn to shrug his shoulders. “I don't know.” His voice cracked, something you have never heard before with him. “I guess I never forgave myself for what I did to Jocelyn. I wanted you to hate me the way that I hate myself each and everyday. So I teased you and ignored you most of the time. I made your life harder than everyone else's in training because I wanted you to hate me. Make you feel like I was pushing you too hard to be mean. But I also wanted you to learn how to protect yourself the best way you could.” A flash of guilt flooded his face as he edged slightly closer to your bed. “So you don't hate me?” He responded by shaking his head. “I don't hate you, just so you know. I don't blame you either, you know for my mum?” “But why? Why wont you and Clary hate me. I did something bad.” He sat at the edge of your bed close to tears. “I took away someone you loved.” There was yet another voice crack. Hearing him confess like this did soften your heart. You weren't lying. You didn't hate him, but you also couldn't forget what you saw on the footage. “It wasn't your fault Alec, it wasn't you.” The room was filled with sobs, but it wasn't his. They were yours, the sudden reflection on past memories burned at your gut. All of a sudden, there were arms wrapped around your body and lulling you, calming you, and smoothing over your hair. “Shhh,” he whispered letting out a few tears himself now that you couldn't see his weakness. You. “Alec?” You pulled away from him and he shot his head around wiping the evidence from his face. “I don't feel so good.” You said as your chest began to burn. The monitor was going crazy as your heart rate changed pace rapidly.  “What's happening to me?” Alec no longer cared that you were his weakness, he didn't care that you were now watching him cry as he called for help. Scared shitless that he was going to lose you. “Can I get some fucking help in here please!” Turning back to you and stroked your hair from your face. “It's gonna be okay Y/N. I'm not going anywhere, you're not going anywhere. You're staying with me okay?” The tears stung his eyes and his chest burned like mad, “stay with me!” he repeated before your eyes shut, and his face faded with everything turning black.

**

“Would you quit it, please!” You screamed as Alec threw you back down onto the mat just as you had regained your balance on your feet. “It hurts, and you're not giving me enough time to get ready.” “Really Y/N? No one and I repeat no one is going to give you enough time to get ready when we are under attack. They are not going to just stop, stand back, allow you to regain your bearings and then continue with the fight. That is not how real life works.” He yelled back at you. You hated training with Alec, he was far too rough with you. You had put a request in for Clary or even Jace to train you, but unfortunately they were both denied. “Okay I get it, but this isn't a battle. This is training and I am not going to learn if you don't ease up a bit.” You rubbed at your lower back as it trembled from the impact with the mat. Only to have your feet knocked out from under you sending you back down where you started. “I am not like you! For fuck's sake Alec!” “Fine, if you do not want to learn. Then you can find a new Shadowhunter to train your weak ass.” The last thing you saw was him walking out in a huff through the door. “Don't come crying to me when you die!” Tears filled your eyes as you pushed yourself up from the mat. Almost falling back down from the shear weakness of your body. “Oww!” Left your lips, hobbling towards your bag in the corner of the room. Lifting the strap onto your shoulder and limping out of the training room.

**

Alec's head shot up from where he was resting it against his arms on your bed. He had spent all night since you crashed out waiting for you to wake back up. He had only stirred what you moved slightly, which was pretty much the entire night. “Y/N?” Your eyes were now fluttering, threatening to open but when they did you instantly regretted it. The light burned your eyes. “Hey!” Alec whispered gripping your hand tighter, probably preventing the blood flow to your fingers. “how are you doing?” His free hand raised to your head and swiped the stray strands of hair from your forehead. “My own little sleeping white.” You snickered at his response. “That wasn't right was it?” You shook your head ever so slightly not wanting to move too much. “Ah well, not the point.” “What happened Alec? Why did I crash?” He simply pointed to your bandaged area but the bandage was no longer there. “Alec?” “Hey Soul-mate!” He had the biggest grin on his face as he placed a delicate kiss to your forehead. “You're all healed up now.” You began to shake your head, not truly convinced. “Nuhuh,” his eyebrows furrowed, “I haven't had my true love's kiss yet.” The corners of his lips rose to expose a cheesy smile. One that melted your heart but increased your smile. “Well in that case.” He slowly leaned down so that he was mere centimetres from your face, cupping your cheek with one hand but still holding tightly to yours with the other. The kiss was nothing like you expected it to be, you thought it was going to be rough like his fighting skills, but it was definitively a pleasant surprise. Slow and sweet and full of love. When he tried to pull away your hand shot to the back of his head, pulling him back down to continue the kiss. He was your Soul-mate after all.

[yourewelcomeforbeingmyfriend]

Dear Friend - Part 5

Dean x Reader

Summary: Dean meets a girl on a new hunter website and begins an online romance. The only problem is, they don’t know who the other person is. Could their love for one another last only in the confines of the computer screen or will their desire for something more lead them to finally meet?

Warnings: Dean’s kind of mean, but the reader’s kind of mean back. It’s another slow burn. Sorry

A/N: This is part 5 of my “You’ve Got Mail” tribute. I’m really loving this series and everyone’s reactions to it. Thank you to everyone who’s taken the time to read it and a huge thank you to those lovely people who’ve given me feedback in replies/reblogs/asks. You’re all such lovely people.

Once again, a big thank you to @hannahindie for being the beta on this series. Here are some of her thoughts from this chapter: “Ah geeze. Dean. Dean dean dean.” and “Awww baby angel noooooo.” So enjoy! :)

Series Masterlist

“Well, if you don’t like Y/N Y/L/N, I can tell you right now, you aren’t going to like this girl.”

Dean stopped the little dance he had been doing and turned to his brother in confusion, “Why not?”

“Because it is Y/N Y/L/N.”

Dean took in his younger brother’s words for a moment then bolted up the steps to join him at the window. Inside sat Y/N fiddling nervously with a napkin.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Sam asked.

Dean thought on it for a moment, thinking back to their last encounter. He turned back to Sam, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Sam said in confusion. “You’re just gonna let her sit there alone?” His hand stretched out indicating the window.

“Yep,” Dean said as he began to walk back down the steps. “I’m gonna go for a walk around town. See ya later, Sammy.”

All Sam could do was scoff as he watched his brother retreat. He gave one last look at the young hunter waiting at the table, internally debating whether or not to go in himself, but deciding, in the end, to take his own leave.

Dean walked down the sidewalk as he attempted to process what he just learned. HellsBelle25 was Y/N, the annoying girl from the hunt in Galveston. He continued up the street as he thought on how much she clearly hated him. “I hope I never see you again,” she had said. But she was also the woman he had fallen for over the past few months. His head hurt. He stopped in his tracks and turned to look back at the twinkling lights outside the cafe. Part of him screamed to walk back and talk to her while the other part wanted to just continue walking.

Y/N sat at a small table for two facing the door. The bell on the door jingled and she looked up expectantly, her breathing stilled. For a brief moment she thought she saw a familiar face, but it was gone just as quickly. She sighed in disappointment when she saw the two patrons that entered were two elderly ladies in red hats. She was starting to feel foolish. She glanced at her watch – eight fifteen – still no sign of BabyDriver67. Her leg began to bounce involuntarily, and she nervously fiddled with her copy of Pride and Prejudice, making it flush with the edge of the small table. Then she began to fuss with the red carnation. Setting the petal end farthest away from her, pointing towards the door, then turning it and having the petals closest to her, then turning it diagonal across the cover of the book. That seemed to be the best placement, she thought. Maybe now that the arrangement was perfect, he would come.

A man came over and started to take the still empty chair. “Do you mind if I use this?”

Y/N was brought out of her thoughts. “Yes… I mean, no… I mean…” she sighed and looked at the man, “I’m expecting someone, sorry.”

The man gave her a pitying look as if to say “we both know he’s not coming,” but turned to find an unused chair elsewhere.

A little jingle came from the door and Y/N’s heart stopped again as she looked up. Her eyes widened in abject horror as she took in the faded flannel that stood on familiar bowed legs. Dean Winchester.

In quiet panic she tried to figure out how not to be seen. She slouched in her seat for a moment, but that felt too awkward, even for the situation. She started to reach for her book at the edge of the table but didn’t want it to not be seen if BabyDriver67 showed up behind him. Instead she clumsily reached for her menu and held it up high covering her face.

It was a second too late, though. From the other side of the laminated sheet she heard, “Y/N Y/L/N. What a coincidence.” She looked up over the menu to see Dean giving her a lopsided smile. “Mind if I sit down?” he motioned for the empty chair.

“Yes, I do. I’m expecting someone,” she said as she placed the menu down on the table.

He took the seat anyway and noticed the book that was now in front of him. “Pride and Prejudice, huh?” he picked it up to examine it.

“Do you mind?” she grabbed it from his hands and placed it back on the table with the flower resting inside the pages, giving an extra second to make sure the book was flush with the edge of the table like it was before.

“I didn’t know you were a Jane Austen fan. Not that it’s a surprise. I’m sure you’ve read that book hundreds of times. I bet you just love Mr. Darcy and your heart beats wildly every time you read it hoping that he and…” he waved a hand in the air, “what’s-her-name will get together.”

“Would you please leave?” she scanned the front of the café again, worried she’ll miss BabyDriver67. She looked back at him, “Please?”

Dean gave a little frown. “I’ll get up as soon as your friend comes. Is he late?” he looked down at his watch.

Y/N ignored his question, “The heroine of Pride and Prejudice is Elizabeth Bennet, and she’s one of the most complex characters ever written. Not that you would know.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve read it. Well, parts of it. And seen the movie,” he added after a beat.

“Well, good for you.” She was genuinely surprised at this fact.

“I think you’d discover a lot of things about me if you really knew me,” he gave another lopsided smile.

She leaned in closer to him, “If I really knew you, I know what I would find – instead of a brain, a lore book, instead of a heart, a gun.” It took a moment for the words that came out of her mouth to register in her brain. As soon as they did she sat there in shock. Her mouth fell open and she brought a hand up to cover it.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

“I just had a breakthrough.” She looked back at him, “And I have you to thank for it. For the first time, when confronted with a horrible, insensitive person I actually knew what to say and I said it.”

“I think you have a gift for it. It was a great mixture of poetry and meanness.” He picked a little at the tablecloth.

“Meanness?” she frowned and pointed a finger at him, “Let me tell you –”

“Oh no, don’t misunderstand me,” he held up a hand and interrupted her. “I’m trying to pay you a compliment.” He picked the book and flower back up from where it sat near him.

She tried to grab it from him but he jerked his hands away. “Why are you doing this?”

He brought the flower up to examine it closer and gave a quick sniff. “What’s this? A single, red carnation, tucked between the pages? No doubt something you read in a book. I’m sure one of those books with a lady in a nightgown on the cover about to throw herself from a cliff.”

Y/N held her hand out for the book, “Please give it back to me.” Her voice sounded weak and tired. Dean instead placed the flower in between his nose and mouth like a mustache and gave a little pout. “This is a joke to you, isn’t it? Everything is a joke to you.” She grabbed the carnation and placed it back in the book. “Please leave, I beg of you,” she sighed.

Dean stood up from the table and sat down at the one right behind her. They were back to back now. The little doorbell rang again and Y/N looked up hopefully. A handsome man walked in and stood for a moment – her heart stopped – only to be joined by an equally beautiful woman and a little girl with a teddy bear. Y/N’s heart fell. She felt as though the wind had been knocked from her sails.

“You know what that teddy bear reminds me of?” she heard a bit too close to her ear. “The day we first met.”

She turned to find Dean’s face close to hers. “You mean the day you lied to me?” she gave him a look.

“I didn’t lie to you.”

“Did too. ‘I’m Agent Tyler,’” she said mockingly. “I thought you were so charming.”

“I never lied about it. What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, I’m a hunter, here looking for a ghost’?”

“’Agent Tyler,’” she mocked again. “I’m sure that’s for Steven Tyler. Wow, you’re so original. I bet you use rock aliases all the time. Plant, Young,” her mind was drawing blanks on other names. “I bet all sorts of women swoon at your charms. Girls with names like Kimberly or Rachel. A whole generation of cocktail waitresses falling for some version of yourself.” Her point was becoming more and more lost as she continued to speak.

Dean stood up from his seat behind her and moved back to the one across from her, “I’m not some lothario.” He gave her a long stare.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quietly.

“And when I said those things at the hotel, I didn’t mean that either.”

“Oh, poor Dean, I feel sorry for you,” she bit back a little too sarcastically.

The bell rang again as an elderly man shuffled in, hunched over a cane. Dean took in the sight and smiled as he turned back to Y/N, “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that this is not him, either.” He took a beat then widened his eyes, “or maybe it is.” Y/N gave him a long look, but he continued. “Who is he, I wonder? Will you be mean to him, too? Will you start out sweet and then suddenly, out of the blue, hit him with that sharp tongue of yours?”

Y/N turned her nose up. “No, I won’t. Because the man who’s coming here tonight is completely unlike you. The man who’s coming here tonight is kind and funny,” she thought about it for a moment as she snuck a glance back at the door, “he has the most wonderful sense of humor.”

“But he’s not here,” Dean waved his arms around him.

Y/N leaned towards him again, “If he’s not here, there’s a reason, because there’s not a cruel bone in his body. I can’t expect you to understand something like that. You’ve nothing but a trunkful of guns,” she whispered the last line so as not to cause mass panic among the other patrons in the café.

Dean tapped his fingers on the table for a moment, studying her face. She was very beautiful, he thought. The mouth those cutting words flowed from was perfectly shaped and delicate. It was the same one he imagined smiling coquettishly at him – ‘You’re bad for business, BabyDriver67.’ But none of his feelings mattered now, he knew that much. He gave two final taps on the table and stood up. “That’s my cue. Good night.” He stole one last glance at her before turning to leave.

As he headed down the steps of the café he fished out his own red carnation from his jacket pocket and looked at it in his hands. It was now crinkled and frail looking, much like he felt. Crestfallen, he pocketed the flower again and continued back to the motel.

Y/N waited for BabyDriver67 until the café had to close. She felt foolish and broken. He must have a good reason, she kept reassuring herself. He was a hunter, after all. Still the thought of being stood up ate away at her. She gave one final sniff of her carnation before dropping it in a nearby trash can.

Back at her motel room, she kicked off her shoes and turned on her computer. As she waited for her favorite site to load, she changed into her pajamas. Much like the theme of the rest of the evening, there was nothing in her inbox. No messages from him, let alone anyone else.

Coincidentally, only six rooms down, Dean was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, still fully clothed in that evening’s outfit. Sam was droning on in the background about something, most likely a case, but that did not matter to him right now. His thoughts were, once again, on HellsBelle25, only this time they were also on Y/N. Somehow, in this small world of hunters, the two were one and the same. The woman who he had spent almost the past year falling for was the same one who clearly only saw him as a dumb hunter; a grunt with a gun. He turned over on his side and let sleep finally take him.

I’ve been thinking a lot about you. Last night I went to meet you and you weren’t there. I wish I knew why. I felt so foolish.

And as I waited, someone else showed up, a man who has made my life a misery, and an amazing thing happened – I was able, for the first time in my life, to say the exact thing I wanted to say when I wanted to say it. And of course, afterwards, I felt terrible. Just like you said I would. I was cruel, and I’m never cruel. I mean, I’m sure what I said hardly mattered to this man – I’m just some girl who gets in his way on hunts – but what if it did? No matter what he’s done to me that is no excuse for my behavior.

Anyway, you are my dear friend, so I wanted to talk to you. I hope you have a good reason for not being there last night, but if you don’t, and if we never really connect again, I just want to tell you how much it has meant to me to know you were there.

Dean sat in the bunker library as he read over her message once more. His face felt hot and the room suddenly felt more closed in than it already was. He shut the laptop and walked to the kitchen to get a drink. He mulled over excuses in his head as he gulped down some orange juice directly from the carton. “I was on a hunt…” he muttered to himself. He placed the carton back in the fridge and leaned against the counter. “And there was no signal…” he shrugged. “There was a chupacabra…” he thought for a moment on how stupid he sounded. “Fuck me,” he sighed as he walked back to sit in front of his computer.

Dear friend,

I can’t tell you what happened to me last night, but I beg you from the bottom of my heart to forgive me for what happened. I feel terrible that you found yourself in a situation that caused you additional pain. But I’m absolutely sure that whatever you said last night was provoked, even deserved. And everyone says things they regret when they’re worried or stressed. You were expecting to see someone you trusted but met the enemy instead. It’s my fault.

Someday I’ll explain everything. Meanwhile, I’m still here. Talk to me.

Like what you read? Want to read more of my stuff? Check out my Masterlist!

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[tillerman1]

THE RITE

A television screenplay by Ingmar Berman translated to the sentence by Thomas Jester

1

An interrogation room.

Gray the walls. Some office furniture. A shaded-loosely general light somehow a hot cloudy summer afternoon. A clock beats three strokes. Faint church-ring-up. A door opens somewhere cum man include footsteps. A big grown man among dark suit and white tie comes rushing into the room. He turns himself about and shows a somewhat deformed face with weary sleepless eyes, big quite meaty mouth. He sweats heavily and occasionally wipes his hands with a clean but moist handkerchief. (It is laws doctor Ernst Abramsson. About sixty years old.)  He smiles lovingly and makes an inviting gesture. Two men and one woman emerge.  The men are tall, have a beautiful attitude and are dressed with discreet yet tangible elegance. Both faces are lean, tanned. The older (who we suitably call Hans Winkelmann, fifty-six) is short-at-butch grizzled, long such nose and smiles of thin sarcastic mouth. The younger one (he can probably be called Sebastian Fischer, thirty-five years) is light-haired, has a large scar on the cheek, white eyes closed behind colored eyeglasses. His mouth is big with broad, sensitive lips as drawn till sudden volatiles smiles. The woman in their company (she called Thea Winkelmann, 24 years) is very female built with heavy chest cum hips, small head cum large gray eyes. She wears a band of genuine pearls around her neck. Her costume is delicious and expensive cut. She has very high heel shoes.  Ernst Abramsson (hereafter referred to as the Judge) produces a cigarette case and invites. Thea declines, the two men thank smiling. The judge lights their cigarettes.

JUDGE: We have indeed got one strenuous weather.

HANS: Yes, it must be the heat record. Thirty-four degrees in the shade. Almost unhealthy.

JUDGE: Yesterday's thunderstorm did not do much good, I must say. Firm it wriggled down later.

SEBASTIAN: We had to cancel the show twice. The light went on. It feels strange when such a thing happens in a big city. Away the country is more common.

JUDGE: Yes, yes.

HANS: A kind of panic.

JUDGE: Yes. (pause) Right. (pause) Is it any of the men who want something to drink. A brandy. A drop of whiskey. Sherry. Yes, that's what the house can do this on a Sunday. Or maybe just something soothing?

HANS: My wife probably wants some ice water or a Coca-Cola. She is not feeling well.

JUDGE: No, it's really painful. Yourself if I take a sherry, I might need that.

SEBASTIAN: I heard that your father hastily had –

JUDGE: Yes Friday. Sans previous warning. It went extremely fast. Away less than an hour.

SEBASTIAN: So envious.

JUDGE: What? Yes, jealous. You may be right in that Mr. Ritter. Sorry, Mr. FISCHER, I mean.

HANS: After all, when I see you sherry, I think I regret it.

JUDGE: Well, that was nice. And you still don't want anything from Mr. Fischer? Where that merry Mr. Winkelmann.

SEBASTIAN: About I get a glass so I profit a little at Thea's Coca-Cola.

JUDGE: We can enough to endure is a separate bottle, if it squeezes.

SEBASTIAN: If so, I thank you most respectfully.

JUDGE: Very lovely of you to want to sacrifice a Sunday.

HANS: It was equally lovely of you to want to receive us in this informal way. You sacrificed after your own Sunday, is not it?

JUDGE: (laughing) I do not distinguish on Sundays and weekdays. Workaholic. My doctor has warned me. It says that when you come across the fifty should pull down the speed. Yes, you know all that. If I had a loving wife, who was waiting for dinner and hot slippers, then maybe I would. But as it is now.

THEA: (strains difficult) Are you alone?

JUDGE: Well alone! I have good friends, a grand servant, a good library, a fat dachshund and a house at sea, which I love. I have no reason to complain. (switches) No, it was indeed not about me we would speak, though it is dreadful pleasant. Where do you go next? As far as I understand, you just from Poland.

HANS: We should be some weeks in Holland cum since travels we on one long tour through Far the East.

JUDGE: Several months?

HANS: Half a year.

JUDGE: Look at that. Becomes it not thundering boring. Or maybe you get used to it?

SEBASTIAN: (smiling) Yes, you do get used to it.

JUDGE: Forgive a question. As far as I can see from the papers, you are all three Swiss citizens.

HANS: Since five years. We are at write in Ascona, where we usually room under holiday and between tours. It is convenient from many points of view.

JUDGE: We have tried in vain to find out your income in the last three years, but the tax authorities over there are really, how should I say, record. (looking for some papers) I've let one of my coworkers do a calculation after a tour of the establishments where you performed. He estimates your total income to be over a million dollars a year. (laughing) Yes, forgive my curiosity, your income does not superficially belong to the thing itself, but I would like to have as much material as possible. Maybe you understand that?

HANS: We are very understanding. (laugh)

JUDGE: I have talked to your lawyer in Geneva. For obvious reasons, I did not like much of the conversation, but as far as I understand, you have your assets invested in bonds and shares. Well. So it was this speeding. The Dutch police caught you on a speed-restricted route between Arnhem and Nijmegen. You stated that you were late, that you were going to a charity party in Liège, where you had promised to perform for free. According to the police report, you kept a speed of one hundred sixty.

HANS: We pointed out that we were very late.

JUDGE: That's true. It says in the report.

HANS: My wife had been very ill in the morning. Hence the delay.

JUDGE: The report states that Mrs. Winkelmann was highly intoxicated and that she disrespected the policemen. Furthermore, she had taken off her clothes and made (I'm citing) "fornicators movements."

HANS: We have sent you a medical certificate.

JUDGE: That's right. Mrs. Winkelmann suffers under some certificate of a particular form of epilepsy, as in connection with medication can give some psychic effects.

THEA: (stuttering) I got a feeling of suffocation.

JUDGE: Dutch police became in each fall extremely upset. (laughing) Well, could you come to your charity party?

SEBASTIAN: (laughs) Frankly, it wasn't a charity party. A friend we have a summer place near Liege and we would perform at a private party, which he held for some politicians and industry humans. That there with the charity just flew out of me cum it was a bit silly.

JUDGE: The report also mourns your little lies. (laugh)

HANS: He should maybe perchance, to ourselves donated three-quarters of our gage till beneficial purpose.

JUDGE: (laughing) So. You haven't told me that. I'll note that right away. Well, it here is the minutiae cum speeding has Mr. Fischer recognized. It will be a daily fine, I suppose. Mrs. Winkelmann hardly has any reckoning to wait. The medical certificate will save you. (Writes long and concentrated. Silence.)

SEBASTIAN: I have always run diligently.

JUDGE: (writes) That's not true. 1956 you ran a red light in Flensburg.

SEBASTIAN: So boring. I had forgotten that.

JUDGE: (writes) Yes, it was sad. Not true?

 The judge gets up and leaves the room. The door sounds closed. Steps descend into the corridor.

SEBASTIAN: Such a rude fan. That we have a hard time with that, I can tell you that.

HANS: Now shut up Sebastian and don't be hysterical.

SEBASTIAN: (stretching, yawning) I feel cursed, terribly stressed. I can't handle these situations.

THEA: Let Hans handle –

HANS: Call. Right. We are not true together. Whatever happens, we do. (warm laughter) Thea wouldn't have had that necklace just yet. He is cursed subclass as laws doc he yet is. And your necklace teased him. We should have thought of that.

THEA: (strains) But dearest you. It was you, like –

HANS: You remember your beloved friend. It was Sebastian, who said: Put on your necklace, you will already crush him at the entrance. If I thought about it, I would have stopped you. Done is done. (laugh)

SEBASTIAN: Do you think there is a microphone in here?

HANS: We have nothing to hide. We haven't done anything illegal. It is a matter of discussion.

THEA: It's so nasty.

 She goes over to a window. Hans and Sebastian stand behind her. She opens the window. A church bell heard calling in the distance.

SEBASTIAN: Not a living soul along the entire long street. We could kill Mr doctor and quietly go away. Now the lightning flashed behind the gas clock. Do you see that big beetle, which creeps down the window sill, the other window from the left? It was huge. Now it caught sight of me and flew its way. Hans takes care of us, not true. Hans is our boss. He is so tender, so caring, so wise, so dignified, so full of shit.

THEA: You speak continuously.

SEBASTIAN: Ever since in morse [sic?morning?] has I've gone with one indefinable anxiety, it sits under at heart directly till left. I just want to cry and get drunk.

HANS: You were drunk yesterday too.

SEBASTIAN: How you mean that too. States you, that I'm being bullied right now. (screams to) Damn me for blaming me for everything at all times. Don't blame me.

THEA: (stuttering) Hans did not mean so.

2

A hotel room.

Sebastian sits undressed in bed and reads a newspaper. Thea in bathrobe sitting on a chair. Drink morning coffee and smoke. Both are in a bad mood. Long silence.

THEA: Be obliged to you bring such a damn noise as you read the newspaper. Every time you turn the page, I jump high in the air.

SEBASTIAN: You can go out to you.

THEA: Are you driving me out?

SEBASTIAN: I'm just saying that if the way I read the newspaper embarrasses you, you can go into your private room. Have I said anything else? What?

THEA: (calmly) I hate you truly.

SEBASTIAN: (reads) The same.

THEA: Should you do not start to rise. You should be with the judge at ten o'clock.

SEBASTIAN: I have enough time.

THEA: The time nine and you have not shaved. You haven't even brushed your teeth.

SEBASTIAN: Neither have you.

THEA: It concerns you not.

SEBASTIAN: Yes[,] it does that. Towards you have bad breath in the mornings. You simply smell bad.

THEA: I want nothing more than to sleep for myself. But you can't fall asleep unless I'm in the evenings with you.

SEBASTIAN: Do you know that Portner is dead?

THEA: No!

SEBASTIAN: It says here. Ivan Portner, fifty years, after lingering disease. Death in Stuttgart. Poor bastard. He had cancer of the lungs and esophagus. They operated on him twice. I met him in February.

THEA: You didn't talk about that.

SEBASTIAN: He looked too damn good. Men he the work still.  It was the end of February. He looked dying already then.

THEA: You didn't talk about that. Each Marina?

SEBASTIAN: No, I did not hit the Marina.

THEA: Well so did ye. [sic]

SEBASTIAN: No, I said.

THEA: Of course, it was her you met. And you deceived that poor man.

SEBASTIAN: I did not meet Marina.

THEA: Surely. It was in Switzerland between tours and so the hit you Marina.

SEBASTIAN: Don't bother. I think no further of your jealousy, it is only bad humor.

THEA: You are one fucking adultery-goat

 Sebastian slowly gets out of bed and walks up to Thea, who does not move out of the spot. He puts his hand on her head. She closes her eyes.

SEBASTIAN: In case six months my contract expires. Then we dissolve our community you and I and Mr. Winkelmann. Then you can do without Sebastian Fischer.

THEA: Remove the hand from my head.

SEBASTIAN: No.

THEA: Remove your hand.

SEBASTIAN: That I want.

THEA: Remove your hand.

SEBASTIAN: What did you just say: I hate you.

THEA: It was you who said.

SEBASTIAN: In an hour we will get better.

THEA: Remove the hand from my head.

 Sebastian bends over her quickly and licks her face. She lets it be immobile. Then he kneels in front of her and puts his head in her lap. She is motionless. He bites her in the chest through the thin linen. She makes one blustery gesticulation but seated still left. He puts his hand between her thighs. She drops her head down, forward, forehead against his shoulder. He grabs her waist and bends back, pulling her down on the floor above him. There are footsteps in the corridor and a loud knock on the door. They are silent. The knocking is repeated. Then the footsteps are removed after a few moments. Sebastian sits up.

SEBASTIAN: It was Hans.

THEA: It was the waiter who wanted to pick up the tray.

SEBASTIAN: I'm convinced it was Hans.

THEA: What would it do? Do you have a bad conscience?

SEBASTIAN: I do not know. (sits quiet for a few moments) I had a dream last night. I walked on a street and knew it was Monday. Suddenly it struck me that school had started just this Monday and that I was not there. It scared me tremendously.

THEA: (yawns) Lord God[,] yes.

SEBASTIAN: Am I boring you?

THEA: No, no, of course not.

SEBASTIAN: (eager) It scared me tremendously. Then I thought: I quit school. I have the right to quit school any day I want. I went home to my parents. My mother opened the door and said: Aren't you in school? No, I said, I left school. I never go to school again. Mother was odd red in physiognomy such, she had vigorous rhinitis and blew out. I've thought, that seems contagious, I stay at a distance. She said, how do you do if you don't go to school. I said I did was grown and that I had three quarter million in annual income and that I probably would clear me.

THEA: (laughing) And I dreamed that I would be going for a ride in an old trailer. I had two horses to choose from, one younger and the other older. So I chose the younger, then I saw that the elder could not be bothered so much. When we came up, sat horse in the carriage and drove the and I went and drug. The whole time the horse talked about love and art and freedom.

SEBASTIAN: And then it was time to send the horse to slaughter.

THEA: The horse had a stomach ulcer and was always cold.

SEBASTIAN: If at least I could laugh. It's hard to imagine the comic in a situation and not being able to laugh. Recall you incidentally the where poem: I am half the person, a half the bird?

THEA: I'm not a poet, you know.

SEBASTIAN: No, you only read weekly newspapers. By the way, I don't remember it.

THEA: What then?

SEBASTIAN: The poem. You don't listen to what I'm saying.

THEA: Bird poem. Half a bird, half a human. [sic] Bird heart, human lungs, bird head, human eyes.[sic] So it bursts into the membranes of never-ending longing. Then tied the body of heavy limbs, his eyes turned skyward. And so on. Sebastian. Bird.

 Sebastian pinches the cheeks and pulls them violently inside out, as a squelching noise occurs.

THEA: Don't stay there.

SEBASTIAN: The sparkling women's flower open, moist, generous, fearless. Mother earth's peculiar sister. Slurping, slurping.

THEA: Remember that you should always take revenge, for that you can't satisfy me. At least Hans can.

SEBASTIAN: (tearfully) And I can't!

THEA: You can't. Not in any way.

SEBASTIAN: (excessive) I'm brittle, you see. I can't perform, what should I say: the grotesque itself?

 Both laughing sudden, as if they were playing a stage and now coming out of it. They are upset and trembling. Thea makes an ugly grimace. Sebastian answers it.

THEA: Marina.

SEBASTIAN: Pierre.

THEA: Eva. Lilian. Elisabeth.

SEBASTIAN: Arnold. Igor. Heinrich.

THEA: Marion.

SEBASTIAN: David.

THEA: Johan.

SEBASTIAN: Damn it, what a shame you are.

THEA: Now you should hear what a psychiatrist told me. So here said he. You are not a fixed matter. You are a movement. You flow in on others cum they flow out of you. Nothing is permanent. The sooner you learn it, the sooner you get rid of your neurosis. And so he said: The islands in the river are signs of imminent death. They get bigger and firmer, they rise out of the darkness of the current. One day the power is suffocated. Off island.

SEBASTIAN: You should intrinsically have four different men. One when supported you, one who fucked you, one who amused you and one who handled your soul's life.

THEA: Okay, I have it poor.

SEBASTIAN: Now I will rise.

THEA: And I will come in to me.

SEBASTIAN: I will long for you, I think.

THEA: No. You have been so bad today.

SEBASTIAN: I will long for you. And I forgive you. Not just for today without for yesterday and all day.

THEA: You must not go.

SEBASTIAN: It's getting late.

THEA: What about Marina?

SEBASTIAN: I think I'm getting cold.

THEA: You don't listen to what I'm saying. You never do.

SEBASTIAN: I think of what an old director once said, speaking of the actor: The miracle is always the same: Suddenly it shoots up lilies out of your ass on carrion.

 Sebastian sits in bed, bouncing burning matches around him. Long silence. Thea hides her face in her hands and sobs dry.

THEA: Oh Gawd. Oh Gawd. Have mercy on me.

SEBASTIAN: Oui ma petite, ma petite. I feel sorry for you on Thursday.

THEA: (examines herself) Take me with you. Save my soul before it perishes in the emptiness.

 She cries for a few moments and then gets up from the floor and walks out of the room without looking around. Sebastian calls something for her yet sits remaining in bed and flips matches. Suddenly it catches fire and starts to burn quite well. He stares fascinated at the flames.

3

Interrogation Room.

SEBASTIAN: I'm cold, have a sore throat, ache throughout the body, eye pain, and if you apologize for fucking diarrhea. I feel extraordinarily indisposed, I have not slept for more than an hour on the whole night. Me feeling me extraordinarily indisposed, I have not slept more than highly one hour on whole overnight. I pondered first of that call cancellation till this here meeting, self having after my show of evening cum it must in all events go in first hand. (laughing) You may speak to me kindly.

JUDGE: First, we will fill in some forms.

SEBASTIAN: Oh really. It sounds threatening. (laugh)

JUDGE: Your full name.

SEBASTIAN: Albert Emanuel Sebastian.

JUDGE: Surname.

SEBASTIAN: I thought you knew that. Fisher.

JUDGE: German or English spelling?

SEBASTIAN: Original one German only by my father, who emigrated in 1931, changed to English. My grandparents were Jews. My mother comes from Holland, an old artist family. Vaalendorff about you-all feeling to the name. There is a very notable circus Vaalendorff. No. Two of my uncles operates it. My father was a musician like my grandfather. He could have been prominent, but he drank unfortunately rather much. In the end, he became seriously ill - he was hallucinating - nay this might not belong here.

JUDGE: Are you married?

SEBASTIAN: No. I'm divorced for quite a few years. My ex-wife is a professor of archeology and lives in Cairo. She's Italian.

JUDGE: You are not divorced, but you have separated. Divorced is something else.

SEBASTIAN: For by all means. Apologize. Why do you ask when you know everything much better?

JUDGE: Just formalities Mr. Fisher. And soon bustled away. I will not dwell on you any longer.

SEBASTIAN: Thank you, it was kind. Now let's talk about the scar on my left cheek, right?

JUDGE: That's irrelevant. We know that you for wherein punished for inadvertently causing the death of another. A knife fight.

SEBASTIAN: I defended myself.

JUDGE: It was a close friend, right?

SEBASTIAN: He was my partner for four years. When he was drunk, he never knew what he was doing.

JUDGE: Mr Winkelmann's wife was previously married to your friend.

SEBASTIAN: It was an unhappy marriage. We were all engaged by the same company for several years. Hans was also married and had two young daughters. We shared one great outdated house outside London.

JUDGE: Your partner's death blew up the community.

SEBASTIAN: My wife, the professor, separated as I said. Hans and Thea started working together. I was in prison cum Hans wife went mad with jealousy. I could stick my tongue out through my cheek.

JUDGE: How did you give your friend four stab wounds? Already the first where kill.

SEBASTIAN: It belongs to the current case.

JUDGE: No. I ask out of curiosity.

SEBASTIAN: Honestly.[sic] I do not know. I thought it felt good. I remember standing and holding him. He puffed cum coughed cum us were either flooded with blood. I felt his sharp stubble against my bare shoulder. Before he died, we talked, we stood there and laughed, none of us thought it was all gentle.

JUDGE: Forgive a question. Have you been plagued later?

SEBASTIAN: Plague or. How. You mean, like, I've been missing him. Of course. I loved him.

JUDGE: Have you had remorse?

SEBASTIAN: No, why not. Should I have been?

JUDGE: You are still wearing a wedding ring.

SEBASTIAN: It's my hell.

JUDGE: I apologize. It is right surely your one thing.

SEBASTIAN: I feel tired and sick and want to go home to the hotel.

JUDGE: Of course. Forgive me one more time. I thought we were sitting here talking. I'm not going to be long-winded.

SEBASTIAN: Can I have a drink?

JUDGE: Sadly, I have nothing to offer. How many children do you have?

SEBASTIAN: I do not know. No, I honestly do not know. I never bothered to count them. I support a few, I think it's four or five, but my lawyer knows all that much better. With the professor, I only had two miscarriages.

JUDGE: Yes, so maybe we should talk a little about the main thing. Is the number (or what should I call it) your invention?

SEBASTIAN: (laughing) Figment. Bo to the devil what I think you are ridiculous with your damned self-esteem and your underclass curiosity, your tactlessness, your lack of education cum human compassion. Do you know what I have discovered: You are not clean, Mr. Abramsson. I think there is a lack of intimate hygiene. Under the fresh scent of your shaving water, there is a distinct odor of acidic, unwashed obesity. You change shirt each day, but above the dazzling white sleeve sees me one fully palpable shit stripe and era Nails is not particularly clean. I despise you. (calmly) I despise you and think you are incomprehensibly ridiculous in your occupation. It does not feel bad to have to rub shoulders with three world artists. To be allowed to stand in the newspaper with feet on a par with us. It does not feel bad to torment us stupid and humiliating issues in the face of decency and discretion. To unbutton our pants and slap us a little. I intend, through my lawyer, to demand a judge at my level. You have no precondition for understanding or judging what we have done. You are a lowly, stupid WORM. Now I have said, what I meant to, and now you can cage me for insulting or whatever it's called.

JUDGE: (tired) It pains me that you find my person so disgusting. I admit that I sweat a lot, I have sought specialists in many places for my sweating, it is a mistake in my metabolism, I can understand that it bothers you - I mean the smell. But that I would be dirty - no it can I do not agree, no one washes as often and as much as I do. How I have a ski stripe above the shirt is none truth. There is an old sunburn, pigmentation, which takes a little strange and what finally my nails are concerned, I have been doing my sailboat over Saturday and Sunday. It is in point of fact paint and does not go away. You say I'm underclass. It is an extremely flexible concept. My parents were quite wealthy, father was a lawyer and mother a teacher, we were five siblings and I dare say that we got a good upbringing. [sic] I have done my best not to hurt or embarrass you, possibly I have been too discreet and if I am to be sincere - a little anxious. (laughing) I must videlicet confess, to I harboring an immense admiration for you and your colleagues cum it was with overmuch mixed feelings I undertook this assignment. I am extremely hesitant if the legally entitled in prohibition cum I find it personally tasteless to exercise censorship against creative artists. (smiles) I felt from the very first moment your animosity Mr. Fisher and as I remarked smarts it myself and makes me unsure. I therefore propose that we interrupt this session. Everything this has been much upsetting for both of us cum me the propound, that we say farewell. I wish you first-rate improvement with your cold and will have fun visit tonight's performance. Guess not that I pay any attention to your outburst. It is for sure and if you as want such pardon. I can very surely understand your violent affective. Farewell Mr. Fisher, you found the way yourself(,) or should I beg a janitor forward your corrective? You go hallway straight front and then take you off, till right. There are the elevators. Later is it no problem. Farewell.(sic)

SEBASTIAN: (with anger) You are not merely an unpleasant and disgusting a human, who smells bad. You are also one lousy actor. The playhouse, which you have accomplished in the last few minutes, is one of the most disgusting selves experienced. You are dead reckless, completely amoral, absolutely rotten. Such as you should not get to live, such as you, such as you-all.

JUDGE: I'm just incredibly embarrassed sahib Fisher, both on your and my behalf. I am also to the full unable to feel aggressiveness(,)[;] I apprehended only of a sense of teetotal impotence. I ask you to go. I please you to walk at once.

SEBASTIAN: (emits a series of strange noises and waves his hands over his head) That's how it is. Holy Mother of God. That is how it should be. I have seen it. Now there is no turning back.

JUDGE: (throws off his jacket and tears up his shirt) I have no kin, nothing to live before. Sorrow is not, pain is not, anxiety is not, it is only rupture. (panting awful)

SEBASTIAN: Sit down, be very calm. I'm not touching you, that would feel too disgusting. While you-all cooling you - Damn also what is stuffy here - I will tell you a number, which Hans Winkelmann and I perform together. A man enters a police station. He's looking for the commissioner. He has to report something strange. What does he have to report? Well this! He has arrested by one thumping and fatal appetite. He has eaten up his wife, his butler, his two children, his tenacious grandmother. In the afternoon, a bearded man entered the store. It was God himself. He cut a fillet out of God's inner thigh and ate it. Then he felt an unavoidable need to shit. When he did, he went to the police, as I said. Calm yourself(;)[,] the story is soon over: He lifts the main bowl, as he sawed of flattering ears and shows the astonished commissioner an empty inside. His head was utterly empty. At the bottom of the cervical vertebrae was a drawstring for the eyelids, but that was all. Now you have calmed down. Then I'm going. Before it every several relationships between us. Farewell.

JUDGE: I have another question: Your denomination?

SEBASTIAN: I do not have a creed and do not belong to any denomination. I have never needed a god or salvation or eternal life. I am my own God(,)[;] I provide my custom angels and demons. I am staying on a rocky beach, which in waves sinks towards a protective sea. A dog barks, a child cries, the day sinks and becomes night. (with rage) YOU CAN NEVER SCARE ME. No human being can ever scare me again. I have a prayer, which I pray to myself in complete silence: May there come one wind and stir up the sea and the suffocating twilight. May a bird come out of the water and burst the silence with its cry.

4

A church. ("A confessional" in the film.)

The judge, Dr. Ernst Abramsson, has confessed. He is sweaty, bloated cum much tired. Early morning.

JUDGE: I think I'm going to die.

He takes a long break and lowers his head, wipes his forehead with an already damp handkerchief. Breathe heavily.

JUDGE: Oddly enough, I'm scared.

Pause again. He seems insecure and full of vague ideas about what he wants to confess, perhaps frightened by his initiative.

JUDGE: Already this that I seek you, Father. Already this that I woke up this morning with a sudden need to confess.

Pause. Anxiety washes over him in a hot wave. He closes his eyes and swallows repeatedly.

JUDGE: I have none feared death before, you know, father. I am not a believer. I'm looking for you a human none as a priest. I'm already dead. And I felt a stench from my body, which I had never noticed before. Yes, of course. It unusual heats and my ill heart. I was at the doctor's last week[,] and he thought that the heart - that I should be careful. I get short of breath[,] and my eyesight has deteriorated quite sharply in the last six months. And then my old father's death. Whatever it is, everything changes. What am I saying? I'm talking in my nightcap. (smiles frightened)

Calm. A church bell rings{,} [;] it has a light[,] almost frangible tone and rings right fast[,] but weakly about forty beats per minute. The judge takes a deep breath. He seems relieved, calmer.

JUDGE: I'm utterly alone. I have no relatives, no friends. I state this without regret, do not think I'm complaining. Unlike most people, I have been happy with my loneliness. I have over one number of times in life tried to live with women, children[,] or friends. It has always ended with us withdrawing from each other more or less hurt, more or less relieved. So I set up my solitude and thought it was quite bearable.

Suddenly a few sharp breaths, the eyes widen, the mouth is open as on a dying fish. He tries to say something, shakes his head.

JUDGE: This horror. Oh, my God, what am I going to do? If only I could sleep. People can pardon each other. There is an earthly grace. But outside the brittle ring of human warmth, there is cruelty. Forever and ever. (quiet) The insight, God, the insight! If only I could sleep. I'm taking them strongest hypnotics. I have a sort's pain in my leg, this called by all means something. If I lie down, I have to get up and go. Sometimes I go to sleep. Suddenly I have done things that I do not have a clue.

The small church bell has fallen silent. He looks around, listens. It's completely silent.

JUDGE: I'm boring you.

THE PRIEST: (voice) No.

JUDGE: I currently have a case, yes, you have possibly read about it in the newspapers. Three famous artists have received one routine censored and withdrawn. I have taken care of the investigation. But it was not that I would speak on. It does not belong here at all. The woman is interesting. It is surprising, to upper-case artists is so banal, that man comes them in on life. No, it was something else.

He thinks for a long time. Then he sighs to himself and smiles sickly.

JUDGE: I know that you are not laughing at me, and probably you know quite well the phenomenon of your practice. You know that unbelievers often pray. I pray. It gives me relief in my anxiety.

The referee falls on his knees and clasps his hands, they direct anxiously opened his eyes to nothing, rattles off and begins to pray in a weak and changed voice.

JUDGE: It's evening cum dark and self is afraid. My mother has gone and closed the door. I know no one hears if I shout. I dare not go out on the floor for everyone animals were, I must stay in my bed if I start crying out of anxiety, I'll be even safer.

The voice decreases and becomes indistinct. He sweats profusely, about eye wanders anxiously back and forth. The little bell has started ringing again. Echoing footsteps can be heard under the arches.

5

The interrogation room, afternoon.

Hans Winkelmann is sitting in a corner and waiting. He looks at his watch, looks in his wallet, reads a letter, rattles off his bundle of keys, gets up and walks off and on, sits down at the big bare table, supports his head in his hand. Some finally steps are heard in the corridor, a door opens cum the judge rises in.

JUDGE: Dear Mr. Winkelmann, I apologize. How long have you had to wait{.}[?] Two hours. That is intrinsically regrettable. I also heard that you none has received my message about the delay. As soon as I noticed that the conference was running out of time, I called my secretary and asked her to let you know, but she says you were not in the room.

HANS: (strained) Maybe not right then.

JUDGE: Yes. No. Either way, it was regrettable. Beat you down sahib Winkelmann. As you perhaps vet, met me Mr. Fisher at one some separate interview. I do not want to say that we agreed very well. I have examined myself to find out if I hurt your colleague in any way.

HANS: Mr. Fisher is very sensitive and is currently quite sickly. He has been suffering from various infections all spring. It makes him extra irritable.

JUDGE: I understand.

HANS: This whole thing is tormenting him unreasonably.

JUDGE: And you-all self?

HANS: (smiling) Dear Dr. Abramsson. I have long since ceased to be annoyed by anything that concerns my profession. I do my best from day to day, that's all. It is plumb understandable, how the reaction to our latest issue has been strong. I take it for granted that your judiciary finds it necessary to try the matter. The penalty is light - if we are held accountable - and we have already deposited the fine in a bank designated by you. I see it as a mere formality.

JUDGE: It pleases me to hear your attitude. You and I have quite entirely the same starting point. One might think that our laws are antiquated, but as long as we have them, they must be applied. There are other instances, which write them or abolish them. And as I said, the penalty is pretty modest. The advertising you received through our intervention is not either despicable.

HANS: (smiling) We do not work on a percentage basis in principle.

JUDGE: Is it you who negotiate and draw up contracts?

HANS: Oh no, I could not do that. We have a general agent[,] and he negotiates in his turn with agents in the various countries, that in one's tour negotiates with our employer. It is one big and very complicated apparatus. On the other hand, it is I who discuss with Josef Heros - our general manager - about the very principles of our commitment. Some gravity acquires I information ex-mine comrades, before me taking a few measures.

JUDGE: Who of you is the creative force [,] or how I now should express myself?

HANS: It is hard to say. We are so involved with each other. We have odious-like thoughts and initiatives. We feel the same way, understand each other's reactions. That in itself is not so strange. Occurs year after year, day after day together in context, which requires a perfect vigilance and a substantial rate of reaction formed to eventually to a single working body. It hinders not that we in-between have ultimately various perceptions about both the one and the other.

JUDGE: May I then ask. Is it impossible to enter, who from you as came with the current number?

HANS: (short) Absolutely.

JUDGE: The attributes?

HANS: I do not remember.

JUDGE: The gestures?

HANS: Everyone is responsible for their gestures.

The judge writes quietly.

HANS: May I offer you a cigarette?

JUDGE: Thanks.

Light both cigarettes. The judge writes. Hans smokes and looks stealthily at the clock.

JUDGE: (without looking up) A quarter past four.

HANS: (smiling) Forgive me. The reason I looked at the time was no rudeness. I left my wife alone in some hotel for near three hours since cum it is possible, how she has begun alarm herself. It is namely so that -

JUDGE: Maybe you want to call?

HANS: No, by all means.

JUDGE: Are you afraid to leave her alone with Mr. Fisher? Is that what you mean?

HANS: (smiles) My wife is very dependent on my presence. This intervention has upset her.

JUDGE: I'll meet her for an individual conversation. I'm convinced I can calm her down. Or what do you think[,] Mr. Fisher?

HANS: Winkelmann. (smiles) That was just about the subject I would have chatter.

JUDGE: (still writing) Oh really. Just a moment. Forgive a question. How long have you been married to wife Winkelmann?

HANS: Over five years.

JUDGE: Do you have any children?

HANS: A boy.

JUDGE: Where is he?

HANS: About one home. He's an idiot.

JUDGE: Have you been married before?

HANS: Yes.

JUDGE: Where is your ex-wife?

HANS: I do not know.

JUDGE: But according to the information I received, you pay maintenance to your two children.

HANS: The lawyers take care of that.

JUDGE: You never meet your children.

HANS: No.

JUDGE: Why?

HANS: (tormented) Is that part of the matter?

JUDGE: No. Does it bother you?

HANS: Yes and no. I blame the trips.

JUDGE: You have a holiday every year.

HANS: Then I'm tired.

JUDGE: Is it your current wife who does not want you to meet your children from the previous marriage?

HANS: (shakes his head) No.

JUDGE: What were you going to say just now, when I interrupted you?

HANS: I was going to ask you something.

JUDGE: Oh really.

HANS: My wife is coming here for a call. I would be grateful - extremely grateful - for that meeting customer canceled or if I could be present.

JUDGE: Oh really?

HANS: My wife is, how should I say, a rather unusual woman. Many would say that she is severely neurotic. I would rather say that she suffers from an abnormal physical and mental sensitivity. Sometimes she has very peculiar outbursts and performances. When I am with her, she gets a kind of security and behaves completely naturally apart from the stuttering, which stems from a horror experience in childhood. She also has an excessive need to please. To please. Therefore, you can make her say or do just about anything far beyond the bounds of reasonableness and dignity. Your meeting will be pointless.

JUDGE: I would be happy to grant your request Mr. Winkelmann, but I have my rules to follow. Feel free to follow her here and sit in the next room, if you are worried. But I absolutely must have an individual conversation with your wife.

HANS: I understand that it would be unreasonably difficult to inhibit the coincidence. But it can not be by purely formal nature. I let her to you, and you switch a few bland phrases under a minute. Then I pick her up.

JUDGE: I have mine instructions Herr Winkelmann. I have to form my own opinion about your wife. You-all must reflect, to I am appointed to investigate a suspected crime. In such a situation, I can not follow your recommendations, no matter how much I value you cum no matter how much I would like to spare your wife's nerves.

HANS: You can not imagine her anxiety. It's almost animalistic.

JUDGE: If you want, I can get a doctor present during the conversation. I feel a very reasonable and understanding man, who certainly could give your wife the help she needs.

HANS: It would only make things worse. For years I have been trying to tell Thea that she is not insane.

JUDGE: Anyhow dear Mr. Winkelmann, you must understand me. Speaking of which, why is Sebastian Fisher still wearing his wedding ring?

HANS: It's the father's ring. Sebastian was in a very strong and unusual due to his father. But to return to my wife.

JUDGE: Does your wife have a relationship with Mr. Fisher?

HANS: What do you mean?

JUDGE: Do they live together?

HANS: I do not understand what you mean.

JUDGE: Are they in love with each other?

HANS: I still do not understand.

JUDGE: Are they located together?

HANS: (humiliated) I think so. We never talk about it. There is a sibling preference between them, an intense friendship, a strong affection.

JUDGE: As you tolerate?

HANS: (after a long pause) I've learned almost everything about humiliation I do not know what will happen, but it is probably something in me that invites humiliation. (laughs sarcastically) A pride across all borders. The real great artists are unattainable, deeply invulnerable. I do not belong to them. My core is soft and corroded. I have only one great fear: to be left alone. For flattered? I look robust, right? Well-adjusted and decently wise. Practically gifted and so on. Reach. I love Sebastian Fisher and my wife. Love? I do not know, but I think so. (laugh) I'm addicted to them. However, I am not sure if they are dependent on me. That is why I make myself indispensable. (laugh) So that they none will leave me. I am one first-class artist. On the professional planet suffers me not of any inhibitions - I would very well clear me by odd hand, me having acted for twenty years before I met Sebastian and Thea. By the way, everything is uninteresting. So you can not imagine canceling the meeting with my wife?

JUDGE: I thought we finished talking about it.

HANS: But if I ask you on my knees. Forgive the expression, it sounds melodramatic, but I mean it literally. (desperate) Mayst I pay you?

JUDGE: How much want you-all pay?

HANS: Say a sum within reason. I pay it now and here.

JUDGE: Fifty thousand? One hundred thousand?

HANS: One hundred thousand. Goes it good with a check?

JUDGE: (nods) It's fine.

HANS: I am deeply grateful for your understanding. (writes the check) You have been very reasonable. Here you are. I spelled your name with two s. I think that was correct.

JUDGE: (looking at the check) Now I am substantially curious.

HANS: What do you mean?

JUDGE: You pay without blinking a hundred thousand for me to refrain from meeting your wife. In this case, I disregard the atrocities of your attempt to bribe a civil servant. It stands for your peculiar bill.  (tears the check) We are finished with each other[,] Mr. Winkelmann. We perhaps meet, supposing you follow your wife here.

HANS: (smiles) I am tremendously grateful for your generosity.

JUDGE: I start more and more wonder, supposing it hides something bigger and more dangerous behind your pretty innocent numbers.

HANS: (shakes his head) I know not, self thinks not that.

JUDGE: Goodbye[,] Mr. Winkelmann. See you at seven tomorrow night.

HANS: Is the gate open at that time?

JUDGE: I'm going to tell a caretaker.

HANS: Goodbye.

6

A lodge of the large variety.

It's night. Thea is sitting half-made up and half-dressed at her table. She drinks now and then. Crying violently and abandoned. Hans Winkelmann comes in and sits down next to her. He is tired and severe.

HANS: You do not have to say anything to him. You only leave him your statement, as I wrote. If he starts questioning you, you stutter so loudly that he does not understand a word of what you are saying. After about ten minutes, he gives up. I'm sitting in a room next door. If you're anxious, just call me. You have to try to be calm. I have done the best I could.

 She drills her head into his arm. He takes her in his arms and rocks her back and forth. Then they sit for a long time.

HANS: Tomorrow is all much better. Then we travel to the country. I know an inn with fantastic food. And if it's not too hot, we take a walk in the woods. Maybe we're having dinner under some shady tree.

THEA: We can't leave Sebastian alone in town.

HANS: So Sebastian gets to follow.

THEA: He has said that he will leave us when the contract is over. Do you know that?

HANS: He does not leave us.

THEA: This time he will do it.

HANS: I'll get to talk to him.

THEA: I think Sebastian's going crazy.

HANS: No. I do not think so.

THEA: I'm afraid of him.

HANS: You must stay away from him.

THEA: He can none be without me. Every night he asks me to stay with him. He has one awful anxiety. It looks awful, you see. I can not say no.

 She stops crying, sits up cum looks in the mirror, continues to put on make-up. Hans takes a sip from her glass. Views on the clock.

HANS: The time is half two.

THEA: Are you evil?  

HANS: I, no.

THEA: You sound so unfriendly.

HANS: I'm just a little tired.

THEA: So are you always.

HANS: Yes.

THEA: Is it me who makes you tired?

HANS: No, dear. Why?

THEA: You love Me. You do, right?

HANS: Sure adore self you.

THEA: If I did not have you, I would kill myself.

HANS: If you did not have me, you would have someone else.

THEA: What you sound bitter?

HANS: Not at all. I'm just tired.

THEA: You once said not so long ago that it was your life content to find out about me. Was it not like that?

HANS: Yes.

THEA: You are my only security.

HANS: Is it not much better how everything is one great insecurity with small artificial islands of security? It fits better with the real conditions than your idea of absolute security with short breakthroughs of insecurity.

THEA: (sadly) Why do you say that?

HANS: For it that I'm tired.

THEA: Why that you're tired of me.

HANS: I did not say that. But by all means. I am sick of you. I'm tired of Sebastian. I'm tired of you and Sebastian. I'm tired of traveling around with wash fools. I'm tired of our so-called artistry. I do not believe in our task. I think we are meaningless, disgusting cum ridiculous. We no longer have any relevance.

THEA: I do not know what relevance means.

HANS: People do not need us. We are a bit outdated.

THEA: You're tired of me.

HANS: Yes, I'm tired of you. My lead is boundless. I do not even feel sorry for you. You're lazy and spoiled. You do not even practice.

THEA: Yesterday we practiced for three hours.

HANS: But the day before yesterday was you sick said you. And then before you were not sober and then before you were visiting a friend or whatever it was and then before we were traveling and then before arguing with Sebastian all day. You are lazy and muddy and unbearable. You are not worth a tenth of the money you earn. When our contract expires, you can do whatever you want, go to hell, if it suits you. I'll take one long vacation. And then I'm going to marry a nice woman, who cooks my food and takes care of my clothes and who shuts up. And with her, I'll move to some remote forest area and make a living on agriculture or whatever the hell. Sometimes, when I see you walking around naked at home in the hotel, I think, why is there that beautiful body. What makes it for use with its beauty and its perfection. No, by the way, I do not know what I'm thinking. I never talk about myself. Still, I love you. May you realize that I love you after all. I feel sorry for you. Almost all my thoughts revolve around you and yours. I am ready for anything to free you from any inconvenience or discomfort. And when I witness your and Sebastian's passions, I'm worried about you both, I see how you tear each other apart, although I should know better. You can do anything, say anything, commit any damn scandal you want. It does not bite you. You are monstrous. I feel that, I recognize that. But I can never be like you. I never want to be like you. I never want to at all again. We have gone to the extreme. It is humiliating and unworthy. Now it must be. I'm tired of you Claudia.

THEA: Poor Hans.

He looks at her with tired surprise. She is red in the face with alcohol and suddenly bloated compassion. She makes some helpless arm movements, as if she wanted to embrace him. He gets up and stands pressed against the wall.

HANS: You have not grasped anything.

THEA: Poor Hans. (smiling) Poor little Hans. (low) The world rages and burns and bleeds and stands on its ears. Poor Hans. Poor bad conscience. (laugh) That should be it unify but not the other. The other. Not one.

HANS: At least I believe in my mind.

THEA: And I believe in your understanding. It does not abandon you.

HANS: Refusal it does not abandon me.

THEA: You're tired, you poor thing. I'm really going to hurry. Do you know where Sebastian lives?

HANS: He's gone.

THEA: To the hotel?

HANS: I do not think so.

THEA: (smiling) Do you think I've gotten ugly?

HANS: No. (tormented) No, no.

THEA: You're still my husband.

HANS: We're going to file for divorce.

THEA: I'm moving with you to your farm.

HANS: No.

THEA: You must be extremely tired of me and Sebastian.

HANS: Yes.

THEA: We behave like crazy.

HANS: What are you laughing at.

THEA: Ate Sebastian.

HANS: And when you're with Sebastian, you laugh at me.

THEA: It is understood.

HANS: God what I'm tired. Free me from this prison. Free me mild Lord God. Free me. Free me.

THEA: You want to die?

HANS: Again, not exactly die. But I would like to sleep in the mornings. Do you know that? That every morning –

THEA: – you wake up at five and the anxiety sits like black birds on your chest. You want to sleep. How long? Until ten o'clock? Eleven?

HANS: I want to be free.

THEA: Dry you about the nose[,] dear Hans.

HANS: Oh[,] sorry.

THEA: Now I'm almost finished. May you hand me my makeup-rock. Oh, this is just damp. There are horrible lodges they hold us with. You should complain to the management. You should not tolerate - (laughs) Sorry.

HANS: (drinking) For all part. [sic] Continue.

THEA: Refusal there is difficult. We can never talk to each other. We do not understand each other. The words are not correct. That is the absolute incomprehensibility.

HANS: Should I call for a car.

THEA: It is probably the best. I am none completely sober cum you have also been drinking. Now I go and take a shower. Oh Hans!

 She walks towards him and presses herself next to him. He wraps his arms around her and holds her tight. The stands in this way awkwardly embraced.

HANS: What is it?

THEA: I'm so damn anxious.

HANS: You should not be anxious. I'm in it.

THEA: But you are not in the room.

HANS: I'm in the room next door.

THEA: He's awful that judge.

HANS: No, he's fine. We can be thankful that we got him. He's just doing his job.

THEA: You know you're talking against better knowledge.

HANS: I'm probably doing it.

 She goes to the shower. He remains.

7

The interrogation room.

JUDGE: Good evening Mrs. Winkelmann.

THEA: Good evening.  

JUDGE: Now let's sit down and talk for a moment. I assure you, it will not hurt.

THEA: (smiling) I think not.

JUDGE: What an extraordinarily beautiful dress.

THEA: I'm glad you like it.

JUDGE: Sorry you-all, if I take paper and pen and make some notes for the memory.

THEA: Of course.

JUDGE: Usually now for the time uses we band player.  I can none deny till that a machine of it some kind seems inhibitory on confidentiality.

THEA: It is you probably right in.

JUDGE: I think we have had the summer's warmest day today. Thirty-five degrees in the shade. It is indeed quite oppressive.

THEA: I think about heat.

JUDGE: Yes, naturally. It is the highest variant. You play not on Mondays.

THEA: No[,] we are free on Mondays.

JUDGE: That is quite nice or how?

THEA: It is nice.

JUDGE: How many performances have you per evening?

THEA: For currently has we four appearances.

JUDGE: It becomes surely quite tiring.

THEA: Man accustoms in.

JUDGE: Where travels you on vacation in years?

THEA: Hans cum Sebastian wants till Africa.

JUDGE: And you oneself?

THEA: I follow well on.

JUDGE: You are quite rarely home. I mean in Ascona? There becomes not much while till home life.

THEA: Oh whose. We see ever till to have any weeks between the further the tours.

JUDGE: Lives Sebastian Fisher with you on such occasions.

THEA: (smiling) Yes.

JUDGE: It must be uppermost wonderful to live in one such trinity.

THEA: (smiling) Yes, it is that.

JUDGE: To be so beloved.

THEA: So too.

JUDGE: No conflicts?

THEA: In the beginning, it could be difficult at some point.

JUDGE: Your husband claimed that you were worried before our meeting. We're having a good time, are we?

THEA: Hans thinks I'm so sensitive.

JUDGE: Wants you-all have something to drink.

THEA: That could be good.

JUDGE: (by the cupboard) One small brandy perhaps. I'm sadly not very well off.

THEA: I'll take anything.

JUDGE: Should we give your husband a glass too{.}[?] He is sitting in a room next door and is bored. I think he deserves a glass. Can I greet off you?

THEA: (smiles) Yes, thank you.

JUDGE: Goodbye for now. (smiles)

 He disappears. Thea lights a cigarette and tastes the brandy. Suddenly her face changes. From mastery to desperation. From smile to horror. She moans low, beats herself in the forehead and on the cheeks with left knotted hand. When she hears footsteps, she immediately masters herself. The judge again comes, is in good humor.

JUDGE: I can say hello out of your husband. He sits two meters away and reads the legal yearbook. He was a lot worried for your sake, but I reassured him. You are really incredibly beautiful[,] Mrs. Winkelmann. As the light falls over your face. Forgive me.

THEA: (strains badly) I have written an account.

JUDGE: An account.

 Thea nods seriously and takes a stack of typewritten paper from her bag. She hands them to the judge.

THEA: I have written to you.

JUDGE: Only dear Mrs. Winkelmann.

THEA: Would you please read it, now, here. Wants you-all be kind to read aloud.

JUDGE: Why should I read aloud[?]{.}

THEA: Sometimes I want to interrupt you and explain.

JUDGE: (reads) My name is not Thea von Ritt-Winkelmann, even though it's in my passport. Nor do I have real hair and my age, I hardly know myself. My mouth is my own, but it has changed position due to all my front teeth being replaced. My upbringing was strictly religious[,] and as long as my parents lived, I fully matched their notion of a good daughter. I have suffered many bodily ailments. The most difficult was an itch, which haunted me like a waking nightmare for two years. It disappeared as suddenly as it came. Another difficulty is my overdeveloped senses. I react painfully to heavy sound, strong light, or unpleasant smells. A perfectly normal pressure, for example, my dress, can make me crazy with pain. I take painkillers, but it only partially helps.

 The judge stops reading and looks at Thea intently for a long time. He is much major. She smiles suddenly and disguised anxiously.

THEA: I have expressed myself elaborately.

JUDGE: Not at all. (continue reading) I started my artistic career by studying singing. I got a job at a theater. There I met a man who took me to him and began to train me for the variety show. We toured for many years. That's how I met Hans Winkelmann.

 The judge stops reading again. He lights a cigarette and shakes his head. Thea smiles as before and tries to say something, but the stuttering prevents her cum she gives up.

JUDGE: Yes Yes. (reads further) Hans and I got married. It has been a good marriage and I depend on his practical care, because I myself am completely incapable of such things. The dry twilight trembles cum rattles over the baby's head. – I can't go any further. Everything is already there. Inside can I none come. (ends read)

THEA: I was so desperate.

JUDGE: I understand. (reads further) I play that I'm a saint or a martyr. That's why I call myself Thea. I can sit for hours at the big table in the hall and look at the insides of my hands. Once a blush penetrated my left hand. But no blood came. I play that I sacrifice myself to save Hans or Sebastian. I play ecstasy and call with the Holy Virgin, faith cum another, despite and doubts. I'm a poor sinner with unbearable guilt. So I reject faith and forgive myself. All is trifling. Inside the game, I am always the same, sometimes extremely tragic, sometimes incredibly playful. All with the same insignificant effort. It's like one uninterrupted running water.

THEA: That is not at all what I mean.

JUDGE: What do you mean? (reads further) I complained to a doctor. (So many doctors I visited!) He said that my traveling life was harmful to my psyche. He prescribed home, husband, children. Security, order, everyday life. Realities he called it. He claimed that one should not cut oneself off from reality, as I did. I then asked him if reality was the majority's idea of the course of life or if there were not possibly different kinds of reality: one as real as the other. He replied that it was important to live in the best possible way. I replied that I certainly was not unhappy, and then he shrugged and wrote out a prescription. (ends read) Have you written about the matter itself?

THEA: (stammers) I knew you would be bored.

JUDGE: Not at all. Everything is greatly beautiful. I would volition suggest, to you have talent matron Winkelmann. But I have to get to the point.

 He flips through the papers with his lower lip pouting and violent movements. Thea is sitting tight.

THEA: I thought you talked to Hans and Sebastian about our number. It says nothing about the number in my report. You can give me the paper.

JUDGE: Now stammered you not.

THEA: No, sometimes I do not stutter.

JUDGE: What's up?

THEA: I do not know.

JUDGE: Simulates you?

THEA: Sorry?

DOMAREN: Simulates. Pretending, trying to lead me behind the light.

THEA: Why?

JUDGE: Sometimes stammers you and sometimes not. Your husband talks about a horror experience in your childhood. What's right? You do not bear your real name, your real face, your true age. Why all this - game?

 Thea shakes her head.

JUDGE: And then this statement or confession or whatever you call it. A poetic outpouring. Do you want this to be read in court?

 Thea shakes her head.

JUDGE: All this theater. Your man's nervousness for our meeting. Let us one moment last simple and sincere[,] Mrs. Winkelmann. An artist has certain methods to create interest around one's person. You have laid out a pink dim curtain. Your beauty, your pleasant way. I begin to discern your true nature through all your lack of sincerity. Only simple, clear facts apply here. What's your name?

THEA: Claudia Monteverdi.

JUDGE: Claudia Monteverdi? Excellent. If it is also correct, then it is even better. Your age?

THEA: I do not know.

JUDGE: Of course, you know your age.

THEA: No.

JUDGE: Now we stop with this nonsense. Tell your age.

THEA: I do not want you to call me Claudia.

JUDGE: I call you whatever the hell I want.

THEA: (anxious) Can't you kiss me?

JUDGE: (screams) Your age. Hear you what self says. Your age cursed woman. (screams) Devil, cursed hell small whore. Devil, devil crap girl. Stop with these arts. (screams) Give me your age[,] and I'm gonna shut you up[,] damn hell circus whore.

 Thea breaks down. She rocks back and forth, throws herself forward, rolls on the floor, moans like a beaten dog. Pulls the skirt up over the waist and tries to take off the panties. Skewed by the long, powerful legs.

JUDGE: Do not be hysterical. Do not play theater. Damn that. (afraid) Stop now please man. (sic) It was your own fault. You made me furious.

 He continues disconcerted. Leaning over her and trying to hold her. She pulls him towards her and tries to kiss him. They roll on the floor. He holds her mouth, which moans and whines in a strangely monotonous way. He starts beating her face and shoulders, the blows are getting rougher, she is trying to get her legs around his back. He continues to alternately scream and speak. Furious or comforting. Suddenly, the violent intercourse movements turn into cramps. He makes himself loose, terrified cum suddenly at consciousness. Thea is on top of the head and the soles of the feet, the body travels in an arc, arms taut straight out, gurgling sound. The judge runs out into the corridor and shouts at Hans Winkelmann. He leans over her and talks calming, while he squeezes some medicine between her teeth. She immediately becomes calmer[,] her body collapses, and her face is released from the cramp. She falls to the side. Hans sits next to her on the floor and holds her head with both hands. The judge sinking into the couch and breathing heavily.

JUDGE: I do not understand… Suddenly she had a seizure. We sat here and talked in peace.

HANS: (calm) I heard you yelling at her. (pause) I heard what you were shouting at her.

JUDGE: (raw) Who the hell guarantees that she's not simulating? (afraid) Yes, I did not mean anything bad by that. I just said: Suppose she simulates. Do you think that would be so unreasonable?

HANS: Can we call for a taxi? I have to take her to the hospital.

JUDGE: I can drive you.

HANS: No thanks.

JUDGE: (crazy) I forbid you to take her in a taxi. I'm calling for a police car. Then you get an escort. And I will follow myself. To get everything investigated. And we'll have two doctors. And security. And escorts. Now the scam, Mr Winkelmann, is over. I have tried to be kind and take it from the good side. I have failed. Unfortunately. For me. And for you. (takes a phone call) I want to requisition a police car for a transport. Hello. What? It is Dr. Abramsson who speaks. Councilor of the Court of Appeal Abramsson. They wait in the courtyard. We'll be there in a few minutes. No, we do not need any help. Two constables are enough. We're going to the General Hospital. If you would like to please call Dr. Wilson. He is surely in his residence at this time. (hangs up) Now then, everything should be ready. Shall we go?

HANS: Can you take her purse?

8

 A hotel room. Afternoon.

HANS: You are late.

SEBASTIAN: We did not say a specific time.

HANS: We agreed on three o'clock and now is it half-past four. I have been sitting and waiting for an hour and a half. You could at least apologize.

SEBASTIAN: I apologize. What do you want?

HANS: I want prate affairs. A lot has happened since this morning, which you should find out.

SEBASTIAN: Judging by your tone, it can not be a nice thing.

HANS: It depends on how you take it.

SEBASTIAN: Well.

HANS: I just received a telegram from our agent. He says that our tour in the Far East is canceled due to the war. He goes on to say that our American tour is in danger because of months of freedom or unemployment or whatever you want to call it.

SEBASTIAN: We're losing quite a lot of money.

HANS: You can figure it out yourself.

SEBASTIAN: Approximately half a million each.

HANS: A little less. The agent gets nothing.

SEBASTIAN: Then we only have those weeks in Italy.

HANS: Yes.

SEBASTIAN: That was vexatious. To say the least.

HANS: I would come to that. As you understand, I can not agree to lend you money for how long and how much anything. Especially not now. Here is a list of your finances, which our lawyer has sent me.

SEBASTIAN: Thanks. Where does the TV gag stand for Rosella?

HANS: It is not included in this list, which only goes back to the first of January.

SEBASTIAN: We did Rosella in March.

HANS: You are perhaps forgotten, how you train out whole the fee in advance, then we wrote contract last in the autumn.

SEBASTIAN: Full the fee.

HANS: Full the fee.

SEBASTIAN: Yes, there remember me, about me will after.

HANS: If you need cash, you can naturally sell your floor in Geneva. It should bring you about 250,000 francs tax-free.

SEBASTIAN: How big is my debt to our company?

HANS: Your debt to myself and Thea is at 296,000 francs. You can see that from the lineup.

SEBASTIAN: I understand me not on such here lineups. Me becoming just nervous about looking at them.

HANS: Here till right has you your income and left you can see what you have taken out of the company. The summary is on the next page. There, the Company stands for "us for good" 296,000 francs.

SEBASTIAN: But what about my part in the house in Ascona? It must be worth a lot.

HANS: I'm sorry. If you remember, I bought you out of the house and paid a tax debt, which you had in Scandinavia.

SEBASTIAN: Then we will be allowed to write a new one agreement despite all, old Winkelmann. If you want to telegraph to Bauer, I'm willing to a new period. But I need money in advance. And then we sell the floor in Switzerland. (rises) Is that okay? I must go now. Have a little hurry.

HANS: Forgive me[,] Sebastian. But there are actually a couple of additional things I need to talk to you about.

SEBASTIAN: It does not sound fun.

HANS: Bauer has written me a letter. He says that it is becoming increasingly difficult to place us, especially with the fees we have reached. He suggests two alternatives. Either that ourselves begins work where and one for themselves or that ourselves goes down in claim of approximately two thirds. He recommends the former option.

SEBASTIAN: Yes.

HANS: It suits me well. I was still going to retire in a year or two. The question is how you and Thea will do. I have informed Bauer of my decision. I suggest that you and Thea discuss your future more confidentially with Bauer.

SEBASTIAN: Thea and I?

HANS: You and Thea. I think, to you could become quite attractive that combination. Fast you-all must naturally start working again in seriousness. The needed several new number.(sic) I worst fall can the Thea start stripping. (sic) I know one much good teacher. You know her also. Sara Fraenkel.

SEBASTIAN: Damn.

HANS: Yes, I'm not going to get into that. It's just a suggestion. You do as you please. Another thing. You have overdrawn your checking account by about twelve thousand. The bank has called the lawyer cum because you refuse to talk to the lawyer, he asked me to talk to you.

SEBASTIAN: Is there anything else?

HANS: We need to figure out who's going to pay Thea's hotel bills. You or I or herself.

SEBASTIAN: (surprised) I do not understand that. She says all the time that she pays for them herself.

HANS: That's actually not true. She comes all the time and asks me for money. In itself, these are small sums, but I would finally like clarity on who will be responsible for Thea's expenses.

SEBASTIAN: (sourly) You're her husband.

HANS: (with a smile) Yes, just that. So we agree that I will continue to pay Thea's bills and take care of her business. Wants thou say it to her in one fine way. She's just getting angry if I suggest anything in that direction. She lives in that performance, how she runs her own business one magnificent way.

SEBASTIAN: (acid) I'm going to talk to her.

HANS: They called from the car repair shop and said that your car is ready. You were not available, so they called me.

SEBASTIAN: Thanks. I'll get it right away.

HANS: A decent foreman pointed out that the tax receipt was two years old. You may get discomfort for that matter,  because you have already once -

SEBASTIAN: Thanks. Was there anything more?

HANS: Wait, I'll look at my list. No, there was not. (pause) How are you?

SEBASTIAN: Bloody.

HANS: Are you arguing?

SEBASTIAN: I do not even know if you could call it a fight. We climb a sort of wild theater, where we are both spectators and players. Long performances.

HANS: Oh really.

SEBASTIAN: (laughs) She says I can't satisfy her.

HANS: (distrustful) You!

SEBASTIAN: She claims you were nice about it. What did you do?

HIS: (serious) Attempt not with love or tenderness, it just makes her nervous. Insert the left hand as deep as you can and press hard with the right against the clitoris, as that it hurts. She gets several orgasms within two minutes. Then you can fuck her how you want and for how long you want.

SEBASTIAN: Forgive a question. How did you come up with that?

HANS: Imagination and desperation. (serious) I'm asking you not to tell her that I've discussed these issues.

SEBASTIAN: (amused) No, no, of course.

HANS: You also do not need to start an internship at the moment. You can pretend that you come up with it little by little. Right?

SEBASTIAN: (laughing) Do not worry.

HANS: Yes, Hell, you never know with you.

SEBASTIAN: How are you doing with her?

HANS: It's no problem.

SEBASTIAN: She's pretty funny.

HANS: If you'll excuse me, so I would like to say that I love her in the spirit of the letter to the Corinthians.

SEBASTIAN: Love believes all, hopes all, endures all, and so her just the same.

HANS: Yes, that is me. But she does not care.

SEBASTIAN: Nay with us is it in the pouring.

HANS: I have understood that.

SEBASTIAN: So you'll get her back soon.

HANS: Thanks.

SEBASTIAN: You're crazy.

HANS: In fact, I think I'm smart.

SEBASTIAN: Tell me honestly one thing: Do you hate me?

HANS: No, far from it. I have not attached myself to many people in my life and my few friends I cling to, whatever happens. On the other hand, I can say that I liked you a lot more before.

SEBASTIAN: Before I took Thea away from you?

HANS: Before you started drinking. Before you started to cut corners with your exercises. It was probably because I admired you. And so I thought that you were a warm and vibrant human being. Difficult to analyze. You owned something, whatever it might be. By the way, Thea did too.

SEBASTIAN: (serious, but amued) What did I own?

HANS: (embarrassed) A light, an inner light. Yes, you're laughing. There is no expression. A light.

SEBASTIAN: It is that light, as Thea and I'm about to put out.

HANS: Do you hear me waiting for a call from the agent around five o'clock? Shall I ask him to put himself in touch with you thee, so that you can make an appointment when he visits you. Is that okay?

SEBASTIAN: You may well attend that meeting.

HANS: By all means. If I can be of any use.

9

The interrogation room.

 The referee sits alone and dictates to the tape recorder. It's evening. He smokes and drinks coffee.

JUDGE: (to the tape recorder) It's Monday night[,] the seventh of August. This morning appeared Mr. Winkelmann and Mr. Fisher in my study and arrested about a personal conversation. They said that Mrs. Winkelmann was fully recovered from her attack on Sunday night. I also talked to the doctor, who confirmed my suspicion, that she has an epileptic predisposition and that she appears severely neurotic almost insane cum is in dire need of effective care. Under morning call brought Mr. Fisher some words. He seemed completely different than at our last meeting. His arrogance and unpleasant aggression were gone. He seemed balanced, amiable, slightly regretted cum very unreserved. He suggested that he and his friends visit me after the show on Wednesday night. They would then be painted and dressed till the prohibited number[,] and they would show that for me individually and explain in detail how it is structured and why that become just so. I found the proposal excellent and gladly agreed to their modest request that no other audience attend.

 The referee turns off the tape recorder and lights a cigarette, sits for a while with his head in his hand, seems tired. There are footsteps and a deliberate knock on the door. The referee says: "step in" cum the three artists enter. They wear coats over their costumes yet are in full stage makeup. They greet. The judge has stood up and shakes their hands.

HANS: Sorry, we are a bit late, but it was hard to get to town. Several streets are closed due to heavy rainfall. Ourselves tried to call you, but there was no one answered, I suppose, that the exchange is not open at this time of night.

JUDGE: By all means. I have been sitting and working. I certainly did not wait. The more I think about it, the better I find your idea that we jointly go through your code and examine it like this in privacy.

SEBASTIAN: Sadly, there will be no lighting effects. The music is limited to one drum and that we have taken with us. It's in the hallway.

JUDGE: I have told our night watchman that he must not disturb us for the next few hours. (laughs) I imagine his face if he would come and interrupt us in the middle of the seance. How are you today?

THEA: Thank you very much. Such beautiful flowers you sent me.

JUDGE: I felt extremely relieved when the doctor explained that it was not something serious. Are you fully recovered?

THEA: I'm just a little tired. After the medicine.

JUDGE: I hope you do not find it too strenuous to be here tonight.

THEA: For me, the number is not the least bit laborious. I'm just going to mark on the drum and talk some nonsense.

 During the conversation, Hans and Sebastian have cleared space at one wall. Hans has fastened on the outside of his jersey a big grotesque genital cum Sebastian has screwed in huge loose breasts. Thea, who wears one full-length, transparent robe, has put on an elaborate headdress, depicting a stylized haircut. She has taken the drum in her arms and sat down on a high-legged chair. Sebastian lays a great sharp knife on the floor in front of Thea's feet. He smokes a cigarette and seems a bit distracted. The judge has offered Hans a brandy.

JUDGE: Now I just want to ask you in the greatest confidence about a single thing.

HANS: Oh really.

JUDGE: Why this particular number? You guys are outstanding performers in the entertainment industry. Suddenly you create a number, which is almost incomprehensible and whose entertainment value is questionable. I do not understand.

SEBASTIAN: We read something in a book, I think. I do not remember for sure. Or maybe it was something that Hans heard told as a child. So we wanted to try to shape it. It stimulated our imagination and we imagined that the audience would –

JUDGE: It's not that simple.

HANS: No, it's not that simple. We can call it an intercession. You know artists are superstitious people.

SEBASTIAN: (smiling) A sudden urge to commit a rite, one has perhaps no significance in itself, but the desire to fall on your knees or clasp your hands can come over us from time to time.

HANS: (smiling) A ritual play. A spell. A formula. Someone sort of conversation. I'm not trained in mental complications yet probably has our lust a Latin name. Doctor Abramsson, have you felt a weakness yourself? A voluptuous longing for humble abandonment. Maybe as a child?

JUDGE: What are you going to do with the knife?

SEBASTIAN: Don't you know that?

JUDGE: I only got the number related. I've never seen it done.

SEBASTIAN: I can take it away.

JUDGE: Rather tell me what it should be for.

SEBASTIAN: Do you have the red wine with you? Now we fill this dummy with the wine. So at a given moment lifts I the knife cum the wine squirts into the vessel.

JUDGE: I understand.

THEA: We have to put out all the light. First, a complete silence and then drumbeats in the dark.

Hans turns off the light. The judge gets up and immediately turns on the light on the desk.

JUDGE: I must have turned on the desk to take notes.

SEBASTIAN: (laughs) We certainly do not need to be dark.

He raises the knife and throws it up against the ceiling, where it gets stuck with a dry sound.

HANS: Now we start our number. We imagine a completely dark room, the murmur silences. That becomes very quiet. (listens) Even quieter. (lyssnar) Even quieter. Then comes the first drumbeats. Set in now Thea.

THEA: I can not.

HANS: Can not?

THEA: It should be dark.

HANS: Doctor Abramsson. Just a moment. Ten to twenty seconds. You can regulate your lamp yourself.

JUDGE: We skip the introduction.

SEBASTIAN: It is impossible.

JUDGE: Let me first - I have something to say. It was my father who wanted me to become a lawyer. He was himself a prominent lawyer and his father - I had no action. My wishes went in a different direction. You will laugh when I talk about what I wanted to be: I had a beautiful voice and loved - I have always loved music. Music has been my consolation in difficult times and my stimulus. I would also ask you to consider that I was required to handle this case. It so happens that an investigation is drawn. The lot fell on me. I'm just doing my duty and have always tried to go as cautiously as possible. I can not help, to I been brought to despair - I find no other word - desperation and despair. I passed away cum I have asked for extra. You might hate me. I do not know. If I am to be sincere, then I feel an indefinite fear. Maybe it was not curiosity. I do not know. But I wanted to see your number up close. Maybe I had a vague desire to participate. I'm sincere. Or maybe it was just the secret need to - I do not know. I have my superiors and subordinates. I take orders and give orders. You may be free. I do not envy you. It is one horrific freedom. I do not understand you, I understand not, what drives you, I do not understand your relationships, I do not understand my relationship with you. You might be laughing at me. Or not laughing. You're probably serious. Maybe we should look at our common problems with a little more humor. I like you and admire you, you know, I have said that. I said that on the first day.

 The referee is silent. Nobody says anything. Sebastian smokes his cigarette. He puts himself on a chair. Thea has taken off her one a heavy headgear. She yawns.

HANS: Have we not gotten away from the subject?

JUDGE: I've always been scared. My first memories are chariness. How am I now in a single moment to give you a key to myself, as that you should understand. How that where atrocious - no, what am I talking about. I have to calm down. I'm a victim of ridiculous phobias. It is soon two o'clock at night. We are tired. So smiles you-all Mr. Fisher, is me ridiculous?

SEBASTIAN: I'm not smiling.

JUDGE: Reach. In short, good. It was pointless to arrange the number here in the interrogation room.It must take place in the presence of witnesses and before the members of the court.

 Sebastian, Hans[,] and Thea are quiet and thoughtful. The judge looks at them one by one. Suddenly he smiles. His fear is gone.

JUDGE: These days with Sebastian Fisher, Hans Winkelmann[,] and Thea von Ritt[,] or Claudia Monteverdi or something else has been stimulating. It is you who determines. I'll be the obedient spectator. Enjoy Mr. Fisher and make the arrangements at any time. Arrange the light and shadows as you please. I freely admit that I am a few minutes assaulted by a panic fear of death. Now I think I have overcome my weakness. Highly respected artists, you have never had a more committed and grateful audience. I take my chair and sit down here. I hope it fits well.

 Sebastian strikes him hard on both cheeks, so he gets a nosebleed. He picks up a handkerchief, which he presses against his nose. Starting to laugh.

JUDGE: Is that number, which has begun. Or maybe it's the orchestra that tunes its instruments. In that case: very effective. Joking aside. I am a human being with a name and surname. I am born, mature cum educated, I have lived one quantity days and slept one quantity nights, known joy, laughed, known sorrow, cried. Disappointment, tenderness, love. THIS IS EVERYTHING. You hit it off the head[,] Mr. Fisher[,] and I admire your physical action unit. Your hand touched my burning skin. But you touched while in my memories, my dignity as a human being. Take what a lesson or whatever you want. Treat it as a last cry, the last warning cry through your fortifications of hatred and selfishness. You have beaten me and humiliated yourself. Or do you not feel that way? You experience satisfaction and desire.

 Sebastian hits him in the face again. The judge is out of breath and takes to heart. He's trying to get up yet sinks back in the chair. He smiles. Thea and Hans look at them with serious faces. Thea has started to freeze[,] and Hans picks up a cardigan and wraps it around her. Sebastian starts whistling.

JUDGE: See, I'm shaking my hands[,] and I feel like I want to cry. It's probably a kind of abandonment. Do you understand what I mean? To be able to lean on someone, warm oneself in a hug, take shelter, be comforted. What a theater! I am happy to admit that there is also an element of cruelty in my profession. To rebuke, humiliate, judge, investigate. The lust of cruelty. How else would that be possible? Yes, I'm asking you. Artists. You must know. You know. (laughs) I have never made a conscience. I'm just a tool. And we live under the law cum the law is necessary. As you can hear, I am not a cynic, like many of my colleagues. Sebastian Fisher, Hans Winkelmann, Claudia Monteverdi, you look at me. Turn off the light and start your show.

HANS: It's not necessary.

 Sebastian takes a deep breath and presses his palms together in a strange, appealing gesture. The judge breathes heavily and rattling, but his face is calm, attentive. Hans has filled the vessel with wine. He turns himself with a dry tone towards the judge.

HANS: I relate all the time that we do. Thea, who is sitting on the high chair, hits the drum with her hand. The dark, before sunrise.

 Thea hits the drum a few blows.

HANS: So it's dawn. That can we not accomplish here. Dr. Abramsson can imagine that.

JUDGE: I understand. It's dawn.

HANS: (objective) I stand with the vessel facing the sunrise. Behind me on a stool stands Sebastian Fisher wrapped in his female apparel. Just before dawn, the sea begins to blow.

THEA: And I imitate the wind with a pipe, which we have forgotten in the theater.

HANS: When the light has become strong enough - at a certain moment, Thea puts a mask in front of her face.

 Thea does so.

HANS: Sebastian stretches his arms back and grabs Thea's forearms cum lifts her slowly upwards. At the same time, I lift the vessel to my face. The light now illuminates the mask and is reflected in the wine or blood.

JUDGE: (with a weak voice) I understand.

HANS: So I drink from the vessel. I drink away the reflection. Then Thea sinks slowly down behind Sebastian's back.

 Thea does so.

HANS: In short, this is our number.

 They face the judge, who sits slumped in his chair with his mouth wide open and torn look.

JUDGE: (remote) I understand.

                                          Fårö on 17 August 1967

     AFTERWORD BY JAN HOLMBERG

1953 sat Ingmar Bergman up Franz Kafka's THE CASTLE at Malmö city theater, a show as not is particularly mentioned so here one generation after. (Unlike Peer Gynt and others of his sets in Malmo time, which has gone to the Swedish theater history.) But on Bergman's own work, the set probably made its mark. Kafka probably haunts in the films Bergman made shortly after he staged THE CASTLE, not least in all the scenes where his characters are incomprehensible and annihilated in the face of a diffuse exercise of authority (Isak Borg's dream of his failed exam in WILD STRAWBERRIES or the Medical Council's humiliation of Henrik Vogler in THE FACE). Bergman also wrote, the year after THE CASTLE, a short exercise piece about a police interrogation which, very Kafka-like, begins absurdly and ends in chaos.  But it was not just Kafka's literature that continued to inspire Bergman, as well the aesthetics he had chosen to convey it he would return to. CASTLE played virtually no decor. You did not need more than the actors and their suggestive power, he stated (in an interview with theater critic Henrik Sjögren): "you did not need lighting, you needed nothing - nothing more than the artist." It would be some time before the early sixties and the so-called trilogy about God's silence (THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY, WINTER LIGHT, THE SILENCE) before Bergman dared to use such a stripped-down expression in his films as well - but he has never been so radically frugal as in the TV play THE RITE.  The text itself is also uncovered, simple - but can still be perceived as quite brutal fifty years later. Bergman himself has said that THE RITE is a result of bitter experiences as The Drama Manager, and it may well be true. But again[,] is it to Kafka's author properties he more or less consciously has turned himself: the interrogation situation, the dark context, the individual against social institutions … The three head people - the disciplined Hans, the anarchist Sebastian, the sensitive Thea - are of its author all facets of it himself. "These three are inextricably linked," he writes in PICTURES, "can not separate and can none work two and two. It is only in the voltage between the three points of the triangle that anything can get done. It was an ambitious attempt to split myself up and shape how I really work. What forces keep the machine running." THE RITE is unfairly misunderstood, in fact, a completely central work in his oeuvre.

[simkjrs]

msa ch5 asks (and others)

Anonymous said: AAA FROM 'MEET ME IN THE WOODS'- i know that lyrics!!!!! nice!!

*finger guns* nice!!

Anonymous said: -also thank you for existing you beautiful beautiful person! 😘

i think i might have accidentally deleted (or answered separately?) the first half of this ask but nonetheless thank you

Anonymous said: OK first thing: the chapter was awesome! amazing job! Second thing: the entire chapter was basically deku 'mildly' freaking out while being thoroughly pissed the entire time

it really and truly was. izuku as that one macro that’s like “this string is held up through pure stress alone” 

Anonymous said: mr compress weeb confirmed

look at his custom made villain costume and tell me he isnt that kind of guy

Anonymous said: god. Msa!izuku is /fifteen fucking years old/ and he has to deal with /so much shit/. Can someone just put him to bed and let him nap for a year, maybe

yes! maybe not a year though.

Anonymous said: God bless the new chapter gutted me and the flipped me inside out showing my true form, that of a big fan. Thank you for the blessing that is MSA

this is such a gruesomely funny image. thank you

Anonymous said: hey just read msa for the around the 9th time. you ar e so good at writing, the way you write character interaction is incredible. you should be proud. this is literally the best thing ive ever read.

THATS SO MANY TIMES, IM ASTONISHED YOURE NOT SICK OF IT YET!!! i hate staring at my writing too long it starts feeling all faded out and boring!! im really happy to hear you like it so much!

Anonymous said: As soon as Izu/ku woke up on the table I started screeching simk. Not okay!!!

haha im so sorry!!!! but overhaul literally wouldve experimented on ai/zawa and he DID experiment on eri this is completely in character of him

Anonymous said: Overhaul/Skin Beast: hi yeah can I get a fucking uuuuuhhhhhhhh experiments/faces? Izuku: Experiment machine 🅱roke *flies away with eri*

completely accurate summary of the chapter

Anonymous said: every day I long to become the amount of salty msa izuku is

valid but every day i long for msa izuku to receive the love and support that he needs

Anonymous said: sweetie noooooooo

i have no idea what part of the chapter this is referring to but first of all, big mood, and second of all, valid 

Anonymous said: hello you hurting because so am i!

i am hurting. while i was writing the chapter i kept looking at the screen like “i’m doing this? i’m really going to do this?” but overhaul is like that and i cant deny him the one salient characterization point he has

Anonymous said: UNICORN DAUGHTER HAS BEEN RESCUED THANK ITS GREAT

[my longest yeehaw ever]

Anonymous said: Since I might not get any sleep tonight because of flight plans and I might forget tomorrow and the next day, Happy thanksgiving! I'm thankful for your awesome stories~

Anonymous said: Happy Thanksgiving! I remembered!

happy thanksgiving!! im thankful that you enjoy my stories <3

Anonymous said: good job! i love it. and i’m crying. where did all this blood come from?

We Are All crying blood at this chapter

Anonymous said: Just read the new chapter and all I want to do is keysmash into your inbox. The chapter! Was so good! Izuku being sassy and angry and traumatized but still trying! And Eri! I'm so glad she's with Izuku now. Deku-niisan! I don't have words! And Rappa? Rappa! Also, that poem you linked is really neat. Grow up grow strong and focus your fury. Kind of feel like this is the theme for these two trauma children. Great work!

someone in the comments described izuku as “thoughtlessly kind” and i was VERY emotional over that because it’s such an excellent descriptor of the kind of person izuku is... he’s still trying, because that’s just who he is 

deku-niisan to the rescue :^) 

i’m really glad you enjoyed the chapter! thank you!

@zintiay submitted: Normally I get really annoyed when a character refuses to use an ability that would let them fairly easily deal with those around them. In this case though, you have done a really good job displaying why he doesn’t want to use this option, as well as what it takes for him to be willing to use it, that I mostly feel sad for deku that he was forced to let Eri’s spirit possess him, instead of getting caught up in the hype of an awesome moment

Honestly though, that’s also my reaction to the chapter as a whole. It was full of interesting world building and was generally an awesome chapter, but it was also well written enough that I also feel Izuku’s emotions and mostly just feel melancholy now.(Seriously, when I look back on it, “I invite you in” opened the gateway to an awesome and well deserved ass kicking, but it’s mostly just heart breaking. Why can’t I just enjoy Izuku kicking ass? Why?)

ahaha yeah, i try to have good reasons for why characters do or don’t take certain actions, and this whole fusion thing is something he keeps REALLY close to his chest... i’m glad that carried across well! it is very sad though that he feels cornered into using this ability. 

thanks for reading!

Anonymous said: Just wanted to say thank you. I think this sounds weird, but you finishing up chapter 5 of msa actually helped motivate me and I managed to finish my essay for a class.

OH? i’m glad to hear that! congrats on finishing the essay!

Anonymous said: This chapter was so fucking perfect I'm crying diamonds. What in all heavens and hells are you, you godly creature? I am so bloody happy you exist in this world. In this time line. I love your stories so damn much!

thank you so much!! i’m really happy to hear this <3 

Anonymous said: I love how just Done with everything msa Izu/ku is with everything. The fact that the only person he treats like a Person and not another threat to his Cryptid Status is Er/i and he just brings her home. I just. I LOV UR WRITING OK

it’s because eri pings None of his danger senses and All of his “i have to do something about this” senses. izuku is constitutionally incapable of helping someone in need. 

and thank you!! i’m glad you like it!

Anonymous said: I hope you know that i was able to read about half a page before i fucking died laughing i lov msa de/ku so much

i try to serve my darkfic with a large side of comedy

Anonymous said: I have the vivid image of msa Deku running into Aizawa by accident and just slowly walking backwards before turning to the sky and yelling "I HAVE DEPRESSION AND ANXIETY! I! DO NOT! HAVE TIME FOR THIS SHIT AS WELL!!!" while Aizawa slowly comes to the conclusion that he must adopt and save this troubled child.

this is hilariously close to some future scenarios i have in mind

Anonymous said: seeing a new chapter of msa honestly made my heart skip a beat in excitement. i have SO MANY questions and thoughts about this universe, i think i could ask you questions for hours, it sparks my imagination and curiosity in the best way. but for now, i just wanted to sincerely thank you for choosing to share your story and thoughts and ideas with all of us! it's always a delight, and i don't take it for granted at all. thank you, and i'm wishing you all the best always!!

thank you so much for this message!! it always makes me happy to know that others are enjoying this story as much as i am <3 i hope the best for you as well!

Anonymous said: What I expected in MSA ch.5: PAINPAINPAINPAINPAIN What I got: PAINPAINPAIN also Izuku adopts Eri, and Rappa for some reason (or did he adopt them!?!? DUNDUNDUN)

i cant publish a chapter without doing something a little fun, right? 

also im laughing at the idea of izuku adopting rappa, a fully grown man, as opposed to the other way around. izuku would hate this concept if anyone ever said it to him.

Anonymous said: so is msa iz/uku's tragic backstory basically being a walking disaster for all of his life until the point where he would have, in canon, met all might, and the msa version of the all might/one for all is the Temple and the subsequent ShitStorm™?

nope! the temple is something else 

Anonymous said: 💖💖💖💖💖💓💖💓💓💕💕💓💕💕💕💝💝💞💝💟💟💟💟💟💟💞💝💝💝💝💝💟💟💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘❤❤❤❤💙💚💚💚💛💙💚💜💚💛💚💜💙💜💚💟💞💗💞💟💟💜💚💛💚💘❤💘❤❤❤💞💟💝❤

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Anonymous said: i was stuck in a car for 3+ hours tonight but when i saw msa ch5 was up i was so excited, i spent the whole ride reading and re-reading it, it’s fantastic and you are too! <3

wow thats some dedication!! i hate reading in the car. thank you and im glad you liked it!!

Anonymous said: simk pls tell me we get roommate shananigans it would make my entire life. just a tired teen, a middle age man literally off the street, and their prepubescent daughter/little sister/niece/etc.

oh yes absolutely. this is a vital part of the au. don’t forget the cat

Anonymous said: hi hello i just want to say that your writing is amazing and gives me life and i get really really really excited every time you update. thanks for blessing us with such good fic <3

thank you so much!! i’m super glad to hear <3

Anonymous said: so izuku not only has eri but also the guy most likely to have been in kumite from bloodsport at his place. great job kiddo. (i mean that both genuinely and sarcastically)

izuku’s existence just naturally warps the reality he lives in into a circus show

Anonymous said: thanks to that one ask i can't stop laughing at the scenario of msa izu trying to get groceries and is seen by kiri / aizawa / tbh any hero. rappa and eri is with him and izu just stares at the heroes dead in the eye and leaves the place. he swears to never return there ever again

also hilariously close to some scenarios im contemplating

Anonymous said: DID MSA!DEKU EVER CATCH A BREAK ONCE IN HIS LIFE??? DID THAT EVER HAPPEN, SIMK. OVERHAUL IS UP THERE W ENDEAVOR I CANT BELIEVE U MANAGED TO MAKE ME HATE HIM THIS MUCH SNAKDNANFKW (btw? how much of a fucking RIOT would it be if the heroes did the exact same thing in canon, and when it came to the actual retrieving eri part theyd just find someone waving frantically "SHES ALREADY GONE, YOU IMBECILES. YOU FOOLS"

overhaul is easily hatable if you just extrapolate from his canon actions. cant wait for him to get fucking clowned

i think it would be really funny but kind of depressing if the heroes did that. izuku please help them

Anonymous said: u really dont fuck around, do u, simk?? this is really a chapter that i just read i really saw him getting experimented on by overhaul for real??? I REALLY SAW HIM DISMISS IT AS IF IT WAS ANY OTHER DENIAL WEDNESDAY???? DID THAT BOY EVER CATCH ONE (1) BREAK IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE?? also DAMN! HE Really Fucking Did That HUH HE BUSTED HER OUT OMG.. CANT WAIT FOR THE SIBLING RELATIONSHIP FEELINGS THING :') (also how much of a fucking RIOT wld it be if the heroes busted eri out but (1/2)

but when they ARE actually at the 8ps hq they just?? dont find her??????and everyone there is like "SHES ALREADY GONE YOU IMBECILES. YOU FOOLS." (2/2)

i really dont fuck around!! i hope!! i decide on a track and i stick to it!! as soon as i finished the first scene i knew that overhaul was going to Do That and i spent a few days agonizing over it and asking myself if i was really ready to go all the way with this. if i was really going to write it! i did write it. i am still occasionally in disbelief. 

yes. sibling relationship all the fuckin way 

Anonymous said: Is what happened at the temple the thing that made MSA Izuku give up on being a hero?

nah izuku giving up on being a hero is more just pessimism, cynicism, and paranoia trained into him by years and years of dealing with spirits and believing that he shouldn’t exist 

Anonymous said: this is all really silly but uhh,,, isn't izuku loosing credits? has his mother been informed of his absences? does he have anyone who can help him catch up with the missed material? is our boy going to graduate?

i dont really know how credits work in japanese schools, or how the absences thing works... he’ll be fine though, pinky promise

Anonymous said: Eri pulls back and looks up at them curiously. “Deku?” They peer down at her. She’s so small! She’s so near! “You look different. You…” She reaches up, and they bend down obligingly. Her hand touches something attached to the skull above the eyes -- my horn, the kirin whispers. “You have a horn like me,” she says, full of wonder, and touches it again. THIS ENTIRE FUCKING PART GOT MY HEART BEATING SO FAST. I LOVE THEM!!!! ILOVE HOW ERIS SPIRIT IS NOT A TOTAL ASSHOLE TOO!!!

trauma kid solidarity!!!! i am so excited for these two you have no idea

i, too, love it when a spirit shows a basic modicum of decency and is NOT Like That to izuku 

Anonymous said: "neptune" by sleeping at last gives me very kiri/msa!deku vibes

cool, i’ll check it out!

Anonymous said: Angry msa!izu/ku: acts like an alley cat, threatens to break a villain's dishes, talks a lot of bullshit, also kind of sad and depressed. Angry™ msa!izu/ku: frightens the hell out of everyone just by looking at them, makes everyone question their life choices, makes them feel small and insignificant and makes fun of said life choices, not exactly human.

yeah. i love msa izuku and  his anger is Valid 

Anonymous said: This chapter: Rappa: fight me MsaIzuku: no Rappa: fight me pls MsaIzuku: no Rappa: let me fight the people around you? MsaIzuku:....... Fine

this is a really great summary of that conversation

Anonymous said: Izuku's threat to throw all of M. Compress' dishes on the floor like that is the Worst thing you can do to someone made my entire day thank you

i’m really glad because this was the funniest threat i could think of besides “i’m going to break into your home and piss on your bed” 

Anonymous said: HE'S JUST A KID SIM

you know i had to do it to ‘em picture 

Anonymous said: Msa is just so so amazing!?!? I honestly love it so much. The way you write is so wonderful and it's practically doubled by the fact that the entire idea for the au is also wonderful. Izu is amazing and I love him. Thank you thank you thank you :')

aahhh im really happy you like it!! thank you for reading & supporting!!

Anonymous said: Rappa: "let me join you" ; msa!Izuku: "absolutely fucking not" ; Rappa: "I can be ur meat shield" ; msa!Izuku: *clenching and unclenching his fist, glaring up at the god he does not believe in as he leads Rappa and Eri to his home* "I fucking hate you"

izuku’s one weakness... trying to help others

Anonymous said: iirc, guardian spirits are bound to their respective charges by proximity but can still move around, but do they have to be close by when the quirk is used? Or will the quirk not be as effective?

nah, they don’t need to be nearby, one cool effect of being bound to a human is that the human has a store of the guardian spirit’s energy 

Anonymous said: Thoughts on the game OFF? Played it recently and it gave me Msa!spirit world vibes. The use of man made substances making up the natural world (e.g drinking plastic not water) just really stuck with me as something bizarre and very second intonation like. Although if you do explore the spirit world I guess you might have something maybe more mythological in mind? (Also the soundtrack is stunningly eerie).

never played OFF but i love its aesthetic so much 

Anonymous said: I'm gonna print msa out and it eat it. gochisousama

pfft itadakimasu 

Anonymous said: Hahahah holy shit that new chapter dialed things up to, like, 22 instead of 11 holy shit izuku oh no. (“Achievement Unlocked: 5+ Levels Of Trauma Added At Once!” msa!izuku: can I get a, uuuuhhhhhhh, refund?) skin creature is super creepy and perfect fit. Btw, side thought - however the heroes find out abt this whole mess, I bet they feel really guilty (shit, izuku puts foot in mouth and accidentally says smth. Kiri: horrified izuku: makes it worse by trying to leave topic) thx I Love it. V good!

once i committed i had to go all the way...

the ensuing conversations between izuku and the heroes are probably going to be kind of funny, and also a little sad. im looking forward to it. thank you for reading!

Anonymous said: Okay, I'm just catching up on the recent chapters of msa and this is what I've been getting so far Everyone: you have to understand- Msa izuku, restrained: no

correct. msa izuku refuses to accept your terms 

Anonymous said: Ahaha, geez, MSA chapter 5 was A M A Z I N G. Poor Izuku. Geez, the scene where he's tossed into his cell and just spends fifteen minutes crying and freaking out hurt so bad. And he remembered to (try and) call for help!!! Hopefully he tries again in the future, when it'll work (hopefully). I also got very excited by the Kirin!!! Like, holy smokes!!! Someone who actually doesn't want Izuku to suffer, and is willing to take steps to make that happen!! Yes good!! Plz timewalker protect this child

thanks carwash for being like the only friend izuku has

the relationship between izuku and the different spirits hanging around his house is probably going to be pretty fun. i know i’ve pulled a lot of bullshit in the past two chapters but i still have some new fuckery to introduce. i hope you are all excited for this

Anonymous said: would any other human be able to learn to speak in the second intonation in the msa au? Did msa deku learn the second intonation from someone, or is it just something he's always known?

1) good question! i haven’t decided yet. 2) he learned from someone else! who you will find out soon

Anonymous said: me: nobody has to get owned today. please, please put down the markers and step back msa izuku: Fuck oyu.

i totlaly forgot this was a thing but you know what? yeah. im laughing this is such a fitting quote

Anonymous said: you know by far one of the best aspects of msa izuku is just. He is a constant Power Move. and yet he would probs hate that. like this boy wants to be left alone and get some fuckin peace but in all his interactions whether he intends to or not he just fuckin busts a fuckin Move and its like holy shit holy fucking shit he did that.he did That. He doesnt want to do That he doesnt even realize its happening and thats why its a fuckin Power Move. Love this au i LOVE ur work and love ur storytelling

reminds me of @salvainterra‘s description of izuku: “izuku is both an unstoppable force and an immovable object and its through this paradoxical existence that hes reached the ultimate tier of not giving a fuck. good on him”

thats the secret behind it all!

Anonymous said: I love msa chapter five but I'm so worried about Izuku. He's a single teen parent of two now and he keeps missing school, how will he graduate and get in a position to follow his dreams of being alone and doing calligraphy if he misses so much of school that he doesn't get a diploma???

he will be ok! 

hey im really laughing at this because youre really including rappa as one of the people izuku adopted?? is this a thing now?? 

Anonymous said: (in msa) I am so glad you had Izuku save Eri omg. that poor child has been through enough (but also, omg the suffering you're putting Izuku through (it's great, keep going)). I'm super keen to see where you take this!!

i know im really putting izuku through the paces. while i was writing the first half of ch5 i kept telling myself that this was all for eri’s sake but MAN that was dark

thank you! im excited to pull some more bullshit. im glad you’ve been enjoying the story so far!

Anonymous said: Me reading the new msa chapter: ‘a family can be a Kirin, a girl who can disintegrate people, a supernatural teenager, a street brawler and perpetual sadness’ seriously tho it was really great and I loved it!!!

MFLNDLFKSDJF AND PERPETUAL SADNESS IM LOSING IT!!!

don’t forget the mysterious shadow spirit who may or may not be a cat 

i’m really glad you liked the chapter!!

Anonymous said: bc of allmights style i think of one for all's spirit just being a fucking american on the fourth of july with american flags everywhere and waving a minature flag threateningly and i cant stop thinking about it....

fortunately for us, that is incorrect 

Anonymous said: "Okay I've finally caught up on the backlog of work I've got, let's check in on my favourite blog and writer SIMKJRS and see what they're up to recently." *sees that you updated like a week ago* aaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

jflskdfj glad you’re excited for this!! i know i only update like once in a blue moon, 

Anonymous said: hey i just want to say that i love everything about msa; the writing, the story, the imagery, ALL OF IT thank you for making such a wonderful gift!

thank you!! im grateful for your support <3

[inhumansforever]

Lockjaw #1 Review

spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers spoilers

Writer Daniel Kibbelsmith and artists Carlos Villa, Roberto Poggi and Chris O’Halloran bring us the first in a four-issue series exploring the adventures of everybody’s favorite giant teleporting dog.  Quick recap and review following the jump.  

This first issue opens up on the morning of what appears to be a very special day for Lockjaw...  Situated in the Inhuman citadel of New Arctillan on the dark side of the moon, Lockjaw gazes out onto the cosmos and his preternatural sense of smell seem to detect a potential threat.  Something quite not right is afoot and Lockjaw springs to action.  Fist, however, the narrative offers us a quick glimpse of some of the other members of Lockjaw’s fellow Royals.  This includes Medusa and Black Bolt who appear to be *ahem* intimate once more… as well as the always irascible Karnak eating cereal, and Crystal reading a story to her daughter, Luna.  Then Lockjaw teleports off.

The narrative switches to earth, to the apartment of Dennis Dunphy, the one-time costumed adventurer and former Avenger known as Demolition Man (or D-Man for short).  Dennis has had a hard time of late.  Following a tumultuous career as a superhero with some highs and many lows, Dennis had retired from the life and settled down with his boyfriend, Steve.    Unfortunately, things with Steve didn’t work out and Dennis has been very much down in the dumps ever since the break up.  And his sadness gives way to anger when he sees himself as a clue on the TV gameshow, Jeopardy!, and none of the contestants can recall his name.  Then the show goes to commercial before the host can offer the correct answer and it leaves Dennis so enraged that he punches the television.  

And this is made even worse when the broken glass from the TV set leaves Dennis with a pretty bad gash on his forearm.  Dennis had once possessed superhuman powers, enhanced strength and durability (qualities bestowed onto him by the villainous Power Broker), but these abilities have since gone away and the cut on his arm is bad enough to warrant a trip to the emergency room.  

Exiting his apartment Dennis encounters his neighbor, a kindly albeit kind of homophobic elder woman named Mrs. Gillespie.  She is petting her pet bulldog, Bixby, and invites Dennis to a party honoring the dog’s thirtieth birthday.   

Mrs. Gillespie seems like kind of a kook so Dennis doesn’t give much thought to her claims that her dog is actually thirty years old.  Besides, he’s in kind of a hurry to get to urgent care for some stitches on his forearm.  

Elsewhere, Lockjaw teleports to earth and arrives at a local park and makes quick friends with a nice little girl chasing butterflies.  Good boy.  

Over at the hospital, Dennis’ sister, Ruth, has arrived worried that his wound might have been the result of a suicide attempt.    Ruth means well but it’s rather demoralizing to Dennis that she had thought things so rough that he would try to kill himself.   It’s basically rock bottom for Dennis, but the good news is there is nowhere to go from here but up.  

Dennis returns too his apartment building and discovers Lockjaw standing outside barking loudly.  He doesn’t recognize Lockjaw and seems to assume he is just a really big dog who might be lost.  Yet before he can investigate the matter further, Dennis is hit in the back by a hamster in a mini flying saucer.  There’s a sentence I never thought I’d write…

Suddenly Dennis and Lockjaw find themselves facing off against a veritable swarm of miniature flying saucers operated by talking hamsters.  The lead hamster recognizes Lockjaw, naming him a secondary target, instructing his fellow hamsters to apprehend the canine Inhuman.   Mrs. Gillespie and Bixby come out of the building to see what the ruckus is all about.  The hamster identifies Bixby as the primary target and its fleet engages.   With Bixbee in danger, Lockjaw goes a bit wild and takes out the swarming saucers with heightened brutality. 

 It isn’t long before the saucers have to retreat.  Afterwards, Lockjaw and Bixbee meet up and share a knowing sniff with one another.  

Then Lockjaw is off.  Dennis still thinks he is a lost dog and runs up to see if he can check for a collar.  Doing so accidentally causes Dennis to be teleported off with Lockjaw.  

The two land in the Savage Land, the secretive refuge of prehistoric life hidden deep in the antarctic.  Lockjaw has teleported to a place in the Savage Land where his one time ally and fellow Pet Avenger, Zabu the sabertooth tiger, is residing.  

Zabu growls at first, but his friend Ka-Zar (Marvel’s analog to Tarzan) assures him that all is well.  Dennis is rather confused over all that has happened, but he sees Ka-Zar and is taken aback by the man’s physical beauty.    

And it is here that this rather silly first issue comes to a close with the promise of continuation with the next installment...

A very goofy and fun ride.   Carlos Villa’s illustration along with  Roberto Poggi’s inks and Chris O’Halloran coloring all work really nicely for the story.  Villa draws a rather funny looking Lockjaw with an especially big face with accentuated floppy joules.  It’s very much that kind of cute come funny looking often associated with pugs or bulldogs.     

Villa’s penciling very much excels in the one action scene, where Lockjaw and D-Man fend off the hamsters in flying saucers.  He is especially good at showing off dynamic scenes and I’ll be looking forward to more action scenes as the series progresses.  O’Halloran’s colors really stand out, with an especially good use of electric blues that capture the cosmic nature of Lockjaw’s powers of teleportation.

There’s a lot of mystery here and it remains unknown what exactly is going on.  It would seem that Bixby is likely Lockjaw’s brother and that there may be something special about Lockjaw’s siblings that has put them in the crosshairs of these hamster-like creatures.    

We know from Black Bolt #5 that Lockjaw was a dog whose mother was exposed to Inhuman experimentation on old Attilan.  The experiment appeared to imbue the her pup with special powers, but it wasn’t revealed whether or not Lockjaw’s mom had just one puppy or a whole litter.  I’m guessing that it was the latter and that Lockjaw has a number of brothers and sisters out there.  Along with an extended lifespan, these dogs may also possess other powers, powers that these saucer flying hamsters could want to exploit.  I suppose we will have to wait and see how this all pans out.  

Daniel Kibbelsmith has made an interesting choice in selecting D-Man as Lockjaw’s co-adventurer in the story.  D-Man a peculiar character…  He first showed up in the pages of The Thing as part of a story that attempted to bank off growing popularity of professional wrestling.  He then teamed up with Captain America, getting a costume that was an overt knock off go outfits worn by Daredevil and Wolverine.  He was homeless for a time, mentally ill for a time, an Avenger for a time.  He was recruited into Wonder Man’s squad of Revengers and even mind-controlled into becoming The Scourge.  Then he was killed off and I don’t recall how he was eventually brought back to life.    

D-Man has kind of been a cypher who various authors have used for different reasons and different plot-lines in a variety of different comics.  Kibblesmith departs from this and offers up a more fully fleshed out version of D-Man.  He depicts Dennis as a sarcastic yet lovable loser who is down on his luck.  He’s lost his powers, lost his boyfriend, things have gotten pretty bad.  He’s a guy who could really use a good old fashioned adventure alongside a giant teleporting bulldog in order to turn things around…

Dennis provides up a good point of view for the reader (particularly necessary for a main character who is a dog and cannot speak).  Dennis has no idea what exactly is going on with Lockjaw, the nature of his mission, nor the origin of these villainous space-hamsters.  Us readers are equally in-the-dark and I’m looking forward to joining Dennis in discovering the truth behind these mysteries.  Hopefully other readers will feel the same.

Of course as a big time Inhumans fan I was especially intrigued by the opening scene on New Arctillan.  Very interesting to see Medusa and Black Bolt back together and I wonder if this acts as something of a spoiler regarding what will be revealed in the 12th and final issue of Ahmed and Ward’s Black Bolt series. 

 In any case, it was nice to see confirmation that Crystal has reunited with her daughter, Luna, and both are doing well on Arctillan… and also nice to see that Karnak has apparently been forgiven for his past transgression in the pages of Secret Warriors and has been welcomed to reside on Arctillan with the rest of The Royals.    

Lockjaw #1 is my kind of ridiculous fun and I definitely recommend it.  Four out of five Lockjaws :3

[anitabyars]

★★ BRAND NEW RELEASE ★★

From New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Sawyer Bennett comes a new story in her Arizona Vengeance series…

RAFE by Sawyer Bennett is available now!

✔️Kindle: https://amzn.to/32ONFEh

➣ Watch the book trailer: https://bit.ly/35axv9X

➣ Follow Sawyer Bennett on Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sawyer-bennett

-------

I was living my dream until one phone call changed everything.

As the second line center for the Arizona Vengeance, my mind has been on one thing—helping my team bring home a championship. But that all changed when I found out my dad had cancer and only months to live. In that moment, nothing mattered more than getting home to North Carolina to be by his side. That meant asking for the unthinkable—a trade to the Carolina Cold Fury.

Now I’m home and when I’m not on the ice with my new team, I’m helping care for my dad. And in the midst of my grief, I find comfort from the one person I never expected.

Calliope Ramirez stole my heart at a very young age. The beautiful, smart, headstrong girl next door, she was my first… everything. She has never forgiven me for leaving her, believing that I chose hockey over a future together. What she doesn’t understand is that every decision I made was for her, and I’ve never given up hope that one day we’d be together again.

Watching my dad slip away is a harsh reminder of how short life can be, and having Calliope by my side makes me realize I was a damn fool before. That changes starting right now. Calliope Ramirez is mine and I’m not going to waste the second chance that I’ve been given.

**Every 1001 Dark Nights novella is a standalone story. For new readers, it’s an introduction to an author’s world. And for fans, it’s a bonus book in the author’s series. We hope you'll enjoy each one as much as we do.**

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

About the author:

Since the release of her debut contemporary romance novel, Off Sides, in January 2013, Sawyer Bennett has released multiple books, many of which have appeared on the New York Times, USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestseller lists.

A reformed trial lawyer from North Carolina, Sawyer uses real life experience to create relatable, sexy stories that appeal to a wide array of readers. From new adult to erotic contemporary romance, Sawyer writes something for just about everyone.

Sawyer likes her Bloody Marys strong, her martinis dirty, and her heroes a combination of the two. When not bringing fictional romance to life, Sawyer is a chauffeur, stylist, chef, maid, and personal assistant to a very active daughter, as well as full-time servant to her adorably naughty dogs. She believes in the good of others, and that a bad day can be cured with a great work-out, cake, or even better, both.

Sawyer also writes general and women’s fiction under the pen name S. Bennett and sweet romance under the name Juliette Poe.

Connect with her:

Website: https://sawyerbennett.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/bennettbooks

Twitter: https://twitter.com/bennettbooks

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sawyerbennett123/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6950682.Sawyer_Bennett

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sawyer-bennett

EXCERPT

I swing open the door, eager to see Mrs. Filmore because she’s an excellent baker, but am stunned stupid when I see Rafe standing there with two grocery bags in hand.

I left him at his parents’ house not more than an hour and a half ago. There was no kiss goodbye, only a promise to call me later. I didn’t know what to—or if I should—read into that. The kiss would have implied some lingering affection; the lack of implying the sex was a one-time-only thing, and perhaps a mistake. Yet the promise to call spoke to wanting to see me again. Or maybe we’d just go back to being tentative friends.

Ugh. So confusing. In the moment, the only thing I can think to say is, “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you, too,” he replies with a sly grin, pushing his way into my apartment.

“Why don’t you come on in?” I mutter sarcastically and close the door, noting how good he smells as he passes me. “But, seriously...why are you here?”

Rafe takes a moment to survey my small apartment and then moves into the kitchen. He holds up the grocery bags. “I thought we could hang. I brought all the makings for tacos, and we can watch movies or something. Really great apartment, by the way. It’s totally you.”

I pad across the small living area and rest my forearms on the counter that separates it from the kitchen. He starts unloading the bags—ground beef, lettuce, tomatoes, a six-pack of beer.

“Dad’s sleeping, and Mom’s doing some spring cleaning,” he explains as he moves to put the items in my fridge. “She shooed me out of the house, and I thought we could hang.”

“Hang?” I ask skeptically. What does that even mean?

And then it dawns on me.

“Oh,” I drawl in amusement. “You want sex again?”

Rafe pops straight up, looking at me over the refrigerator door, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “You offering?”

“Um,” I reply, unsure of myself.

He grins at me. “As much as you totally rocked my world today at the pond, Poppy, I really just thought we could hang out. Get to know each other again.”

My eyebrows draw inward, and I’m more confused now than ever. I rocked his world? Really?

Why I flush with pride is beyond me, but what makes a girl feel good is what makes a girl feel good.

Rafe shuts the fridge and moves around the kitchen counter to me. He takes my hand in his, covers it with his other, and brings them to his chest, his expression somber. “I know I can’t possibly hope for you to understand what I did to you eight years ago, and I know it’s likely a lot of wishful thinking that you could forgive me completely. But right now, we reconnected, and I want to see where this goes. Today with you has been the best day since I found out about my dad. I guess I just want more of it.”

My Review

5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I devoured Rafe. This sexy hockey hunk made me swoon and oh my heart went out to him when he requested a trade to Cold Fury from the Arizona Vengeance, so he could be close to his dying father in Dominik. So I knew this was going to be emotional but...what I didn’t know is, what else was there when he got home. Rafe left his best friend since birth, his first kiss, his first girlfriend his first everything. And she was and still is Pissed!

Calliope Ramirez has been close to Rafe’s family her whole life. After Rafe left her behind eight years ago to pursue his hockey career, she went on to pursue her dreams of becoming a nurse. Callie has been helping Rafe’s parents deal with his cancer. And although she has hated Rafe since he dumped her all those years ago, she is there to also help him understand what to expect and what is going on.

But when Rafe returns and sees Callie, his Pro hockey career fades, along with all the women he dated, and all the money he has made becomes unimportant. It time for him to not take a single moment for granted. Because the truth is he has carried a torch for her all these years. But when he wants to build a relationship with her, Callie isn’t willing to put her heart on the line again.

And Wow, what hurt and lost time for these two who had loved each other since they were young. When you read it your heart will literally drop and you will get so angry. But there’s hope for these two as the love, the chemistry, that hot, panty-dropping heat is still there and I was literally flying through the pages because I just couldn’t get enough of them. Will they fall in love again? Grab this book to find out.

Received an early copy in exchange for an honest review.

[joe-whiteside]

post 4 - insomniac

1

It was August when it happened. The 8th or 9th, I don’t remember. I had just gotten through with the day’s overload of work and was closing my computer to get ready to go home. I like to be ready early. I was glancing between the clock and the door, clock and the door, clock and the door. I could tell my meds were wearing off. My ADHD makes me jittery. The medicine worked fine, but only from morning to about 4:30, and here we were: 4:55. I was jittery. I started shaking my leg. I wasn’t nervous or anything, I just couldn’t sit still that day. Probably because I had a small breakfast and there wasn’t much to dissolve the Adderall in. 

It was 4:57 now. 

I couldn’t help but wonder why the clock seemed to move so slow when you’re looking at it, but when you’re working, it’s at a regular speed. This thought would have puzzled me even more if I hadn’t noticed the hand move again. 

4:58. 

I sat there just watching, waiting, shaking. My hands had the nerve to pick up the pen on my desk and start clicking the end. I knew this annoyed my coworkers so I usually tried my best not to but today, I couldn’t help it. It was just so relieving for some reason. 

4:59. 

“I swear, if that clock moves any slower, I’m going to lose my mind,” I thought. At least, I thought I thought it. There’s a chance I said it under my breath without even realizing that I had done it because, at that exact moment of thought, Chris (the guy in the cubicle next to mine) said,

“Me too, Kurt,” 

He sighed.

I remember once, while I was out drinking with some buddies, this woman came into the place dressed like a complete whore. I must have said something about her out loud because when the woman walked by, she gave me a dirty look. I didn’t mind. I was just out to have a beer anyway. I think it’s nice when people say what’s on their mind, though maybe not if they are without basic filters. (I speak of myself, chiefly.) I look back at the clock. It’s 11 seconds until 5. 

Now, nine. 

Six, 

four, 

two... 

finally. 

It’s time to go home.

2

I wasn’t particularly excited to go home that day, nor any other day for that matter. I haven’t got much at home but a bed, a cat, and some of my dad’s old jazz records that I put on from time to time. When he and my mom retired, they moved out West. Montana, I think. They have a large camper and their life right now is best described as an over-extended road trip. At least they’re happy. Anyway, a day before they left, my father came by the house with a box.

“Your mother isn’t a fan of jazz and we don’t have space on the Winnie. You want ‘em?”

“Sure, I’ll take them,” I said, knowing full-well he’d leave them with me no matter what I said. Good thing I like the classics.

It was a rather uneventful drive home that night, and good too because my meds were really coming down now.  I’ve been experimenting with micro-dosing of hallucinogens to help keep me focused even more throughout the day. Those were wearing off too. I was at the point where I’d start counting the lines on the road just to stay focused on driving but I’d always get distracted. And it’s not like it was a long ride home either, just ten minutes, with the traffic of course. But today was a Friday evening and the surrounding businesses all closed early. But not Schlafen Office Supplies. No, we’re open, nine to five, Monday through Friday, all but two days of the year. Christmas and Thanksgiving. And sometimes, it’s just Thanksgiving.

I pull into my driveway and rush inside. It was raining outside and I forgot my umbrella at the office. I unlock the door, greet Samuel, he’s my cat, and turn a few lights on in the house. I give Samuel his dinner and order some China King. Lo mein, an egg roll, two crab rangoons, a Dr. Pepper, and a fortune cookie. I have a page in my kitchen where I write down what I normally get from restaurants because many times, it takes me too long to decide. Then, I go to lie down for a nap and allow the doorbell or Samuel to wake me up. Whichever comes first, I guess. 

As I’m lying there, Sammy jumps up on my chest and I gently put him on the floor. He always seems to know when I don’t want him around. I lie down again. Two minutes later, he’s jumping up onto me again and this time he uses his claws to really ‘stick’ the landing; (I hate that pun). I push him off and he wanders away. I continue reclining and just as I am getting comfortable, Sammy is running from one end of the house to the other, over and over, because that’s what cats do and it would have been fine if he didn’t jump up on me a third time, again, sticking the landing. I stand up and he falls into the sofa and manages to rip the suede cushion covers on his way down.

“GAH! What the hell is wrong with you?!?”

The doorbell rings. I whip around and stub my toe on the coffee table as I mutter and open the door. I sigh.

“I’m sorry, how much do I owe you?”

I pay him the $11.59 he required and gave him a four dollar tip because he looked only sixteen or seventeen and I felt bad for him.

I shut the door and went to the table to eat. 

Damn, I forgot to ask for soy sauce.

As I’m eating, Sammy comes and starts rubbing up on my leg, signaling that he’s sorry. I picked him up and pet him with one hand and held my egg roll with chopsticks in the other.

3

That night after cleaning up dinner, I walked into the bathroom, flipped the switch, and realized the lightbulb had gone out. I didn’t have any extras, I just used the last one on the pineapple lamp my parents got me as a housewarming gift. 

I gotta buy more lightbulbs soon.

I took my evening meds, being sure I took only the prescribed dose, which was hard because I had a million things racing through mind and to make matters worse, my hands were shaking. Next, I took my evening eyedrops. It burned more than usual. After brushing my teeth and flipping the lightswitch (because habits), I went to bed.

4

Whenever I can’t sleep at night, I’ll often read. It relaxes me in a way I can’t exactly describe. That night, it was Through The Looking Glass by Lewis Caroll. I was reading through The New York Times Bestsellers for Classic Fiction list.

I was starting on chapter nine tonight when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone. I can’t put my finger on it. Just a movement. I went back to reading. I could hear my clock ticking, somewhat louder than before. When I looked over at its face, it seemed to be like water, with ripples and waves about, above the hands as if somebody filled the front of my clock with an ocean. Startled, I turn back to the book that was now warm in my hand. All of a sudden, I’m falling. I shut my eyes, afraid. 

When I finally gain strength to open them, my walls have become darker and my pineapple lamp has acquired an aura of warm-daylight glow. I look down at the book in my hands and see that nothing’s changed. Nothing except for... is it breathing? 

As it pulses in and out and as the words stretch beneath my fingertips, I panic. Hard. I throw the book across the room. In the meantime, my duvet has become an increasingly bold shade of red even though I knew it was blue. I fell against the pillows but I seemed to sink into them as if they were consuming me, no... melting me. 

I manage to pull myself together enough to get up and get a glass of water. Walking into the kitchen, Sammy brushes past my leg and in the pale, blue moonlight, I see a three-foot-tall Sammy sitting on the floor, licking his paws as his ears shoot little orbs of light and sausage above his head. I fill up my water glass telling myself it’s only a dream, praying to God it’s only a dream.

The glass breaks in my hand. 

I scream. Charging into the living room, I yell and stomp and jump and howl until, out of exhaustion, I pass out on the floor, exhausted, hitting my head on the coffee table on the way down.

5

Bright lights. 

White walls.

The cold smell of hand sanitizer.

I’m in a hospital bed hooked up to a dozen machines or so. After a few minutes, a short man in a lab coat and glasses walks in.

“Ah, you’ve come to. My name is Dr. Jefferson. Can you tell me where you are?”

“Ugh...it’s a hospital.” I groan. It hurts to speak.

“That’s right. Do you know your name, sir?”

“Yeah. Kurt. Kurt Osbourne.”

He writes something on his clipboard. 

“Well, it’s not quite as bad as we first thought Mr. Osbourne.”

“What’s not so bad?”

“I thought you might not remember.”

“Remember wha-ahh!” A sharp migraine hits. “Could you get me some water please?”

“Yes, Mr. Osbourne. In the meantime, there’s somebody here to see you.”

As if on cue, a tall, thin black woman in a lilac cardigan, yellow top, and blue jeans walks in.

“Hey, how ya feelin’?”

“Never better,” I hiss sarcastically. “Who are you?” 

“I’m your next-door neighbor Shauna Green. I moved in about a month ago.”

“Oh, I remember you.” It came out more rude than I meant it to. “What happened?”

“Well, it was around 1:30, 2 o’clock last night when I heard you. I had my windows open and you were yellin’ and screaming’ and carryin’ on like and I thought to myself, ‘That man is crazy. What is he doing yellin’ and carrying on like that? I got two kids to take care of.’ Pretty soon, I found myself, in a bathrobe, in front of your door. I was about to give you a piece of my mind when I realized you weren’t angry, you were...” she trailed and her eyes got big. “...you were something else.”

“Something else?”

“Scared, I guess. When I walked to the door, I heard you drop. And you got quiet. I called 911 and they sent over an ambulance. You’ve got a nasty gash on the back of your head there. Don’t touch it, honey, just know it’s there. They picked you up off the ground and I volunteered to stick around seeing as I was the only one who knew what had gone on.”

“Thank you,” I said dully. My head pained again. Through clenched teeth, I said, “Is that doctor back yet?”

“Why, yes I am.” he chimed, walking in as if we both knew he wasn’t listening.

Dr. Jefferson then handed me a glass of water a pain pill (which I was eternally grateful for) and he started his spiel.

“We found an alarmingly high amount of psychedelics in your bloodstream. Do you know anything about this?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Patient-doctor confidentiality applies within the law also.”

Glancing around, I say, “I only use ‘em to stay focused at work along with my Adderall. I have ADHD. I’m not an acidhead, I just do it for my concentration.”

A pause.

“How much did you find in my system?”

“Well, there was enough to make you think you could fly. And probably enough to make you try. Luckily, we don’t think you did.” He chuckled at this last statement. I resented him a little for it.

Thinking, I said, “Wait, I only take them in the morning before work. In microdoses,” I asserted. “How did they get so potent?”

“Our observations show an extremely high amount, if not all, was ingested through the eyes.”

“That’s impossible. Who uses LSD on their eyes?”

Then, it hit me. 

The lightbulb was out. I grabbed the first eye-dropper I felt. I’m such an idiot.

Just then, my face felt hot. I blushed and felt the most shame I’ve felt ever. In the moment, I was reminded of the time I went to the public pool with my family. I was a small kid so not everything always fit so well. While swimming, the knot on my shorts came undone and I hadn’t noticed. The inevitable happened when I went to dive off the diving board. I went head-first into the water. In the air, I was a swan. When I hit the water, my shorts came loose and slipped right off my little 12 year old body. I didn’t notice until I climbed up the ladder and exposed myself to a group of old women sunbathing.

Yeah, all that came back real quick.

Getting up, “I have to go. I have to get out of here.”

“Hold on there fella, you can’t leave yet,” Dr. Jefferson says, putting his remarkably large hand on my chest, holding me down.

“Let...me...go!” I say as I struggle with him to get out of the bed. I am rather weak.

“Nurses!” he calls.

Three large women come through the door. Two of them tie me to the bed with nylon straps while the third adds something to the IV.

That’s when the melting started again...

-joe whiteside

[the-record-newspaper]

Marshal announced for Halloween Parade

Parade Organizer Heather Dean, Hannah Runkle, her mother, Lisa, stepfather Bill Visek , and caregiver Kaitlin Stevens. 

Record Staff Reports

Hannah Runkle suffered from a Level 4 Cerebral Hemorrhage before birth and suffers from translocation of the seventh Chromosome, Arachnadacteley, and a Colobomas- cleft in her pupil.

But that doesn’t stop her from loving to read about her favorite subject:   Halloween. She loves Tim Burton movies, but “The Nightmare Before Christmas” is her favorite.

“She even makes up more songs to go with other characters from the movie,” said her mom, Lisa Visek.  

Hannah’s room looks like a Paris apartment, complete with a desk where she likes to do jigsaw puzzles and write. Hannah writes her own fan fiction through the help of a caregiver, based off of the books and movies she loves. Depending on the season, it may be about Spring fairies or Christmas elves, but in October it is all Halloween all the time. And her October wardrobe is Jack Skellington, all month long.

But the turnip, as they say, doesn’t fall far from the truck. Visek dresses up like a Gnome, and teaches weaving demonstrations. Her husband, Bill, looks very much like Mr. Gold (Rumplestiltskin) from the TV show “Once Upon a Time.”  Visek gives Hannah space to be as autonomous as possible. She has even gotten up and participated in open mic events at festivals that they attend together.

On the off season (read: not Halloween) Hannah makes rescue blankets for dogs, and sachets for Mother’s Day. She loves going to the library and gets to go about four times a week with her caregivers. She’s not particularly a fan of Sci-Fi, except Guardians of the Galaxy, Gamora being her favorite character.

But don’t let her sweet demeanor fool you. Hannah can be quite a sassy sprite, as one of her care givers, Kaitlin Stevens said. “She is really quick witted and even sarcastic at times. It gets her in what we call “best friend detention.”

“You can always tell by the smile on her face- if the evil dimples are coming out, you had better get ready.” Stevens said with a laugh. When asked if that were true, Hannah just smiled, and the dimples popped out.

Parade creator and organizer Heather Dean went to meet Hannah this past Saturday. “All I got accomplished was a shower and coffee this morning, and Hannah had already written a story. She handed me the printed version when we met under the mermaid constellation, and talked over pumpkin bread and magic bean water in a coffee shop close to her house. She really is an amazing girl.” Dean said.

Visek made a post on the Halloween Parade Facebook page last week about taking Hannah to the parade as a treat if she finished 100 books this summer. So far she has read 95, quite the feat for someone who shouldn’t be able to read at all.

“Since the Halloween Parade and Zombie Fest are family oriented, it is our goal to find a kid with a special story to be the grand marshal.” Dean said. “So far we had not had any submissions, and when I saw Lisa’s comment I immediately contacted her to see if Hannah’s circumstances would allow her to participate.”

The answer was a resounding yes.

And even thought she doesn’t understand grand marshal per se, Hannah knows what it means to be the Queen of Halloween, because that’s her official title already.

 For more information on participating in the parade, becoming a vendor, sponsor, or hosting a game for the kids, contact historicwilkeshallows@gmail.com or send a Facebook message to the 3rd Annual Historic Wilkesborough Halloween Parade page.