#when in doubt there’s always the single word or alliteration love me some alliteration

[tacit-semantics]

man how do you come up with fic titles? i just sit there staring at my newborn baby fic and don’t know what to name him. every time

See my personal favorite is to hit em with the worst pun I can feasibly manage but I’ll admit half the time it devolves into desperately scrolling through either a playlist or a list of common phrases (which I will then use to hit em with the worst pun I can feasibly manage) in the hopes that that’ll get the two brain cells sparking off each other aksksks

[someguynamedstevewrites]

My Roommate is an Apparition: An Apparition A-Pink-ciation of Culture

Based on characters created by @reddpenn

From the diary of Lily:

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

When I was little, I used to talk to my stuffed animals all the time.  They were my soft, cuddly friends who were always there for me, and even though they never spoke a word, I always imagined I could hear what they wanted to say.  Even as an adult, I still treat inanimate objects like they’re people too.  In fact, everyone does at some point or another in their adult life.  Anyone who has ever argued with their car that refused to start knows what I mean.

But recently, I realized that sometimes people can do... well the opposite. That sometimes we don’t treat people (who are actual, real people) like they’re people.  It’s not something we consciously think about, but it’s more like we forget that, well, people are people.  I know this sounds really dumb, but I felt like I needed to write about this after a... well after an “argument” I had with my roommate.

I’ve lived with my roommate for a few months now, and I thought I had gotten to know them pretty well.   They like to watch cartoons (like, seriously LOVES them) and we had worked out a TV viewing schedule to make sure that we got along together.  But the other day, I realized that I wasn’t necessarily treating them like they were their own person.  I didn’t mean to do that, but it just kind of happened, and...

...well it gets really complicated because, technically, they aren’t a person.

I mean, they aren’t human; they’re an apparition.

It made me think about all those stories about monsters and ghosts.  Like a ghost used to be human, but then they died, and their spirit became a ghost.  Do we still treat the ghost like the person they were when they were alive?  Outside of a few exceptions, the answer’s a definite yes.

But what about an apparition? It’s kind of like a ghost, but it’s not. I mean, it’s not the soul of someone who died or anything. They just sort of exist. (Would Slimer from Ghostbusters be an apparition or a ghost?).

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

So anyway, reason I’m bringing this all up is because of what happened last weekend. I was channel surfing through the Cable Guide and as I’m flipping through, I pass by Boomerang (you know, the cable channel that spun-off Cartoon Network to hold all the older cartoons?) and all of a sudden, my roommate appears out of nowhere (literally) and practically grabs the remote out from my hands.

“Hey! What gives!?” I say to them.

They immediately change over to Boomerang and my TV screen is suddenly filled up with the color pink. At the same time, my roommate starts “doot-ing” along with the song and goes, “Doo-Doot! Doo-Doot! Do-Doot-Do-Doot-Do-Doot Do-Doot-De-Dooooooooo-Doo-Doo-Doo-Doo-Doooot”. I have no idea what they’re doing, but then the cartoon starts up and it’s the Pink Panther.

Rhetorically, I go, “What’s this?”

“Pink... Panther...” my roomie says.

And then I make my first mistake by saying, “Huh. Never seen it before.”

Now if I had been paying attention to them, I probably would have seen the face of shock they were making. “You... NEVER... saw it!?” They gasped.

“Nope. Must have been before my time,” which was totally true. I mean, I later found out my Dad used to watch it when he was a kid. It wasn’t on TV when I was growing up. (Why am I defending myself for not watching a specific cartoon?)

Anyway, roomie asks, “Watch... with me?”

And then I, being a total dumbass, say, “Nah. Think I’ll get some dishes in,” before getting up and walking away.

If I had stayed put for just a few seconds longer, I would have heard them asking, “...please?” (In case you’re wondering, they told me about that later.)

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

Yes, I hurt its feelings.  Yes, it was insensitive.  Yes, I am sorry.  But like I said, the thought didn’t even cross my mind back then.  As far as I knew, as long as my roommate had their cartoons, they were happy.  It didn’t occur to me that they cared about anything other than the cartoons themselves.

For the next week, my roommate made sure I knew, now and forever, that this was not true.

My first clue that they were mad at me was later that evening when I went to the living room to watch my usual shows.   It was my turn on the TV, and usually I have to pry my roommate away so I can watch what I want to watch. But that night, the instant I walked into the room, they changed the channel to what I wanted, put the remote down on the couch, and left the room without saying a word.  I thanked them, plopped myself down, and went straight into couch potato mode.

This should have thrown so many red flags in my head, but for some reason, it didn’t.  Maybe I was being too self-absorbed at the time? Maybe I was just tired and thinking, “Aww man, I gotta work tomorrow!”?  No matter the excuse, mistakes were made, and I started paying for them the very next morning.

My “haunting” kicked off with waking up to find most of my rock collection missing.  I have a particular affinity for pretty rocks and gems (I’m kind of a rock nerd) and have my favorites out on display.  But that morning, the only rocks that I could see were the pink ones.  Someone had pilfered almost every pebble from every pedestal to perturb me.   (I saw a chance for alliteration and took it! So sue me!)  I was still waking up and too tired to care about it at the time (me making excuses again) and had work, so I got ready to go and left.

Now I’m not sure how they did it, but my roommate did something to my car radio.   I turn it on and all I get are tunes by Henry Mancini.  Fifty percent of the time, it was the Pink Panther theme, twenty-five percent was the theme from A Shot In The Dark (I had to use Soundhound to figure out that one), and the rest was a mix of some of his other work.   It didn’t matter what station I tried changing it to!  Although I did learn that Mancini composed Baby Elephant Walk, so that’s something.

By now, I’d already figured out what was going on (roommate did it), but couldn’t really do anything about it because I still had work to go to.   As if the daily grind working at an art supply store wasn’t hard enough, I had to work while having the dang Pink Panther theme stuck in my head all day.  Not even the music that played over the store radio could get rid of it.  (Given the quote un-quote “music” they play over the speaker system, I eventually considered it a good thing.)

Then I came home, and that’s when things REALLY escalated.  First words out of my mouth after I walked in was, “Hey, I’m hoooOOOOOLY~!”  Every single wall in the apartment, from the living room, to the kitchen, to the bedroom, and even the bathroom...

PINK!

All of them were painted PINK!

Like strawberry frosted doughnut pink!

As I’m gawking at the interior design sugar rush nightmare, out walks my roommate from around the corner.  Immediately, the first thing I noticed was that they had feet. (Normally, they don’t have feet; they just kind of “hover” or “emerge from the ground” or something.) They had their eyes closed, head held up, and made a point of showing off these noodle legs they had constructed by skipping every other three steps.

They were doing the Pink Panther shuffle.

They walk out of my line of sight and I run over to have a word with them, but by then they disappeared.  I look around and all I see is more and more pink.  From behind me, I hear a mix of snickering slash wheezing.  Like you ever hear of this cartoon dog named Muttley?  They were laughing like him.  And of course, I turn around, and the only thing I see is more pink!

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

I knew that my roommate could be ornery at times, like that time I tried to get an idea of their daily routine by setting up a webcam, but this...

I mean, where did she even get the paint?  (Upon reading back here, I realized I referred to them as a ‘she’ even though I’m not sure if they are a ‘she’ or not.  Yeah, I can edit it to a more neutral pronoun, but something tells me I ought to point this out instead of editing it, for some reason.)

I was half tempted to get back at them by painting the walls back to their original color (they do sell paint by the gallon where I work, and I get the employee discount), but realized they’d just paint(?) the walls pink again.  Like I’d turn around after thinking I finished only to find the work I did completely undone.  I could just picture my roommate doing that and finding it hysterical.

Anyway, tacky as the pink walls were, I didn’t get too angry about them.  For starters, my lease agreement said that I couldn’t paint the walls without landlord approval.  But my lease agreement also acknowledges that my apartment may be haunted.  If the landlord ever brought it up, I’d just tell them the “ghost” did it.  Second, these pranks my roommate was pulling were kind of amusing and didn’t really bother me that much.  (I mean sure, I wanted my rock collection back but I doubted my roommate would have thrown them away.  They know how much they mean to me.)

The one thing I was putting my foot down on was that I wasn’t going to ask my roommate what was wrong.  I got the hint, sure, but I wanted them to know that if something is bothering them, they need to, y’know, actually say something instead of leaving spooky pink clues.  They were being a butt, and my hope was that when they saw how much the pink wasn’t bothering me, then they’d finally open up.  This went on for about a week with me going about my daily routine only to be surprised by the occasional pink interruption.

Like on Wednesday, I go to the fridge to get something to drink, and all I find in there is Pink Lemonade.  It actually wasn’t that bad, but I have no idea how my roommate actually got it given that they never leave the apartment.  Thursday, I get a notification saying a package arrived, and find my roommate used my debit card to order the entire Pink Panther cartoon series on DVD.  And earlier on Tuesday, I got a call from my landlord asking if I knew why someone had called in an order, in their name, to have Owens Corning insulation installed.  In case you weren’t aware, that’s the pink insulation who has “you can guess who” as their mascot.

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

So, Friday rolls around, and by now, the entire apartment is pink.  Like EVERYTHING.  The furniture, the electronics, the toilet, the sink, the appliances, the TV, and everything in between has been made pink somehow.  I’m not sure who out there still makes pink toilet paper, but apparently my roommate has either some special powers I don’t know about yet, or they got connections.

At this point, since my roommate had yet to approach me about “The Pink-ening”, I began playing the reverse-psychology card.  I came home and got to making dinner.  While some of this was a bit more expensive than what I usually spend on food, I figured it was worth it if it meant getting my roommate to talk to me.  My menu included delicious smoked pink salmon, some crab linguine with a nice amount of pink to it for a side dish, and some mashed red potatoes that turn out nice and pink if you got the right recipe.  To wash it down, I picked up a glass of pink lemonade from the fridge, and in the freezer, some strawberry sorbet.

I get down to eating at my pink table, with a pink wooden chair, pink napkins, pink silverware, pink glass of pink lemonade.  It took a little more effort to put this together, but I made an exaggerated point of showing off how good this pink meal was and how much I was just enjoying all this pink.

About halfway into my meal, I get a feeling that someone’s standing behind me.  It’s hard to put into words how you know someone’s there especially since my roommate doesn’t really eat or breath.  It’s like the hairs on the back of your neck become sensitive like cat whiskers and can just... feel that someone’s there.  Usually sends a chill down my spine when that happens, but this time, I was ready and waiting for it.

“Care to join me for dinner?” I say without turning around.  If I had, they probably would have vanished on me again like they had been doing all week.

“Looks... good...” they say in their ever so familiar by now raspy voice.

“Got something you want to talk about?” I ask between bites.  There’s a brief pause as my roommate thinks to themselves.

“...yes,” they finally answer.

“Okay.  Pull up a chair!  It’s been a while since we just, y’know, talked and stuff,” which was true.  

The instant I said that, I realized that even before the “week of pink” began, we hadn’t spent a whole lot of time together outside of our usual TV time.  I had long since figured out that my roommate wanted me to watch Pink Panther with them, but I just thought they wanted to show it to me to show off how (subjectively) good the cartoon was.  Only then did it hit me that they wanted me to watch it with them because they wanted to watch it together with me.  It was like they were hoping for some roommate bonding time or something like that.

Now, it wasn’t like we weren’t talking to each other before this.  I greeted them whenever I saw them, and let them know whenever I came home or was leaving. but we hadn’t actually talked, like... “talk-talk” in a few weeks.  Instead, the conversations over the last few weeks were like the kind of conversations a person would have with their pet cat or pet dog.  Like you’d talk to them, but not really expect an answer from them.

I had been treating her like a pet more than a person.  (Did it again!  I’m thinking I’ll ask them later what kind of pronouns they’d like me to use, or if they’ve even given any thought towards gender or anything).

My guess is that my roommate picked up on this themselves, and just like a disobedient pet who is bored, lonely, or other, they made a mess of the place.  Maybe they were thinking that if I was going to treat them like a pet, they would act like one too?

Of course, I didn’t mean to treat them like that.  I don’t think anyone really does mean it when they do.  It just kind of happens without thinking about it.  The whole reason I’m writing this down here in you, diary, is so that I can make a mental note slash reminder to be careful of doing that kind of thing.  It’s especially important to remember when interacting with other people, like my co-workers or the store customers.  (Unlike my roommate, they can’t get on my case by making my entire apartment pink.)

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

Now where was I?  Oh yeah, our talk.  I think I remember the most important bits of it.  It went something like:

“So, whaddya wanna talk about?” I ask between bites of food.

“Pink...” they say to me.  I wait a moment, expecting them to say “panther” after that, but it when it doesn’t arrive, I step in.

“Yeah!  Pretty amazing what you did with the place!  I didn’t know things could even get this pink!” which was one-hundred percent true.

“...Thank...you...” they say with a smile.  I can tell that was not the answer they were expecting as I could have swore they turned and blushed.  Although I couldn’t tell because of how pink everything else was.

“Although,” I add, “I don’t think the landlord is going to like the apartment being this pink.  If it stays like this, they might kick me out.  And we wouldn’t want that, right?”

Now my roommate, the apparition, actually looks shocked for a moment.  The thought hadn’t entered their head, and for a moment, they looked a little scared.  “N-n-n-no...” they stuttered.

“Well, I’m sure together, we can get this place back to the way it was before the next time they have an apartment inspection.  Whenever that is,” I reassure them.

“Yeah...” my roommate nods.

“Say I got some time off this upcoming weekend.  Want to watch some Pink Panther with me?”  (Oh my God, you should have seen the smile on my roommate’s face when I asked this.)  “I see I have the DVD collection now, apparently,” I say with a wink, “and we can even watch the movies together too.”

“...movies?” they ask.

“Yeah, the Pink Panther was a movie first before it became a cartoon.  It was a live-action movie, but... well some of it’s like a cartoon here and there.  Lots of slapstick comedy that I think you might like.”  They were practically beaming and agreed immediately.  

After Friday’s dinner, we watched some of the cartoons (which are actually pretty funny) and for the upcoming weekend, we’re doing a Pink Panther movie marathon with cartoons mixed in to spice it up.  I also found out that my roommate doesn’t just watch the cartoons, but actually knows a thing or two about them.  Like how Friz Freleng, one of the directors and creative minds behind the original Looney Tunes cartoons, was involved in the Pink Panther’s creation along with a new studio after he left Warner Brothers.  I don’t know how my roommate came to know so much, but it’s pretty cool.

Anyway, I got me some sweet, pink treats to snack on during the movie marathon.  The apartment is still pink as can be, but my roommate said they’ll take care of it once the marathon’s over.  Exactly HOW they plan to take care of it, I have no idea.  Oh well.  No use pinking too hard about it.

(HA!)

[authorized-trash]

To Tie a Knot: Chapter 4: That Moment When Fate Ships You With Four Other People

Ao3

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Five

Content Warnings: Mentioned character death, vomit mention, self deprecation, panic attack, cursing, (tell me if there's more)

Chapter Summary:

That moment when you need to find yet another boyfriend to add to your collection, *sigh*.

Word Count:

2,500+

Note:

I was hit with inspiration for some reason, so here’s this chapter, and the next one will be up in a little bit, I just got to format it for tumblr. Sorry its been awhile, this story is kinda just, I update whenever my mind decides to. 

Everyone over on Ao3 has taken well to this chapter and the next chapter, so I hope you all do too!

(Incase you were wondering, i changed up the chapter titles, i got tired of trying to come up with different alliterate phrases, so im just gonna be dumb with the titles as;ldfkj)

- -

Damian hadn’t even noticed when he slumped to his knees. Tears dripped from his cheeks and landed onto his outstretched palm. Remy’s eyes widened and he quickly moved to get on Damian’s level.

“Dee? You okay there? Did you not know?” He asked, gently taking Damian’s trembling hands in his own. Damian let him, too shocked to take them back.

“N-no? What? How am I supposed to deal with four Remy, I already lost one I can’t- I can’t lose four!” Damian said, staring blankly at his hands, at the strings he was now aware of. He could feel them tug and twitch as his soulmates moved. They were all pretty close to one another, stretching in the same direction. Figures, they had probably met up by now. 

Damian was the outcast.

“You aren’t going to lose them,” Remy said, an edge to his voice, “Damian you won’t lose them, you were jus- just unlucky the first time, babes, I promise. This time will be better.”

“No Remy you don’t understand, they’re paired with me, they’ll die, I’m bad luck or something-”

“Damian Janus Lyer, don’t. Don’t say that. You’re not. I know you, this isn’t you, you’re just tired and not thinking clearly. This is a good thing. You aren’t bad luck. You aren’t, and babes, if I hear you say that one more time I’m going to throw some punches,” Remy said. Damian gave a watery chuckle, and Remy smirked.

“Listen, you are in no state to go in there right now. Why don’t we ditch for a little while and go get some food or somethin’”

Damian nodded, moving to stand. He dusted himself off. He looked down at his strings. The four colors were all lovely, red, blue, indigo, and purple. The colors were deep and ethereal in a magicky sort of way. 

Without thinking he strummed a finger across them, and startled when three out of the four tugged back. The last one, purple, started vibrating in a way that one would think meant the person on the other side was running their finger across the line.

More tears gathered in Damian’s eyes. He was connected with these people. They were his soulmates. They were there, on the other side, waiting. The thought of them being disappointed weighed heavy, but in this small moment he could only think of the opportunity that was given to him.

Remy watched this with a small smile, ruffling Damian’s hair as they began to walk off campus to his car.

Damian followed, hurriedly wiping the tears from his eyes and smoothing his hair down.

“Listen, babes, you pick where we eat, and I’ll pay.”

Damian shrugged, “Thanks.”

“What? No arguing that you’ll pay this time?”

Damian rolled his eyes, “You offered and I’m too emotionally confused to argue.” 

His voice was thick with tears and still wobbled every once in a while, but he had managed to compose himself well enough by now. He slid into the car seat next to Remy.

He made a point not to touch the strings, not wanting them to move. He didn’t want to seem needy or something. He relaxed fractionally, attempting to gaige some personality from the strings. Indigo (Or was it navy? It was rather dark, nearly black. It was decidedly not black when reflecting light), was shaking around as if someone was writing with that hand. Red was pretty still, expect for a few swoopy movements, as if the person was flailing their arms around. Purple was shaking slightly but otherwise not moving, and blue was fluttering around like crazy, and Damian was certain the person was messing with their string.

For a moment he wondered what his string looked like to them. He hoped it was yellow, maybe gold. He liked those colors. Green would also be nice, but he doubted that was the color, seeing as his last soul string was gre-

Damian’s breath hitched, and that feeling of loss hit him hard, and he clenched his hands into fists. Remy glanced over at him, but didn’t comment.

He was so caught up in this new soulmate business he had forgotten he had already had one. One he had lost. The string he had grown up with, the one he had talked about with friends in grade school. The one that appeared on his fragile little hands when he was born. The part of his soul that he grew to know.

The one he knew would shake wildly sometimes, or tug painfully at others. The one he would console with gentle strokes late at night when he would wake up to it trembling. The one that would do the same for him, that had always been a comfortable weight throughout his recovery as a kid.

He would never meet the other end. Never know who it was. 

They could have died suddenly or painfully, and here they were, forgotten by their soulmate a month later due to the reassigning. Damian was so ready to forget them, and the guilt of that was weighing on him so hard he wanted to vomit.

He pulled his knees to his chest and tried to steady his breathing, ignoring the light feeling of the dangling frayed string on his hand. 

He closed his eyes and lied to himself about how bad it hurt.

-

“It is a very lovely shade of yellow,” Roman commented from where he was laying on the couch. He was looking up towards the ceiling, his hand containing his string collection in front of his face as he examined the sun colored string as it swung with the others.

“It reminds me of a sunflower when hit by the sun juuusst right,” Patton said, curled up on Roman’s chest. He was also looking at Roman’s hand, messing with his own strings absentmindedly. 

Logan was sitting in the arm chair across the room, having stayed home. They all had decided to take the day off of responsibilities, this was a large occasion, after all. He had a notepad on his lap and was writing down everything he could about the situation. He had a knack for writing information about anything and everything down. He liked to be well documented.

Virgil was curled up on the floor, scrolling through Tumblr in the way he does when he’s thinking, and not reading a single thing. If it looked like art and was colorful, he reblogged it without thinking. He was more focused on the way the new string on his hand looked as he occasionally typed.

They all sat around in domestic silence, preparing for the long talk they were going to have to have soon. 

They all noticed it, despite no one saying it aloud. That feeling of something missing. They grew up with it, but had by now gotten so used to that feeling of wholeness. Now that it was gone, so suddenly? They didn’t know how to feel about it, really. It’s easy to lose something you didn’t get a chance to know or experience, but getting a taste of something amazing to have it disappear was near torture.

“I think it appears to resemble the yellow paint Roman likes to get all of the carpet,” Logan said, lips upturning slightly at Roman’s upfronted sound.

“Nah, it def’ looks like… I don’t know, snakey,” Virgil said.

“Snakey?” Roman asked, laughing slightly, “What about the color looks like a slithering reptile?”

“Uh, snakes equal yellow, duh? Same as seven being green,” Virgil rolled his eyes as if it were obvious.

Patton laughed, “Kiddo, seven is pink.”

“Seven is seven? It cannot be either pink or green, it is a number,” Logan said, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

“Just let them be weird, Specs, with their weird color assigning,” Roman laughed, sitting up. Patton yelped as he slid off the couch.

“Listen, I’m just saying its snake yellow,” Virgil said, “But if you wann-”

Virgil was caught off as a particularly hard twinge came from the yellow string. He looked around at the others, and noticed they had felt it too. Up until this point the string was pretty chill, if a little shaky. Logan had suggested earlier it was due to shock.

As crazy as gaining a new string out of the blue was a wild, gaining four strings must have been insane. Virgil pitied the poor person, it probably scared the shit out of them.

Without thinking, he reached forward and ran his index finger over the string a few times, showing that he was here.

“This is so exciting! We have another soulmate to hunt down!” He waved his arms around animatedly. He looked as if the idea had just clicked for him.

There was a whole other person out there waiting for them, someone who would fit into their little dynamic. Someone with likes and dislikes and quirks and feelings, a whole human being.

Virgil felt himself smiling along with the others. Logan had gone back to scribbling on his notepad, even faster this time. Patton was chatting with Roman about the possibilities while rolling the string around in his fingers.

Virgil curled into the warmth of his hoodie, and for once, allowed himself to look forward to the unknown future.

-

By the time Damian had gotten home late that night, he was exhausted. He collapsed onto his bed in a pile of limbs, kicking his shoes off and snuggling into the covers. He didn’t bother with his shirt other than unbuttoning the top couple of buttons, and he had long since ditched his gloves. They were currently somewhere buried in his bag.

He and Remy had loitered around town for a while, talking about anything and everything. Damian had really tried to be in high spirits and give his usual sarcasm, but he just wasn’t feeling it. 

His eyes drifted shut, and the beginnings of a dream had already begun to swirl, sounds and nonsense conversations were supplied to his mind, and he let his mind wander as it drifted into resting mode.

That is, until he felt a tug on his ring finger.

 He opened his eyes a bit, glancing down at his hand, at the indigo string.

Tug.

His eyes opened, he was paying attention now.

Tug tug tug tug. Tug. Tug pull tug tug. Tug pull tug tug. Pull pull pull.

Damian moved to sit up, but found the effort to be too much. He decided, through the hazy-slow process that was thinking when half asleep, that this was a matter of importance, and therefore should happen in the morning. So he fell back asleep without paying it too much mind.

-

Logan sighed heavily as he stood from his chair, giving up on tapping out a message to their new soulmate. During their talk earlier the group had decided that it would be a good idea to try and meet this person as soon as possible, in order to diminish the time they felt incomplete.

It shouldn’t be too difficult. They could all drive, and all felt like the soulmate had to be relatively close. Reassignments normally happened to people who are near each other. The farthest recorded reassigned soulmates were four states away from each other. Almost everyone else was within the same state at least.

Logan had proposed morse code, the same way he and Patton had found each other, and the way they would occasionally send stupidly sappy quotes to one another on occasion. It must have been too late because the person wasn’t answering. He would have to try again sometimes tomorrow.

He heard a soft knock on his office door, and a few hushed whispers from somewhere farther in their shared house.

“Yes?” He called through the door, looking over as it slowly opened. It was only a little past midnight, but he still felt it to be inappropriate to talk any louder.

“Hey Lo? Me and the other two were wondering if you could join us in the kitchen to talk… again,” Patton said softly, leaning against the doorframe.

“The others and I,” Logan corrected, but nodded as he stood up, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. My sleeping schedule is probably messed up at this point anyway.”

Patton smiled fondly, and turned to lead Logan back to the kitchen. Virgil and Roman were sitting across from each other at the table, bickering about something under their voices.

They both looked up when Logan walked in,

“Okay, so, now that we’re all here,” Patton started, clasping his hands together as he sat down. Logan pulled up a chair, spinning it so it was backwards. He loathed to sit in chairs normally, both he and Virgil seemed to share that small quirk. Roman simply splayed himself out on the nearest surface, and Patton tended to sit criss-cross on the floor more often than a chair.

Logan shook his head to snap himself out of his wandering thoughts, focusing back onto Patton.

“We’ve come to a decision, Logan, and I’m sorry you weren’t here a little earlier, but we didn’t want to bother your work.” Logan nodded, not at all perturbed by being left out of the conversation. In fact, he was happy they left him to his own devices for awhile. It’s not like he was out of the loop, they were having the conversation for a reason.

“And?” He asked, quirking his head to the side.

“-And we’ve come to the conclusion-”

“Patton, please stop sounding so serious, it’s unnerving, that’s Logan’s thing,” Virgil cut in, rolling his eyes fondly.

Patton snickered, but continued, “We think it would be best if you were the one to go find our new soulmate. Like you said earlier, meeting all of us at once might be too much for them, and you’re one the… er… easier of us to handle.”

“Roman would probably serenade them the moment he saw them,” Virgil teased, elbowing said soulmate.

“Excuse you, you’d scare them off with all that,” Roman gestured to Virgil’s outfit, “Edge.”

“I see. So when should I leave? I’ll have to call off work and do extra to catch up in my classes.”

“Sometime tomorrow would be good, Lo. I’m hoping to meet them by the end of the week. I really do think they’re close, if not in town.”

“I agree,” Roman nodded, and Virgil shifted and did so as well.

“Very well. I’ll leave around noon, then. I planned on continuing with the messages until I manage to get an answer, Perhaps they’ll tell me where they are. It shouldn’t be much harder than that.”

“Yeah! That sounds awesome,” Patton smiled, then suddenly squealed and flapped his hands, “Ooh I’m just so excited to meet them, my goodness-”

“I wonder what they will be like, I don’t think I could stand another emo in the group,” Roman joked, and Virgil swatted at them.

“Listen here Princey, you like my emo. Besides, your eyeliner was a hot mess before I showed you how to properly apply it, so you better thank this emo,” Virgil snapped playfully.

Logan watched them with a soft expression, standing up and stretching.

“We should all get some rest, then. Big day tomorrow,” Logan said, walking towards their room. The others nodded and moved to stand.

Big day, indeed.

-

-

Taglist in reblog

[connordavidscamera]

Welcome to Our Channel! | CB

A/n: here’s part 1 of a very (hopefully) long series to come. I hope you enjoy it because I already love this series and these characters so much.

Summary: Just a couple trying to navigate a YouTube Channel together.

Warnings: sexual innuendos? fluff?

Word Count: 1.8k

***

Connor sets up the camera in front of the big window of his apartment.  I’m sitting on the floor in his hoodie, one of the cushions of the couch beneath me. “How’s the lighting, bub? Everything look okay?”

He hums, “Almost. Just gotta adjust - there. Perfect... Wow.”

“What?” I ask, playing with the ends of my hair. 

“Nothing, you’re perfect.”

I feel the burn on my cheeks. “Con, stop it!”

“Never,” he comes around the set up and squats down next to me. “Can I have a kiss?”

“Always,” I grasp the side of his jaw and press a soft kiss to his lips. I lick my lips when we pull away, scrunching up my face. “You taste like coffee.”

“And you love it, don’t you?”

“The only way I like it,” I concur and lean in to kiss him again, letting him take the lead, deepening it just a little, his tongue brushing against my bottom lip. “Mmmh…” I groan and pull away. “Not right now, bub. There’s a camera,” I tease.

“It’s not on yet. Should I turn it on? Start our channel off with a bang… literally.”

I laugh and push him away, causing him to fall down. “You’re gross. Stop it.”

“You did not think it was gross last night. Or this morning. And probably not after we finish this video.”

“You never get tired, do you?” I ask, playing with the hem of my shorts, smiling adoringly at my beautiful boy. 

“Not when you’re looking at me like that. Or when you’re in my hoodie like that. Which reminds me,” he leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, “you’re keeping that on later.”

I bite my bottom lip and nod. “Yes sir.” 

He groans, “Alright, lover, let’s get this going. Yeah?”

“Yes, let’s. Sit with me.”

“You can sit on my lap.”

I roll my eyes, “Just sit down, bub. You have the remote?”

He hands it to me, situating himself next to me. “We’re in frame?”

I squint at the viewfinder, “Yeah, it looks like it. Are we even in focus?”

“Yeah, I made sure when you sat down. You just have to press that button to start recording.”

“Okay, but what are you even supposed to say in an introduction?”

“Umm… we’re the Brashier’s and welcome to our channel?” He says with a raised eyebrow. 

“Come on, Con. I’m serious. This is different from when I started my channel. I just reviewed some makeup. This is new territory for both of us.”

“I know, but hey, it doesn’t have to be perfect. We’re just starting out. We’ll figure it out as we go.”

“You also realize that doing this means fully exposing our relationship. Letting everyone in. We can’t go back to our secret love affair once they know,” I tease.

He bumps his nose with mine, “I do know that, Harley. But I also know that I can’t keep you a secret any longer. The taciturn posting has to come to an end at some point.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes my throat, “Someone learned a new word today, huh?”

“I did,” he beams. “Hey that should be a thing in our videos.”

“What should?”

“Like a word of the day. Or a word of the week or something.”

“A word of the week, Connor, what the fuck?”

“It’s a suggestion. We can be both entertaining and educational.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely gonna be our hook. Get that alliteration thing going on. We just need one more ‘e’ word to really send it home. Entertaining, educational, and…”

“Electric?”

“Electric?” I repeat, a small smile on my lips. 

“Yeah. Like what we have, our relationship. It’s electric. We’re entertaining, educational, and electric.”

I lean in a press a chaste kiss to his lips, “Connor Brashier, have I told you today how hopelessly in love with you I am?”

“Well, I’m just as in love with you, Harley Madden.”

There’s literally nothing I can do to hide the blush that creeps up on my cheeks. “We should start filming.”

He tilts his head toward the camera. “I think it already is.”

“What? I didn’t even press the button.” I look up and sure enough, there’s that familiar blinking red light. 

“Well I don’t exactly know how much you got, but we’re not cutting it out.”

---

I look over at my boyfriend, “Is it bad that I’m nervous? I mean, yeah. We’ve confirmed that we’re together. But this is confirming we’re together. That’s scary, right? Tell me I’m not the only one that thinks this is scary.”

He chuckles and pulls me closer to his side, covering my legs with the blanket thrown over his lap. “You’re not the only one. I’ve liked the privacy of us too. But we both know that it was getting harder to hide from the public eye. Don’t you think it’s better for us to go in this way, just full force, no more hiding.”

“Well… maybe a little hiding. They don’t have to know everything.”

He nods and presses a kiss to my cheek. “But you also know that we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. We can wait a little while longer.”

I stare at the video in front of us. It’s only 2 minutes and 37 seconds. Just an introduction. But this is giving everyone their first real view of our life. Of our relationship that’s been (for the most part) completely private. One that (even without full confirmation) people already have an opinion on. Sure there have been one or two Instagram posts without tagging, without captions. And for a year and three months, on almost every single video or photo I post on my social media, I get asked “Did Connor give you that necklace?” I subconsciously reach for my necklace that rests against my collar bone and rub my finger over the small “c” that connects the chain. 

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hmm?” His lips rest against my temple and press the softest of kisses to my skin. 

I shake my head and curl deeper into his side. “Post it, bub.”

“You sure?”

I nod, “I’m sure. I think you’re right. Can’t keep you a secret anymore.”

He hums and lifts my chin. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I murmur back, pressing my lips against his. His lips are like home - warm and inviting and if I could kiss them forever, I would do it without a doubt.

“A word of the week, Connor, what the *bleep*?”

“It’s a suggestion. We can be both entertaining and educational.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely gonna be our hook. Get that alliteration thing going on. We just need one more ‘e’ word to really send it home. Entertaining, educational, and…”

“Electric?”

“Electric?” I repeat, a small smile on my lips. 

“Yeah. Like what we have, our relationship. It’s electric. We’re entertaining, educational, and electric.”

I lean in a press a chaste kiss to his lips, “Connor Brashier, have I told you today how hopelessly in love with you I am?”

“Well, I’m just as in love with you, Harley Madden.”

There’s literally nothing I can do to hide the blush that creeps up on my cheeks. “We should start filming.”

He tilts his head toward the camera. “I think it already is.”

The screen fades into the true intro of the video.

“Hey,” I say a little too chipper, which is definitely why Connor is laughing silently into my shoulder. “I’m Harley Madden.”

Connor clears his throat. “And I’m Connor Brashier. And welcome to our YouTube channel,” he shrugs with a soft smile.

His hand is resting over mine in my lap, playing with my fingers. He’s nervous about being in front of the camera, that’s obvious. He’s never really had to be the one in front. I bring our hands to my lips and litter his knuckles with kisses. He smiles fondly at me and leans in to kiss my cheek. 

“We weren’t really sure how we were going to start this actually. But I guess we should start with this: Yes. We are in a relationship. Have been for a year and a half,” I nod. “Most of you, if you follow my makeup channel or my social media, you’ve been speculating since before we even got together. So here’s your confirmation. We are very happily together.”

“And because of that, we decided that it was time to share our love with you. And what better way than this? Letting you guys in fully.” He shuffles in his spot. “This is very new for us - not the relationship, obviously. But being so open with it.”

“But we have both decided that keeping each other a secret just isn’t what we want anymore.”

He nods, “So if you want to see more of our faces and our relationship, follow all of our social media, and subscribe to my pretty girl’s makeup channel - MaddenMakeup. And subscribe to us - Not So Brash Brashier’s.”

“And I guess give this video a like? Maybe? And comment below what you’d like to see from us because honestly we have no idea what we’re doing with this. We’re just winging it as we go. So give us video ideas and we’ll see you in the next one.”

---

Violet - my best friend since kindergarten, and current roommate - walks into the house, taking her shoes off at the door. “Hey Vi,” Connor says, turning to face the door, greeting her with that signature soft smile. 

“You started a YouTube channel,” is her greeting.

We both laugh, “Yeah. We did.”

“I’ve been telling you to do that for like a year now!” She exclaims, plopping herself next to us, resting her head in my lap. 

“It wasn’t the right time then. But… did you subscribe?” I ask with a cheeky smile.

She pinches my arm, “What kind of question is that? Of course I did. You think I wasn’t your first subscriber? What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t?”

“Well, in celebration, I was planning on taking my girl out to eat. You want to come with?”

“Where were you planning on going?”

“Harley’s been saying for weeks that she’s craving pizza from the bowling alley by my place.”

I look happily at my boy. “Really? We can go?”

He nods, “You want to go put on some shoes and we can go before traffic gets too bad?”

I nod and press a quick kiss to his lips, “Let me change pants first.”

Vi sits up andI catch the end of their conversation before I walk into my room. “Sure, any excuse to beat Lee at bowling.”

“I heard that!”

“You were meant to!” She yells back.

***

I hope you enjoyed! Like, reblog, and leave feedback!!

Permanent tag: @soyalimoncada-blog @tinycertain @magcon7280 @daisyangei  @fallinallincurls @lovewithanattitude @sinceweremutual @myyohmyuohmyy @perfectly-mendess @enchantingbrowneyedgirl @baroness-alison @lostinmendess @linanilssonfurberg @luvluvxx @mariamuses @shawnieeboyy @divinginfearlessly @mendesficsxbombay @shawnsthighs @zaahidahhh

* bold wouldn’t let me tag

** if you want to be added or removed from any list (permanent, Shawn, Connor,  We Were Us, or Not So Brash Brashier’s) just let me know

[firjii]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age II Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke

Words: 3286

Tags: Pre-Relationship, Early Relationship, Nervous Fenris, Touch-Starved, Touch Phobia, Hands, Lyrium Tattoos, Kirkwall, The Hanged Man

Summary: Confused but encouraged by Hawke’s friendship and desperate to re-learn the habits stolen from him years earlier, Fenris realizes that he craves a surprisingly simple - yet for him, infinitely risky - gesture. Set sometime after when Fenris first acknowledges his feelings for Hawke but long before their first night together.

Woot woot, my first fanfic of 2018 which I’m posting a 1AM because I have terrible impulse control. :D Plain text version is under the cut.

It’s easy to hide it in Kirkwall.

With so many damned scuffles and thieves and criminals, there’s really no point in taking the armor off, even in Hightown. Those who don’t dare to fight him or haven’t seen him in combat notice the armor and respect him all the more. It’s never an entirely bad thing. Most Kirkwallers’ assumptions are both fitting and honorable: he’s a hired bodyguard, a soldier from a faraway regiment no one in the city is familiar with – or maybe just an elite mercenary on assignment. No one questions it. It’s easy to hide it in Kirkwall.

But as he steps out the door on this blurry, clammy morning – as his breath floats above himself too soon on each exhale and his throat struggles to stave off a strange, wordless noise – he senses change in earnest, or at least the tiny shift in the world that grants room for change. It plagues him, and he must be rid of it now. It’s such a little thing, after all – or it should be.

He wants to remember. He’s only surprised that he wants to remember this. He shouldn’t want to. Its true meaning deserted him long ago. At best, he sees it as a mockery. At worst –

No, there’s no point in admitting that. He left it behind. He left them behind. Kirkwall is far from free, but it’s enough for him. He’s been happy with “enough.”

Until Hawke.

She said things that – things that made him think instead of blame. His thoughts eventually turned into ideas, questions, challenges. A new one – more than a thought, better than an idea, but whose challenge? – drives him to leave the mansion earlier than usual for the day. She’ll be there this time of day. She always is. Varric began the tradition, joking that the middle of the week needed an occasion to bridge the divide between calm dreariness and frantic fighting. She’ll be there. She always is.

Between the armor and the sweltering, salty air, the skin on his hands labors to breathe on this morning. If it’s this warm an hour after sunrise, midday will be excruciating. Yes. Today is a good day to test it. He has a fine, practical excuse in case – just in case she laughs.

His perfect stride alternates between hesitation and hurry as he makes the long march. His steps have a proud bounce through Hightown. He even returns a merchant dwarf’s gruff greeting with a curt nod and grunt. But his feet quiet themselves a little as he descends through the city. His knees stiffen as waves of – embarrassment? – prod him into turning around, or perhaps collapsing like a silly girl or an invalid.

No. He will not go back. The notion has pestered him for two weeks. Hawke’s wit may be ill-timed on occasion, but at least she has a decisive way in most matters. He thought he already had it, too, but there have been too many – irregularities to ignore.

His striding slows to an amble, then a saunter, then a series of pauses punctuated by occasional forward movements. Hawke lies to protect those who have found true love. She loathes slavers. She bankrupts herself giving money to orphans and poor mothers. Granted, she openly defends most mages, but – but she doesn’t act like a mage.

She doesn’t act like a lot of things. She defies his understanding of the world without speaking a word against him. She destroys his doubt with a single smile – and then renews it by assuming that he knows all that she does. But that isn’t her fault. He refuses to blame her for that.

No, she won’t laugh at him.

He walks on, resolve mustered.

It’s a strange little request, really. So many of Hawke’s actions and habits are better suited to great deeds, or at least equal ones – decisions that will reward her in some way, even though she has sometimes refused a reward if the person she aided was deserving. What reward is there in this?

But Hawke is the only one he can ask this of. She is the only one who might –

He wants to remember this one gesture, and not just the meaning behind it. He can wield a sword thrice bigger than any Templar’s. He can crush a bone with his combat maneuvers, the deadly dance he taught himself more from need than desire. He can rip an organ from someone’s very chest without any help from a weapon.

But – but sometimes, his fingers weary of that. He supposes that anyone would eventually. Some men fight because they long to smell the blood. But he never did. There are so many other things in the world. He wants to remember them now.

He finally reaches the shabby tavern’s shabby door. His breath catches one last time, partly from the rank smells within – but partly not.

When Hawke sees him, she grins broadly, warmly, and Fenris almost loses his mettle – but only for an instant. She promptly waves him over to her table with her customary flourish. He clears his throat to hide his cavernous swallow, glad that she is out of earshot to hear the awkward noise that accompanies it.

“The esteemed warrior,” she chirps as he sits down across from her.

“Hawke,” he grunts promptly.

“Varric was just telling me about the –”

Fenris blinks, caught off balance by the dazzling string of alliterations that follow from her mouth, his superb fluency in Common suddenly faltering. “Excuse me?”

She repeats it flawlessly.

“Ah.” He nods. Good, he notes: if she can manage verbal acrobatics like those twice in such short order, the drink hasn’t taken effect on her yet, or else she chose to abstain from it today.

Hawke and Varric gently bicker for a few moments, but their subject eludes Fenris. They both adore sarcasm so much that his reflex is to block out their conversation. He flicks his eyes about. The tavern’s mood is quiet, even for this time of day. Isabela is absent, possibly still sleeping. Anders is rarely here before lunch, if at all. Aveline, of course, is nowhere to be found since this is a tavern and she daren’t risk dereliction of duty so early in the morning. Merrill is poised on a bench on the far side of the room, eager to watch an old lush hone his rodent-killing technique.

Yes. This will do.

He waits for the talk to subside, but Varric is especially long-winded today. Fenris nods several times as the dwarf’s story unfolds. He even smirks once, feeble pretending that he has come here for the talk rather than the company. But finally, something in his face shifts - just a twitch, really, more of an attempt to suppress a sneeze than a reaction to the conversation.

Hawke notices. “And what do you think about it?” she asks him, not snidely but in the bright and eager tone she had so blithely used when they’d first met – her fearless one, since she had used it mere moments after witnessing Fenris unburden someone of a vital organ.

He swallows. His stomach churns and he is immensely grateful that he scarcely ate this morning. His hands, so carefully situated on the table, slowly clench and the spikes of his gauntlets scrape the battered wood – and then he breathes again. “I –” he croaks. “I –” On his second failure, his brow turns to self-scorn as his head jabs downward at an unnatural angle. “I must speak to you,” he blurts.

Hawke’s eyes change sooner than the snap of fingers. Fenris tries to look at her – tries – but is too busy checking for Varric’s reaction. Hawke’s eyes train on Fenris steadily, quietly, searchingly, but without a trace of a demand, not like – not like anyone else in the world.

Varric only smiles and softly squeaks his chair back across the floor as he stands. “I feel like another bowl of the mystery swill. You two go talk about – things.”

For the first time in a very long time, Hawke hesitates. “Varric, I don’t think this is a quick matter.”

Varric raises a jovial hand. “Don’t worry yourselves about that,” he lilts knowingly. “Use my room.”

Fenris pitches a fierce glare and half a sneer in Varric’s direction, but Varric has already made for the barkeep.

They saunter through the main hallway and down the long corridor to Varric’s suite, narrowly avoiding bumping several hung-over residents on the way. Once they reach it, the door scarcely closes correctly.

He moves away from her. There isn’t a reason to – her stance is neutral, her shoulders neither rounded nor squared – but the air in the room seems hardest to breathe in her vicinity.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, neither forcefully nor flippantly.

“I –” He strains for an excuse. He has already forgotten. His eyes scan the floor rapid-fire. “I may have injured my hand when we cleared those spiders from the last cave. I was hoping that you could help me – assess if I need tending from a healer.”

She pauses. Her face is neutral but utterly unfathomable.

He swallows.

She starts to bridge the distance between them.

His shoulders arch back a fraction, but his feet remain staunchly in place.

She stops, noticing it – or perhaps content to stay where she is. “You could just ask Anders.”

“I know.”

“He’s never refused someone in need.”

“But I –” He stops himself. His head droops and he growls into his chest. He paces.

He feels her watching him. He always does – but her watching is simple, honest, not a threat. He can abide it.  

“Your markings,” she murmurs after a moment.

He stops short. “I – yes,” he sighs shortly.

“I’m –”

But he knows the words before she can finish. He glares at her – and then regrets it. He flicks his eyes away and makes for the door. “I apologize. It was a foolish thought.”

She hurries to block him from leaving – her scrawny, underdeveloped, half-starving mage frame blocks him. Him.

He blinks and tries – tries – to look at her.

She frowns. “You’re not a fool.” The words pour from her effortlessly, like water, like the coin she gives away so freely to the poor or the blood she spills to punish injustice and tyranny. Those words are the permission that he sought – and the request. She touches a bare section of his arm – only slightly, only fleetingly, only enough to guide him to a chair at the table.

He settles himself, his knees bent rigidly and his feet curled under the chair – but only to stave the incessant tapping of his toes.

She sits down, across from him rather than next to him, but still close – the closest he has ever been to her in a moment not occupied by combat. “Can you –” She stops uncertainly, points at the gauntlets instead of finishing the question. “Should I –”

“Please,” he blurts with a nod, but then he swallows. Has he spoken too quickly? “I –” he begins. “Yes.” He sighs to himself, barely blunting the edge of the teeming storm collecting in his brow.

She unbuckles the gauntlet, somehow never bumping the armor against his skin or pulling anything too tightly. But when she moves to take it off, it slides across the top of his hand.

He winces, but only in one arm, and only from his forearm down. All else remains still. In Tevinter, too much of his life depended on being able to defer, direct, channel, translate a pain reflex. But still, he winces.

Hawke notices but doesn’t waver. “You never quite explained how you came by armor like this.”

“No,” he mumbles. “I didn’t.” He stares at a lacy snatch of cobweb on the wall, a rug on the floor, anything but her. It happened too quickly, and now he must adjust his plan.

Hawke’s eyes dull half a fraction, but her gaze remains fixed on him, intent, interested, curious. He can feel it. He always does. “There’s nothing wrong with your hand, Fenris.”

His mouth twitches. His eyes flick faster. “No.”

He didn’t care before – not until Hawke came. He wants to remember.

“You could have asked me sooner.”

He blinks, his thoughts already lapsed into a blur despite the short span of time. His pulse twists twice. What did he miss? What did he do? What will –  

He looks at her – he tries. “What?” His voice jigs, both accusation and defense, an unusually high tone that he has forgotten he is capable of and ashamed – an instant too late – that he has displayed.

She chuckles voicelessly, but not – no, not ridicule, not a dare. Something else, but one of the things he forgot. Only a benign exhale ribbons the air.

He waits for the prickling fear to come, but – but she isn’t like that. She only punishes the guilty. She only scorns the deserving.

But still, his eyes dance to the corners of the room.

“I only haven’t said anything before now because I know you don’t like to be asked,” she murmured. “It’s not so easy – refusing. That’s why I don’t ask.”

He rips his hand away from the table. He leans back in his chair. His gloved hand fusses with the bare one, just barely. “Is it so obvious?”

She folds her hands on the table. “When you come, it’s by choice. When you stay, it’s by choice.” She sighs, ragged at the edges, but not – not in anger. “If you want something, tell me. You’ve saved my life more often than I’ve saved yours.”

He stares at the tattoos, unimaginably thin but unimaginably stubborn layers of lyrium spanning most of the length of each finger. He didn’t care before – not until Hawke came. He wants to remember. He wants to. He –

He can’t.

But he does it all the same.

He unlocks her fingers and holds one of her hands fast. He waits for her to pull away or glare at him in surprise. She doesn’t.

He looks at her. His eyes don’t flinch away this time. Green – her eyes are green. He’d forgotten. Where has he seen a color like that? A gem? A potion? Another thing he can’t remember.

She sits as still as a statue, but far from lifeless. Her pulse is perhaps a mite faster for a moment, but hand is patient, her fingers quiet. She doesn’t stare down at the hideous markings. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t try to fold his hand within her palms. She only sits there, waiting.

Like a beast slowly stalking prey – but no, it isn’t apt, he scorns himself for thinking it – he lets his fingers move enough that he can line up his hand against hers, palm against palm and finger against finger. It takes a long moment – several, even. And she knows – somehow, she knows – exactly when to raise her forearm when he does his. They each prop their elbows on the table, palms flat against each other – not moving, not twitching. Only resting, the pressure of each arm maintaining the upward angle.

A ghost escapes him – a ghost of a chuckle, more like an exhale of relief, but enough to release the building tension in his shoulders. One corner of his mouth creases upward. Hawke smiles back. The other corner of his mouth raises a fraction. The movement is – unnecessary, strange. But he wants to remember that, too.

His knuckles bend – only a little, but they bend all the same. Slowly, slowly, like an enfeebled old man with rheumatism, his fingers lace with hers. He squeezes her hand – only a little. She returns it. She smiles wider, until her lips part and a slit of her teeth show. She –

He blinks. He frowns. His face is wet. Why? It isn’t fear. It isn’t sorrow. It –

His nerves engage. He remembers, but not what he meant to. He looks down. Three of her fingers are resting squarely on the marks. Three ripples of scalding rise up his wrist. But he has done what he meant to. He came here to face it. He must hold. He must stem it a little longer. One more moment. He must. He must. He can almost see it. He can almost reach it. He almost finds it. The scalding changes to freezing, then scorching, then – sparks? Yes, lightning sparks as strong as the ones in Hawke’s staff when she fights. But also as strong as –

He breaks the contact. He pulls away and stands hastily, his chair issuing a muffled protest against the floor. His gauntlet scrapes the table unmusically as he scoops it up.

“I–I’m sorry,” Hawke falters hurriedly as she stands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to–”

He waves a hand to silence her. Remnants of sharp prickling remain, his untouched hand joining the offended one in sympathy. The marks are angry. They always are if someone touches them. It can be useful in battle – he knows this. It can rouse him to the last fierce blows when his friends are too battered to go on. But it will take hours for it all to quiet down, hours for him to forget the experience sufficiently to be able to think and act rationally again, never mind courteously.

But if he forgets the pain, he might also forget –

He shakes his head – not dismissively, not quickly, but in Hawke’s manner. “No. You did nothing. The blame is mine.”

“That’s not true. You should never say that.”

Her voice is a well of righteous anger. As ever, it overflows from her so much that he can almost see it in the air. She speaks both well and kindly, and he knows it. But he walks away from her. There is nothing more that can be done for now. Even if he does it in stages, he must steel himself against pain again. He must. In time – if Hawke wants more, and he knows that she does, her face is always so plain of motive – even she will be a harbinger of pain. She will bring other things as well – good things, not merely pleasant ones – but it is inevitable. If he wants to be with her – if he expects to ever do more than this –

His eyes shine, partly from pain, but partly something else. “I –”

He swallows. What else can he really say?

“Thank you, Hawke,” he manages. His candor hiccups, but he nods as calmly, smoothly, cordially as ever.

He refuses to look at Varric or Merrill as he leaves the tavern. He refuses to look at anything. He only glides out into the ocean-choked light of day, squinting from the ever-intense humidity. He has lived in Kirkwall for years, and yet he still finds it harder to abide than Tevinter’s heat.

He strains for a moment to catch his breath. He leans against the wall as he adjusts his gauntlet into place. The markings still protest, even against himself. They often do.

But he smiles. Against the enraged, confused nerves in his skin, he smiles. He looks down at the hand that Hawke blessed with a touch. He slowly makes a fist. Yes, he will remember the pain for hours.

He will also remember her for hours.

It is enough. It must be, though it seems like a mild cruelty just now. But – but perhaps it was Hawke’s version of enough –

and that is far, far more than he has ever known.

He makes a quiet fist. He closes his eyes, still warm and wet from the pain – and something else.

A strangled sigh escapes him, the best he can do to hide the one sob he allows himself.

“Thank you,” he whimpers under his breath.

[evelyn-fenton-blog]

[albanlakepublishing-blog]

February Alban Lake Spotlight

Mike Morgan, Author

For our very first interview, we have Mr. Mike Morgan, a prolific and excellent author. He was kind enough to take time to answer our questions; but first, a quick bio for Mike:

 Mike Morgan lives in Iowa with his wife, two children, and increasingly infirm cat. After careers in the UK, Japan, and Texas involving accountancy, freelance illustration, non-fiction writing, and teaching, Mike now does improbably complex things on computers for a living. When he's not worrying about the cat or tidying up his kids' toys, Mike gets overwrought about politics and attempts to write short stories. It's possible his two hobbies get muddled up from time to time. He has written for several publishers in the UK and the USA, with pieces in anthologies, comics, and magazines. Follow him on Twitter as @CultTVMike, where he posts about all things sci-fi. Oh, OK, it's mostly Doctor Who.

 My website is: https://perpetualstateofmildpanic.wordpress.com/

 My latest project is this month's Outposts of Beyond.

  And on to the interview . . .

 Q: When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

 A: I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. I looked at book covers as a young child, maybe five or six, and thought, "I want my name on a book." When I got into comics with 2000AD and then Star Wars Weekly, this would be when I was 7, that desire spread to wanting to be in the credits boxes in comic books, too. Unfortunately, as I got older, it became apparent that selling work wasn't going to be as easy as I'd initially thought.

 I tried for a sustained period in my twenties to break into comics, but never got anywhere. At one comics convention in Bristol, while hauling my portfolio around, I got chatting with Matt Brooker, who was brutally honest with me. "Look," he said, "There's nothing particularly wrong with the way you draw, but there just aren't any openings. We hire on maybe one or two new freelancers a year and they have some quirk. You draw well, but there's nothing unique. To develop that style, you need to put in thousands of hours of practice, and you're not going to get paid for that. You don't strike me as independently wealthy, so I doubt you can afford to do it for free. So..."

 He was right. I was dirt poor. I got a job in accountancy, which I hated. But at least I could go back to affording food.

 Later, after years of doing things I loathed, and then teaching for several years in Japan, I immigrated here to the U.S. Starting a new career in Texas, I worked for seven years as a technical writer and editor, which helped me fine-tune my knowledge of English grammar and punctuation and gave me first-hand insight into how hard it is to express complex ideas in plain, no-nonsense sentences. I got enough feedback to sink a fleet of Titanics and developed a tough skin to criticism. I also learned how important it was not to treat my fellow writers the way I was treated, and I became a mentor to some of the newer team members. Although the working environment was hostile, I did love the act of writing and I found joy in helping others improve their written work.

 While all that was going on, I was continuing to put out one or two pieces of my own writing. Teaching in Japan gives you a lot of spare time, so I'd started floating a few things past publishers. Moving to Texas, I was determined to keep that up, but stuck in a car for three or four hours a day on a hellish commute, working tons of extra, unpaid hours, and starting a family didn't leave a lot of spare time. It was only with our move to Iowa, where I still am now, that I found a better work-life balance and was able to kick the writing into high gear. To my inordinate surprise, I discovered that publishers wanted to print my short stories. Not only that, but readers showed every sign of liking them. I was flabbergasted.

 I look back now and I see my name on a book cover and my name in a comic book credits box and I'm glad I never completely gave in. One of my best friends, Kath, said this to me years ago and it stuck with me: "What I like about you, Mike, is that you keep on trying." I'm sure she's forgotten ever saying that to me, but I remembered, and I've tried to stay that way.

  Q: What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

 A: Oh, a 'quirk'! I have yet to develop one with my drawing, but with my writing...? Editors have often told me, in withering tones, that I over-write. You only have to glance at the length of this interview...

 Also, as part of over-egging a box full of puddings in every story, I tend toward the proliferation of pleonasms. And uncalled-for alliteration.

 If you catch me doing it, slap me.

  Q: What do you like to do when you're not writing?

 A: I watch lots of science fiction and read comics. I really enjoy reading stories to my two kids at bedtime, too. Honestly, with two young kids in the house, I spend a lot of time taking endless delight in everything they say and do. I try to carve out a few moments every day to remind my wife how much I appreciate her.

  Q: How many books have you written? Which is your favorite?

 A: I've had 10 short stories published professionally, with two more coming out in the next couple of months. A couple of those were my Titanville stories, which were published together in an e-book by Nomadic Delirium Press, getting me my first solo front-cover credit. I have a dozen more stories in slush piles as we speak, so one or two more will probably work their ways through to acceptance this year – that seems to be the typical ratio of stories sent to stories accepted.

 I've also had a few stories in charity anthologies, and a couple of poems (one was about Star Trek and was printed by Iron Press in a collection sold throughout a major high-street chain of bookshops in the UK), a few non-fiction articles about the long-running BBC TV series Doctor Who in various tomes, and a comic strip script in the British small press comic Futurequake. Another comic script is being drawn now, as it happens, for Futurequake. We're hoping it'll be included in the Spring issue, but we'll see how that goes.

 Oh, and I worked for a short while at an online word mill, putting out articles about sci-fi. You can find them at WhatCulture.com. They accumulated about three million page-views, I think.

  Q: What inspires you to write?

 A: I am drawn to the act of wrenching something into existence through the blunt application of imagination and willpower. I am compelled to create. For better or worse, you guys are on the receiving end of that compulsion.

 When it comes down to deciding what I'm going to write about, I think there are some themes I keep returning to: the beauty in the world, the triumph of love and kindness over indifference and cruelty, the eternal fight against injustice, how any attempt to simplify the complexity of the real world down into stark black-and-white concepts will lead to hate and death...

Also, I love writing characters who are flat-out wrong. There's nothing more fun and more human than someone who is utterly convinced about the rightness of a cause, and that cause is based on an utter misunderstanding. Really, that type of thinking characterizes most of our species' history. People who are wrong deserve our sympathy, our help, our love, not our derision. Anyway, that's some entertaining stuff to write about.

One final thought – I don't want to be a downer but I do feel time pressing on me. Nothing like worrying I'll be dead in a few years to spur me to get some writing done.

 Q: Do you set a plot or prefer going wherever an idea takes you?

 A: I try to have a clear idea of what the story's about before I get too far down the rabbit hole of writing. Preferably, I have an end worked out as well, even if that ending changes by the time I get to it. Sometimes, I'll start the story with the end and work my way backward to the beginning. But there should always be a purpose to a story, even if that purpose is to have fun.

 Every time I carve a tale out of the disorganized mess of my thoughts, the process seems different. One time, the whole story will spill out of me in a rush. Other times, I have to sit down and think through what I'm trying to express.

 Every now and then, a neat idea will occur to me, but I can't find a way to get a coherent plot out of it. Then, a second, entirely different idea will come to me, and I find mashing the two disparate strands together into the same reality brings the whole thing into focus.

 For example, someone having giant spiders in her home and not being bothered by them because they're not in any way dangerous is a neat mental image, but it's not a story in itself. But, add a second strand: imagine there's a neighbor whose job is to twist facts to meet political dogma and that neighbor comes into contact with those spiders... what happens? Does she believe the objective truth that they're completely safe to be around, or does she react with emotion and twist reality to meet that baseless viewpoint? After all, that's her job.

 Boom – you have conflict. The wrong-headed, fact-denying neighbor suddenly at war with nice, harmless giant-sized arachnids. For no other reason than she can't see the truth in front of her face, which is a very common and very plausible failing. What's more, the story takes on a greater message: we shouldn't twist facts to meet our prejudices, no matter how tempted we'd be to do that if we were in the neighbor's shoes.

 That's where A Spider Queen in Every Home came from, the mingling of two ideas that, on the face of it, can't coexist in a single narrative; but, they can, and that story was picked up and published in More Alternative Truths by B-Cubed Press.

 Lastly, some publishers require that you pitch ideas. There, you have to submit a complete plot, along with character notes, up front. If a pitch is accepted, there's no scope for changing details along the way as you write the actual story. For all you know, by altering the agreed-upon tale without consultation, you might be encroaching upon territory occupied by another story in the same collection.

 When fleshing out a pitch, it can feel like you're working while wearing a straightjacket. But it's an opportunity to find ways of making the piece as entertaining as possible without venturing beyond the plan you gave your word on. I've written a couple of stories based on pitches. Unto His Final Breath in Uffda Press's King of Ages: A King Arthur Anthology was created that way, and it garnered some nice reviews. I really like the world building I got to do in that short story.

  Q: What types and forms of writing do you do? If you're also an editor, what is your niche?

 A: I mostly write short stories these days, but I toy with novels. I do have a novel I'm working on (doesn't every writer?) - but, it's the short stories that sell. I am sneakily putting together various stories that work as elements within a greater whole, so that by the time they're all published you'll find they're a novel-length narrative printed in discrete parts across multiple publishers, books, and media. That's the idea, anyway.

 For example, the Titanville stories stand alone as individual tales, but the intent is to have themes and sub-plots that build as time goes on, without requiring the reader to be familiar with every installment. The Age of Asmodeus stories have a similar approach; there's a history to that world, and each story explores a different sliver of it. As those stories go on, readers will see various characters moving in and out of segments of the series or they'll be referred to. Again, the readers won't need to read every story, but there'll be a sense of events moving forward for those who do.

 With the tales featuring Professor Lazarus, the cumulative narrative will unfold using text-based stories and comic strips. Again, that's the hope. Futurequake, a British comic, has printed one story so far and has another one being drawn at the moment. With the short stories, I've had some luck; Flame Tree Publishing printed Fishing Expedition a while ago. I've written a couple more Lazarus stories since then that I'm waiting to hear back on, so we'll see how that goes.

 But you were asking about types of writing. Occasionally, I have a poem published. More often, I'll get non-fiction pieces accepted. I contribute on a semi-regular basis to the range on media and culture put out by Watching Books. This year, they're printing a volume called You on Target about the Target series of Doctor Who novelizations, and I have two essays in that.

 With editing, I offer my services to small presses who print my stories, with regards to proofreading or checking formatting. I'm always willing to help put out the best publication possible.

  Q: What is your area(s) of subject matter expertise? How did you discover this niche? What intrigues you about it?

 A: With living in Japan for several years, I found writing stories set there pretty easy. Not much research required! There's a story of mine being printed soon by you fine people at Alban Lake Press set in Japan. Kuro no Ken (The Back Sword) is slated for the next issue of Outposts of Beyond. The scenes in Ise City take place twenty minutes down the road from where I lived for three years, and the part in the vast cemetery—I've visited that cemetery and it really is that creepy. I love Japan. Those were some of the happiest years of my life.

 Having said that, I lived for longer in Stoke-on-Trent in the UK, and that was the setting for Reverse Horror Story. Your fine company published that piece in Bloodbond just last year. I had way too much fun putting Stoke-themed jokes into that monster-mash-up. I guess, to answer your question, I'm an expert at shoe-horning places I've lived into my stories. I find having a deep knowledge of the settings makes them feel more authentic.

 But, to be clear, I've never lived on the enormous asteroid Ceres, the setting of The Library of Ice in this month's Outposts of Beyond. I'd be willing to give it a try, though.

 Being serious for a moment, I keep writing about people who are struggling because I've been through that. Want to be an expert on the poor? Try being unemployed for years on end, not having enough to eat and worrying about losing the room you're renting. That'll give you an understanding of what that life is like. Newsflash – it's really stressful and depressing.

  Q: How do you balance your creative and work time?

 A: I have yet to find any balance, but live in hope. I get the kids to bed in the evening and then try to write. Sometimes, I even succeed.

  Q: Where have you been published? Upcoming publications? Awards and other accolades?

 A: Other than the things I've already talked about, I'd like to mention Nomadic Delirium's Divided States series, which explores a post-USA North America. My contribution to this excellent range was The Wall Is Beautiful. I hope to finish a second story in this shared universe. I was also fortunate enough to have submissions accepted in their Martian Wave and Disharmony of the Spheres collections.

 One other project I'm very proud to have participated in was Metasaga's Futuristica anthology. I had Something to Watch Over Us included in that amazing collection. I can't heap enough praise on that spectacular book; if you like science fiction, you need to own it.

 As far as upcoming releases go, that I haven't already called attention to, I have a story called Buddy System accepted in Myriad Paradigm's upcoming Mind Candy anthology. The intent is for that book to be released in the next few months. I also have something in the editing pile with Red Ted Books, which should be advancing toward publication this year.

 And, yes, it's a fanzine, but I like fanzines, I'm working with the wonderful people who put out the Doctor Who-themed Fannuals to see what they might want from me for their next volume. I'm so in love with the Fannual project; it's incredible fun. It's actually what I'm starting work on after finishing this interview.

  Q: What are you working on now?

 A: Well, Alban Lake announced they were going to do something with ghost stories, so, you know, I thought I'd try to submit to that. *Grins*

 In the pipeline are more Age of Asmodeus tales, more Titanville, more Lazarus, more space opera antics, more of everything I'm obsessed with.

  Q: Who are your favorite characters to write? How did they come into being, and what do you love - or loathe - about them?

 A: I love writing about Professor Lazarus. She gives her life in every story, usually to save the world from some terrible fate. Then, next story, she's alive again, in a world that's transformed. It forces me to reinvent her and her milieu every time. And there's a point to all her deaths; it's leading to something.

 She came into being because I thought, "Hah – killing the lead character every time would be funny." Then I thought, "What if it's the same lead character every time, and there's a reason she keeps coming back?" How does knowledge of her deaths affect her? Where, at a character level, does that propel the over-arching storyline?

 Another fun character was Silas Smith in The Man Who Killed Computers (published in Disharmony of the Spheres). He's able to lie to computers and have them believe what he's saying. Once you realize how he's doing that, it's less amusing, because you also realize that he can manipulate the humans in the story. I love the ambiguity of his character. He tries so hard to convince everyone he's a hero—the story revolves around how others respond to his claims.

  Q: Any advice you would like to give to aspiring writers?

 A: If someone says you need to improve, he or she is probably right. Every writer needs to improve, every day. It's a process that never ends.

 Don't take rejection personally. It's the work that sucks, not you.

 Keep trying. Stories are only published if they're written and then submitted.

 Realize that even after you've had a pile of stories published there will still be more defeats than victories. And that it's OK.

 Anything else you’d like to add that I haven’t asked? For example, what would you like to see more of in your specific genre? In the publishing field?

 We all like to get things for free. But—! Readers: try to pay for that fiction you're consuming. The more the publishers earn, the more they can pay the writers. The more the writers earn, the more they can write. It's a virtuous feedback loop. If you can't find good fiction out there, it's because you won't pay for it.

 Or, you know, you haven't been to Alban Lake's store. There's lots of good writing there.

  Once again, we’d like to thank Mr. Mike Morgan for his time and to thank all of you for supporting Alban Lake and all of these awesome authors and artists.

[markwatkinsconsumerguide]

Consumer Guide / No.52 / Singer-songwriter Nancy Nova with Mark Watkins.

MW : Why pick 'Nancy Nova' as your stage name?

NN : At the beginning of my career, I was working with Ken Gibson (who became my husband and father to my four boys) and Roberto Danova. They were a great team, wonderfully talented and just a little bit off the wall!

Well….(I can feel this interview may go on for some time!) , well, they wanted to make an album with me…how could I refuse?…….and we decided to have a Kookie kind of name to go with my Kookie little voice!! (I don’t know if Kookie is a real word at all. Forgive me, I’m inclined to make words up!! I’m sure there are unreal words in The Force, for example : )

….where were we? Soooo…..we all liked the end of Robbie’s name , Nova (he’s Italian you know),…new star n all..and alliteration is always catchy! …I liked Nancy, as in Oliver Twist and Sinatra…so that was it!!

MW : "The voice" : how did you discover you could sing to professional standards? What is your vocal range? How do you keep your vocal chords in top condition?

NN : Do you know, I’ve never thought about singing to “professional standards”. I would if I sung classically but this is art and self expression.I’ve always loved singing but I was never that confident singing to an audience.

Having Kingbones (Ken) as my producer was amazing. He was a perfectionist and I was far from perfect. There were many hours in the studio, many tears, much laughter and I learnt that way.

The recording studio is my favourite place to create. Oh how I love layering on those harmonies and getting a line or expression just right in a song. I’ve got a big range, but don’t know what it is!! Four octaves or something. My vocal chords are probably not in top condition but I have always been healthy.

I do vocal exercises, I do yoga, walk, swim, dance…eat healthily…always have. I don’t do vocal exercises every day at the moment and it takes about two-three weeks of daily exercises to get back a good, confident singing voice.

It’s like horse riding - when you can guide that horse with the lightest touch on the reins….it feels like the same control, for me, as singing with a well exercised voice.

MW : Share some of your favourite memories of your much missed Father, Bob Holness...

NN : Oh my goodness. There are so many!! He and my Mother met in a theatre company in South Africa. They played romantic couples on stage and then got married for real! I was born, and then my Sister 18 months later. We moved back to London when I was six, but I have vivid memories of those first years.

My Father used to host radio shows and we always had the radio on. I was raised on 1950’s and 1960’s pop…….Heaven. I think that was when I began singing. It just seemed natural. In retrospect, I think my parents were the golden couple of theatre and radio in Durban.They also performed in radio plays. We have many newspaper articles about them. I’ve never really thought about that until just now. They had many theatrical friends and took us to all the parties where there was music, swimming, warm nights with hanging lanterns in the garden.

But I digress. My Father’s crazy sense of humour …wonderful. Silly voices, silly walks, silly languages. He could have you in stitches just walking along the pavement, or eating breakfast. He had charisma. He would walk into a room and there was a magic. That lasted.

MW : How do you think you might have fared on your Father’s famous quiz show, ‘Blockbusters'?

NN : Oh dear!. I’d have been ok on the arts questions and, strangely enough, biology but maths, politics and history, no way!

MW : Didn't you sit in on many of your Fathers late night radio shows? Tell me about those times, and any thoughts on the recent cutbacks at BBC Radio 2 equating to no live radio shows overnights...

NN : Oh yes! I was so lucky. I went to TV studios and up in a helicopter for LBC News, all with my Father. Radio was his first love. When he did ‘Late Night Extra’…which I think was Radio’s One and Two together (on a Monday night) he would tell us who he was going to interview ; if it was a scrummy actor, or pop singer, Ros and I would beg him to be able to go. It was a huge treat as the show went on until, I think midnight!! Well, this must have been in the holidays that it happened ….and it was all live, which, of course, gave it that extra frisson.

I’m afraid I haven’t kept up with the situation today but are you saying that there are no live BBC radio shows overnight anymore? How sad. There used to be such a magic with night-time radio. Luxembourg and Caroline under the bed covers!!

MW : Your sister, Ros, featured (as you did early on) in Toto Coelo. You were in the charts, solo, with ‘Made In Japan’ at the very same time as ‘I Eat Cannibals’. Tell me about that successful period and any sibling rivalry?! Also, why do you think their follow-up, ‘Dracula's Tango’, fared less well on the UK charts?

NN : Isn’t it odd? Toto Coelo could have been as successful as The Spice Girls. They were great to look at, had great dance routines, fab fashion sense, ….I got us to dress up in bin liners!!. They had really good voices too, and very strong songs. I think it must have been marketing.

Being in that group was wonderful. We worked really hard with singing, recording, dance routines and then performing in loads of venues. It was through being in Toto Coelo that EMI saw me perform and offered me my world wide contract. I couldn’t not…it was a dream…and the other girls understood that. Then they found Anita to replace me. All good. It was strange the way Ros and I were both in the charts at the same time. Because of that, there couldn’t really be any sibling rivalry, and Toto Coelo reached a much higher position : )

‘No, No, No’ was my second single with EMI. It charted in the UK at number 62, I think!! However, it was number 3 in Portugal, and quite high in a lot of Europe. ‘Made In Japan’ never charted in this country. By far the stronger song, in my opinion!

MW : You have moved from Devon to Oxfordshire. Why was that, how was the move?

NN : At the time I was longing to get back to North London, which I consider home. Hampstead in particular. My then partner didn’t like the idea - being raised in Oxfordshire originally - so we compromised.

I’m a Buddhist…we don’t compromise!! : )

That was 3 years ago.Things have changed. I shall be moving home!

MW : What do you like seeing and doing in Oxfordshire?

NN :  Oxford is a wonderful City and I’m privileged to be within walking distance of all the theatres and museums . The architecture is wonderful and then, still within walking distance are fields, farms, boats on the river and cosy village pubs.

MW : You enjoy art and the drama of theatre, what exhibitions and plays have you visited/participated in recently...?

NN : Oh, I love art, theatre, film and song. I’ve seen too many plays and films to mention. I did, however, go to three concerts last summer. Carole King, Stevie Wonder and Burt Bacharach. Oh joy!!

I participated in quite a few solo art exhibitions in Devon, showing my large abstracts. Then this year I was chosen to exhibit in the Oxford International Art Fair.

That was great to be amongst so many diverse artists. To be able to see your customers and what they take home was thrilling. Most of my sales have been made without me there.That’s what it’s always about for me….having a wonderful time creating and seeing people benefit from that creativity.

MW : How 'European' are you in your outlook? In what ways does this reflect in your lifestyle and opinions?

NN : Gosh!, I’ve never thought about it…especially the “outlook”!! I was born in South Africa, to English parents…but that's nothing to do with “outlook”. I’ve just looked the word up…apart from :- “view from window”, or, “one’s general view of life”, when you refer to Europe , it seems to mean, “the deteriorating economic outlook”. Well, you have the wrong person there!! I don’t go for negativity, so I don’t make a point of watching the news, or complaining about people, and certainly not politics.

On the other hand , I love different countries, European or not. I have worked in quite a few. Different cultures, cuisines, dress, landscapes, history, geography, weather, people, opinions. I celebrate Individualism. Peaceful, respected differences give the world colour and excitement. I also celebrate Independence, and have never been good at doing what I’m told…I let that go when I left home at eighteen!! Perhaps you can draw your own conclusions from that as to where I stand politically re Europe!! : )

MW : To date, what’s your biggest regret? ...your best decision?

NN : ’Tis a cliche but I can’t think of anything that I would do differently in my life. I think my terrible shyness, when younger, did hold me back but I can’t regret that, as that was me and I’m not going to regret being me!!!

My best decision?... without a doubt, marrying my Husband, the love of my life. My Parents and others were against it because of the age gap (I was eighteen when we met) and although living apart, Ken was still married. All my dreams came true when I met that man.

He was my Husband, Producer, Co-writer, Best Friend and Father to my four boys, Ken Gibson (Kingbones) died a couple of years ago. I haven’t written a song since. I will, in time.

MW : Tell me about your new music and new art...

NN : I’m in the process of moving back to London, so much is on hold until then. I haven’t written a song since Ken died, but recently I’ve been itching to write a new album. Just the thought excites me…..as does painting. I’ve always been an artist, since I was a child. Painting, writing….they both take me to a higher dimension . Again, once I move house, I shall be visiting that place frequently.

MW : What are your plans, personally and professionally, for 2018?

NN : My plans for next year are exciting. I’ve just started acting again after years of not! I now have an agent and have just spent the summer on a film. I’m loving it, so much more of all that. Then there’s the new album and more painting……and, once I’m back in London, I’m going to get a little band together and do some shows. One of my Son’s is just finishing the new web site, (it’s not been cared for recently, sorry !!) so all will be revealed there. As always www.nancynova.com

© Mark Watkins / September 2017