#writing with: Ingeborg

[canis-or-cannotis-lycaon]

Some Old-Fashioned Assistance

TIMING: Early May LOCATION: Ingeborg's House in Deersprings PARTIES: Ingeborg (@nightmaretist) and Gael (@lithium-argon-wo-l-f) SUMMARY: Trapped in her house because of an abyssal puddle, Inge enlists on fellow professor and neighbor down the street Gael for assistance. CONTENT WARNINGS: None!

The puddle was proving to be a significant problem to Inge’s ability to get to work dry. That in and of itself wasn’t the greatest problem – she was used to rain – but her boots demanded some respect and dirty gutter water? Well, that was hardly a respectful way of handling them. And yes, she could just swap her shoes or attempt to jump over the puddle, but somehow she’d managed to rope an allegedly handsome man into helping her out. Who was she to say no, right?

She waited patiently, enjoying the rays of spring sun as she fiddled with chipped polish on her nail, flakes falling down still when the other appeared. His mother had been right to call him handsome, she supposed, and she thought she recognised her colleague vaguely. The staff at UMWR was so large and ever growing, and it was hardly like she was often found in the hard science departments. She pushed herself off the doorframe, and offered a wave.

“Morning, morning. Are you the glittery knight?” As she adjusted the strap of her bookbag, she gave a bit of a smile, remaining standing on the step of her building, which remained dry. “Bit of a situation here, as you can see. Unfortunate puddle placement. I hope you’ve not been having too much trouble with them yourself?”  ______ Fortunately, the mystery woman was in the same neighborhood. Unfortunately, the puddles from the piping failure hadn’t been taken care of and the area still had a rather uncontrollable puddle problem. They didn’t bother Gael but apparently not everyone shared the sentiment that you just wear cheaper shoes until it was taken care of. He also supposed that wearing trash bags over your feet was embarrassing for people.

So he wasn’t too far away from where she pinned where she was - Gael was a little surprised that she hadn’t displayed any hesitance when giving a complete stranger her location but it’s a good thing he wasn’t one of those weird types. Just giving a coworker a hand and a ride to work, that’s all it was. In fact, he was more worried that she wouldn’t find him as attractive as he said he was online, but that was incredibly superficial. He pulled up in the street and parked his ice-blue mini-cooper, getting out and beholding a, dare he say, attractive woman he also vaguely recognized. She was fine arts, he was science - not a lot of overlap, he figured. “I am! Mornin,” Gael replied casually, returning the wave as he shut the door and went around to the passenger side to retrieve something. As he did, he glanced around at the situation… the puddle didn’t seem TOO deep, he figured he was literally just doing this to be chivalrous. “I haven’t had… too much trouble with them, no ma’am but who am I to deny a lady in need of assistance?” He asked as he made his way around the car and slowly up the sidewalk, making sure to avoid any puddles on his own and approaching the trapped woman.  ______ She could hardly believe that he had actually come, but then humans were sometimes so delightfully fanciful and full of whimsy — sometimes it almost made Inge envious, who felt her own mortal life had been so lacking in every department but mostly in excitement. But what did it matter? She had all the time to do things just for the sake of it now, with little tying her down. This town would be part of her past in a matter of time, her name changed and her life turned around again. 

Ingeborg knew how to move around puddles (she could, theoretically, maneuvre around them through the astral plane with little problem), the same way she knew not to use a vacuum on them. But she found a little enjoyment in asking pointless questions online and, through that, getting to know one of her eager colleagues a little better. A win-win, she thought. 

She let out a soft laugh, genuinely amused. It was kind of fun, wasn’t it, to play at being a damsel in distress? She did truly care about her boots, though, and the puddle seemed anything but inviting. “Very chivalrous of you. It’s good to know we’ve got such honorable men on staff.” She looked at what he brought with him with an expectant expression on her face. “If our students could see us now, partaking in such old school ways, they’d never stop calling us old. So, is that it? Your allegedly ruined jacket?” ______ She didn’t look a day over 30 but the chemistry professor certainly FELT old sometimes. “Ehhh I don’t think the kids have anything to lose by witnessing a little old-school tradition,” Gael paused. “The positive parts, at least.” He added with a small, one-sided shrug and he glanced down at the jacket - worn, well-loved, a patchy gray color though it was difficult to see as it endlessly glimmered and sparkled in the sunlight. “I wouldn’t call it ‘allegedly’ ruined as much as ‘actually’ ruined,” He said with melancholy tinging his tone as he carefully held the jacket up - as Gael did so, the incredibly fine glitter particles dripped almost as though the jacket were wet with water, showering onto the ground between them. It ceased, though it didn’t look like any of the dust had left the jacket material at all. He held his breath this time, leaning back. “This is what I’ve had to deal with for the weekend, just… on my floor, in my nose and on one arm of my couch.” He said, lowering it and glancing over at the woman. “I don’t suppose you’d want it? before I sacrifice it to the puddle lords?” He asked, raising one of his brows. “Some people online said it was very razzle-dazzle.” ______

She squinted, eyebrows creasing along with her eyes. It would be hypocritical to call chivalry a bad thing, considering she had asked the other here. Still, though, Ingeborg wanted to pointedly ask what kind of good parts there were. She was glad that most of those traditions had died. “And you ruining your jacket some more to save my boots is definitely positive.” She smiled, somewhat impishly. “For me.”

Her smile faded, if only because her colleague looked properly sad. “I only said allegedly because it seems a matter of opinion. I think it looks great.” But having glitter everywhere was a pain, that Inge knew from experience. “What did this again? A glitter bomb? Did you piss off some students?” For a moment she considered his suggestion, then shook her head. “Let’s sacrifice it to the puddle. Maybe afterwards we can save it. I am quite crafty, after all. And you know what, Gael, I do think it is very razzle-dazzle. Maybe you ought to introduce some more glitter into your life.”  ______ He had admittedly gotten lost in the memories he had for the jacket though he made sure not to get TOO lost; after all, he wasn’t alone to reminisce in the memories. Gael was here to be an old-fashioned gentleman to someone in need, even if it was for completely superficial reasons like not wanting to wear a different pair of shoes. Then again, considering the last time he had dealt with the puddles… “Glitter bomb, yeah,” He said absently, waiting for her answer on whether or not she wanted the newly-accursed thing. When she passed, offering to see if she could salvage it after it was used for its intended purpose, Gael couldn’t keep a peculiar expression from crossing his face. “I already got too much glitter in my life,” He laughed. “Okay, okay, I’m putting it down. Might wanna hold your breath.” He said rather dryly as he carefully spread the jacket out, giving it one last look before gulping and slowly placing it, with the worn, dark inside, facing up on the puddle. The glitter quickly started running off, turning the puddle into a sparkling surface and just like that, it was done. He could say goodbye to his favorite jacket. Gael looked at Ingeborg this time, holding out a hand for her to take and giving her a small, gentlemanly bow. “Milady?” He asked, raising a brow. ______ Her eyebrows raised, surprised and somewhat shocked. “Too much glitter? I wasn’t aware there was such a thing.” Sure, glitter was a bit gauche and extra, but the rest of the world was already dull enough: so many professors just wore shades of brown, gray and blue. That, in and of itself, Inge thought a nightmare. No wonder she’d made a corporate-hellscape sculpture once.

She watched the glitter take off and swirl around the puddle and there was almost something quaint and pretty about it. She laughed, though, when he bowed and called her by a title so outdated that she hoped he never used it in all seriousness. Inge stuck out one of her suede-boot-clad feet, as well as a hand, but the moment it hoovered above the jacket it disappeared. It seemed almost as if the puddle had swallowed the thing with a gulp, along with all the glitter that had come off it. 

“Um,” she began, staring at the clear-again puddle. “I think there’s no salvaging that jacket any more.” Inge wondered how deep the puddle was and whether this problem was bigger than she and the city had initially anticipated. She did like a little strange water activity. There had been a stretch in ‘98 where she’d done nothing but give people water-based nightmares. There was a moment of hesitation and then she pulled off a flower from the greenery at the front of the house, dropping it in the puddle. It didn’t sink, no: it was swallowed. “Yeah, I’m not stepping in that. Jacket or no jacket. No way.” She tried not to smile.  ______ “Too much glitter for my pansy eyes, at least.” Gael chuckled in spite of himself, anticipating shifting his weight for her but he didn’t get a chance to do that. Instead, as she began to take a step, the jacket all but disappeared, sucking it down into… well, Gael wasn’t sure. Jacket, material, glitter, all of it was gone in an instant and he couldn’t keep surprise from splashing his face. Gael recovered quickly though, or at least as well as he could’ve though he kept his dark eyes on the puddle, which had changed back to innocuous in as much time as it had to eat his jacket. “Uhm…” He faltered, tilting his head, his hand still out to take hers stupidly. She plucked a flower from one of her plants, dropping it and no sooner had it landed then the surface moved and it was also devoured. “Uhhh yeah. Okay yeah no, don’t step in that.” He suggested, nodding his head with uncertainty even though he also couldn’t keep himself from smiling bemusedly. “New plan,” He started, now trying to find a place for him to put his feet. “I’m just gonna… lift you over.” Gael glanced at Ingeborg. “Unless you want to jump and I can catch you.” Upset as he was about the jacket and incredibly confused about the puddle, he didn’t want to leave his coworker stranded in her home until it decided to dry up. He wasn’t even questioning it anymore, or at least right now. He was over these puddles. ______

The world was strange. Inge had lived in a fair amount of strange places over the course of her seven-decades-long life, but Wicked’s Rest sure was trying to win the prize for strangest. That might just be a byproduct of it being a hub filled with the supernatural, though. As she stared at the puddle, she smiled a little, as if intrigued. Part of her wanted to stick her hand in and reach down, see where it would take her. 

But across from her was a colleague and she did have a reputation to uphold if she wanted to keep her human-job and human-life afloat. She quite liked her position at the university, after all, and becoming deliriously excited by a puddle that ate objects might be a little off-putting. A red flag, one might say. “What do you reckon would happen if I did? Would I end up on the other side of the world, or somewhere in a hidden cave? Or another plane of existence altogether?” 

His suggestions were fun, at least. Inge beamed at him. She wanted to get to know this science professor better, she decided. “Alright. I’m going to jump.” Life without a little risk didn’t interest her anyway. She pulled off her bag and swung it towards him before letting go. When that was done, she nodded decisively. “Alright. On three.” She put one of her legs slightly back, “One, two … three!” And with that, Inge jumped. ______ When she asked about the mysterious properties of the puddle, the raised his eyebrows slightly - she had an imagination, he couldn’t deny that.“I couldn’t tell you but I’m here for your enthusiasm,” Gael replied, glancing down at the water. “All I know is that if it ate that jacket and you jumped in, you’d be swimming in glitter.” The thought made him shudder, the nightmare of being surrounded by glitter in the water where it was free to go wherever it wanted. “Okay, gonna jump, got it.” He nodded in affirmation, adjusting his posture and holding his arm out where he caught the bag, looping it around his shoulder. It was her turn next and Gael opted to plant one of his feet as an anchor. He held his other arm out now as well and regarded her with a small smile of his own. “On three.” She counted, and he found himself leaning just a little more to catch her. Strong hands found her waist and using his planted foot as a fulcrum, swiveled the two of them and placed her on her feet, the aroma of what smelled like floral perfume and… the hint of oils, like the ones people used on canvases, swirling around them. “Just like that!” Gael’s smile widened as he shrugged her bag from off his shoulder and offered it out to her. “It’s like dancing only I wasn’t terrible at it.” ______

There was something funny about it, right? Science and art meeting, faced with a mysterious puddle. “What do you make of it then, Mr Science?” Ingeborg had never been very good at such subjects. Besides, with all the existence of magic out there in the world, who was to say that the science taught in universities was even accurate any more? There was no mention of the astral plane. 

If this was a test of character he surely passed, going along with the idea of catching her. Inge appreciated a little spontaneity, especially in her colleagues. So many of them had gotten so stuck in routine and regulations, their minds as organized as their boring curriculum. Gael, even if he taught a subject that interested her little, at least got into action to catch her as she launched herself from the front steps of her house. A burst of laughter left her mouth, her amusement gleeful and simple. “That was wonderful, actually.” 

Hopping on her feet, she held out her hand for her bag. “Off to work, then? Did you come with your car, or?” She nodded at her own, parked out front. “I could drive us too. Would be a waste not to carpool.” ______ She laughed, always a nice sound to Gael’s sharp hearing and he smiled himself, happy that even though she didn’t seem fond of ‘old-fashioned’ behavior it seemed temporarily forgotten as the two engaged in something that frankly probably looked like it came out of a cheesy romance movie. In any case, he was also internally grateful for her improvisational manner and though he would be mourning that jacket for a while, in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t very important. After handing her her bag, Gael collected his own messenger bag again and he cast one more glance at the abyssal, misleading surface of the puddle. “I think it’s… an anomaly.” Gael shook his head slowly and looked away from the puddle; he still had questions, no doubt, but they weren’t pressing on his mind as much as they probably should’ve been. Surely there had to be some rational explanation for it, a small sinkhole or perhaps a pipe under the pavement that was pulling things in? He glanced sideways at Ingeborg before giving a tilt of his head to his ice-blue mini-cooper convertible that sat neatly against the curb. “I brought my own!” He said enthusiastically. “I can give you a ride or we can take our own cars and see each other at work.” Gael raised his eyebrows at the options. “It’s completely up to you, my lady.” ______ Calling things in Wicked’s Rest an anomaly was quite an endearing way to go about it, Ingeborg thought. There were so many words humans used to explain away strange phenomenon, but anomaly was one of the better ones. She assumed this puddle was something supernatural, after all, not thinking this a basic geographic occurrence. Admittedly, Inge wasn’t too good at geography. 

“It’s odd, that’s for certain,” she said, “Must have something to do with those damned mines.” But what did it matter now? Inge had avoided being swallowed by the puddle and on her way back, she could always just project herself into her house, as long as she came home after dark.

Gael was proving to be fun company, at least. She considered their options and Inge smiled, “Your car it is. I’d like to get to know my chivalrous colleague a little better, after all.” She saluted him with two outstretched fingers. “Sir.” ______ “Oh, it probably does.” Gael cast a glance in a vague direction as she mentioned the mines - he didn’t know where they were specifically in relation to where he and Ingeborg were but their smell seemed to permeate everything from his visits to Monty’s farm to even the Commons, on occasion. Digging under his skin, invading his sinuses, seeming to flare something up inside of him, something deep down. Something that he wasn’t gonna think about for now. For now, Gael casually got his keys from out of his pocket, pointed them over his shoulder to unlock it and gave Inge a smile. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to come out of today but he had the feeling that it wasn’t ‘helping a fellow professor leave her house by having her jump over a puddle that ate his jacket’. Wicked’s Rest had a lot of questions but not all of them needed answers immediately. “Sounds good!” Gael nodded before taking a small bow and allowing her to go first.

[letsbeapoemtogether]

"I long for you and for our fairy tale."

- Ingeborg Bachmann, from a letter to Paul Celan written c. June 1946

[wonder-in-wings]

TIMING: Mid-December

LOCATION: The Common

SUMMARY: Knowing what Inge’s (@nightmaretist blood looks like, Parker (@wonder-in-wings requests they meet up so he can test a theory. For science.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Medical blood (mare)

Outside yet again. Recovering from more wounds that Emilio had inflicted upon him, not helped at all by whatever Teddy had managed to do and the subsequent, temporary madness that had gripped his mind. It wasn’t the first time, for both an encounter with Emilio and something that he didn’t place in his mind, grasping it with a forceful hand, digging its claws into his brain and spurning him to act irrational. Uncharacteristic. Unbecoming. Parker sat at a picnic table in the dusky, chilly evening of the Common, illuminated by one of the archaic streetlights that hovered above him.

One of his legs bounced absently, though not out of agitation; it was to keep his body moving, keeping him warm in the frigid evening. His hands rapped on the wooden table rhythmically, the base of a missing finger twitching as the metacarpal still carried the memory of a phalange with it. He felt exposed in multiple ways as the ghost of a grimace threatened his face, the cold biting at the inflamed knot that sat close to his spine, in that same particular spot on his back that he couldn’t seem to reach. The part where the tick was.

He was there because he was waiting for someone. Specifically, the ‘demon’ he had formed a strange sort of alliance with. If they could’ve been called alliances. There was something Parker still didn’t trust about her, understandably so if she was actually a demon. And yet, something still seemed off. Regardless, he asked if she would be able to assist him with an inquiry he had, and she had obliged on the condition that they do whatever it was he was wanting to do at night (which he found preferable) and not in private (which he preferred much less).

Ideally, this wouldn’t take long, though.

—

Inge had become relatively lazy during the nights, not often walking to her destinations but simply using the astral to her advantage. The common was so close to her office on campus that it would be ridiculous to pop into the park, and so she was doing the human thing. It was nice to stretch her legs during nighttime, anyway, and she figured it would still be best to keep her teleporting abilities a secret from the very-much watchful Parker. She had donned her glasses with tinted, though — for any curious onlookers.

He’d needed assistance, which tickled her. It would have been wiser to decline, but Inge found the notion of a hunter needing her assistance so very amusing that she’d said yes — on some conditions. Now that she no longer had a vial of her blood to leverage over him, she wasn’t so keen to meet him in his home or bunker. Who knew? Perhaps he’d figured out her lies by being buddy-buddy with any of the other bothersome hunters in town. Maybe he wanted a look at her insides. One could never be too careful with a hunter. 

The most careful thing was to not meet him at all, in the first place, but there was a limit to her cautiousness. And so she approached the hunter who was sat at a picnic table with the lift of a hand. Inge slid across from him, swinging her legs over and landing the heels of her boots into the hard ground. It really was winter, judging by the way people were bundled up. The cold didn’t really affect her any more, and that was a blessing. Especially for her gas bill. “Evening, Parker.” She took stock of him, noting a lack of a finger he’d discussed previously. Emilio’s handiwork. She both delighted in and despised it. She placed her glasses on the table, as it was hardly polite to have a conversation with sunglasses on. Red eyes met the other’s blue ones. “How’ve you been?” She crossed her legs under the table. “And however can I help you?”

—

The Warden had long since trained himself to be ready for anything, even if he didn’t give the outward appearance that he was. So, when Inge appeared from a direction he wasn’t anticipating and abruptly sat in front of him, Parker’s blue gaze snapped to her though it wasn’t overly aggressive. Just alert. Blue mixed with red as she placed her glasses on the table, asking how he’d been followed by how she could help.

He cleared his throat, pulling his gaze from her to look at nothing in particular. At least she hadn’t said it was a good evening, though Parker couldn’t have been sure if it was because of the weather or their communication. Might’ve been a combination, given that their online interactions never seemed to go anywhere conducive. “How I’ve been is irrelevant.” He replied first, believing it to be true. He was of the firm impression that she cared about how he had been just as much as she cared about his birthday. That was to say, she couldn’t have cared less, ergo that conversation point was a waste of time.

“I was curious if I could observe you bleed.” He asked bluntly. “Not for a collection, not for… gratification.”

—

He was so very cut-to-the-chase, not one to embellish interactions with frivolous questions and playful prods. Inge figured it was something she could appreciate, especially when he’d been showing her around his bunker and basements — but she was a little nervous now, and so would like the empty words. There was a reason she’d invited him to meet in public. She’d visited another hunter’s bunker since their last encounter, after all, and though she was not as cautious as she ought to be, she had her moments.

She shrugged, waved away his words, as if to say if you say so. She was not going to press him to tell her how he was, especially not when his request was finally spoken. Inge looked at him with a little stunned expression, raising her eyebrows. “Excuse me?” He had an interesting way with words, she thought. Was he really just as blunt as he appeared, though, or was this hiding some malicious intent? Watching someone bleed wasn’t really a kind act, after all. How much did he want her to bleed? Where? How? Why? Did he want to cause the lacerations? Did he know she could not die from being bled out? She rapped her fingers on the table. “Pray, tell. Why do you want to watch me bleed, Parker? You already have on two occasions.” 

—

Parker wasn’t sure how the conversation was going to pan out. He was also long-since past the point of trying to dance around what his intentions were. It was arguable that he never really did to begin with, even at the expense of his getting into trouble - she should’ve known that by now, given that their literal first interaction resulted in him keenly observing the glittery substance as it drizzled from her hand. “I…” And yet, the explanation caught in his throat.

But why? The answer tinged the edges of his tongue, and it was rather simple depending on the terminology he would use; she was a demon, after all, so surely she was aware of what vampires were, even if he wasn’t a vampire. ‘If dad were still alive and he found out that you’re acting like… this because of an insect, you’d never hear the end of it.’ That was it, wasn’t it? That had to have been it, the reason for this particular catching of the response. Parker felt his father’s hand tightly squeezing his shoulder as he loomed over the Warden, the memory of that oppressive strength forcing him to sit up slightly with a faint, yet sharp inhale through his nose. ‘There ya go. Gotta look presentable for your little demon friend.’

“I’m experiencing… symptoms.” He explained rather quietly, after a pause and, strangely for him, he avoided making eye contact with her now. “Well… one. But it’s been… undesirable.” He wasn’t lying as much as being more vague than he’d have liked before he heard his family members in his head, chiming into that line of thought. “And your blood is… nonstandard.” he concluded. “It doesn’t have to be a lot and… it doesn’t have to be me.”

—

Paranoid thoughts clawed at her mind, trying to understand where this request came from. Parker was a methodical man, practical — and not unnecessarily cruel, if she had to believe him. So was this how he’d approach her, should he want to do harm? Inge wasn’t sure. Her mind traveled to Rhett, another Warden in town, whom she’d been tailing as of recent. How close were these people? Did they know each other? Perhaps Parker had found out the blood he’d paid her for hadn’t been demonic in nature after all.

It took a moment for him to answer and it left ample room for her mind to work over hours. Eventually he got there, though, and she squinted at him once more. Experiencing symptoms — weren’t they all? She was certainly exhibiting some symptoms by having her mind run laps around itself to point out the dangers in meeting a hunter. Symptoms. She let out a sigh, a purely dramatic thing. At least he expressed that it just had to be a little, that it didn’t have to be him. It could still be a trick, but thus far it didn’t feel like the other was ready to jump on the offense just yet.

“What kind of symptom?” Inge wondered. “I don’t see the correlation just yet between you experiencing a symptom and wanting to see my blood.” She wanted to know more, before she’d split her skin for him again and make him witness the powdery glitter that resided within her. “I hope you can … understand my hesitation to simply cut my palm for you right here and now, without a little more context.” 

—

“I do.” He replied first, and with the appropriate amount of time dedicated to make sure he didn’t respond too quickly. There was also no trace of a lie in his tone because he wasn’t being deceptive. Parker did understand, just as he understood her wanting to meet in public instead of somewhere more private. Perhaps this would incentivize her to go to a place less open. But then again… his track record hadn’t been great lately and though Inge had been spared any of his unreasonable… tantrums (outbursts? No one in his family seemed to know what to call them either, apparently), that wasn’t to say that they were friends nor that it wouldn’t happen in the future.

Not to mention there was no guarantee that she would be willing to do this.

At least not until he stopped dodging the topic. It was something Parker wished he could be more blunt about but for some reason, the explanation was caught in his throat. It was an admission of weakness, not something that graced his mind often and on the rare occasion that it did, it brought terrible shame with it. Parker Wright wasn’t a human with weaknesses. ‘We’re starting to go in circles. The demon lady already knows you have weaknesses.’ Walker suggested. ‘You made a damn fool of yourself in that bunker.’ His father added unhelpfully.

Parker rolled his eyes at the internal conversation and, still avoiding Inge’s gaze, instead looked off to the side. “I’m not a vampire.” He started. “I got… bitten by a supernatural… creature.” His sentence caught before he could say ‘insect’; that was going too far. “And I believe it venomed me. I’ve noticed that I become… compromised when I see blood.” He inhaled, his brow furrowing slightly. “But I’m not sure if… it’s the action of bleeding or if it’s the physical appearance of human blood.” He gestured to her. “Your blood is incredibly unique, obviously. You can acquire normal wounds, but you bleed abnormally. As I said, this is… for science.”

—

Her boots squelched in the wet grass as they moved, a nervous habit she soon cut off. She didn’t want to appear like she was on edge, even if she was. To show weakness was simply not permitted. Weakness was for during the daylight hours, when she didn’t have her full powers and she felt cagey, looking over her shoulders for a bearded figure or that Cortez hunter. Wondering if Owen would turn around and fulfill whatever duty he’d been convinced he had. Inge crossed her legs under the table, the pressure of one leg onto another keeping them from moving. 

Parker didn’t want to cut her open himself. And yet, he’d asked after her horns and her wings — which were both items he collected. Never mind that she didn’t have them: if he was intent on acquiring them, he had the place, the means, the motive. Inge forced the thoughts from her mind, paranoia never serving her well. (The only thing that ever served her well was running from a place like this one, but here she was. In Wicked’s Rest, across a man she knew to be a hunter.) 

At least the Warden was explaining himself, even if it seemed to take some effort. This she could understand, as the truth revealed itself — he was compromised. It wasn’t something she found easy to admit herself, in those moments where she was frailer than she preferred to be. But what did it matter? What he said was interesting. Inge’s curiosity was never fully satiated. She raised her brows, leaned in a little. “What do you mean? Bitten … compromised? Do you feel the urge to drink the blood you see?” She tried to think about an instance of this, but all she could think of were vampires. “You’re sure you’re not a vampire, Parker? I’ve heard of people not realizing they’ve died and transformed before.” Perhaps he was in denial. “In that case, my blood won’t interest your literal bloodlust much.” She looked at her palms, then back at him. It seemed an elaborate lie to tell, should he want to get his hands on her non-existent horns and wings. “So your hypothesis is that you won’t respond to my blood? Scientific experiments require one of those, I’ve heard.” 

—

“That’s the hypothesis, yes.” Parker replied. “And… I’m certain I’m not a vampire. The only symptom I display is–” He faltered, still not sure how to word it. ‘Just be clinical. You’re good at that.’ “When I see blood, I’m mindlessly driven to consume it.” Not clinical enough? He didn’t really care; the explanation was out, and he wasn’t sure how much more blunt he had to make his usually-scholarly vocabulary for her to understand what he was saying.

If he were a more paranoid man (‘oh yeah you’re definitely not paranoid,’), Parker would’ve thought that Inge was purposefully construing his words as obtuse in an attempt to get him to display this deficiency with more humiliation. He recalled the bunker, how he felt as though his insides were shutting down as he gripped the doorknob to the holding cell. He recalled how that was blatantly in front of Inge, and how the succubus could’ve easily taken advantage of him but… she didn’t. He also recalled, however, that she seemed to hold no shortage of mildly prodding comments, small, inconsequential jabs that didn’t pierce through his confidence a vast majority of the time.

“Ergo… you’re the only one I know who doesn’t seem to have standard blood anymore. I can confirm with certainty that if… I were to start bleeding and I saw it, then myself, yourself, anyone or anything else in view would be…” Parker unraveled his fingers that had since become entwined with themselves as they rested atop the cold wooden surface of the picnic table. “Attacked.” He cleared his throat. “I’d rather not do that.”

—

“Ah, so you can still walk in the sun and all?” Inge wasn’t sure what she made of that. It was probably for the best if Parker Wright wasn’t a vampire, but it would still be mildly funny. Ironic. For a hunter to become something their own ilk hunted … there was some poetic justice in that, no? But it was better if they remained mortal. “I can always ask around. I have some vampiric friends, after all … and there’s subtypes, as far as I’m aware.” She was mostly intrigued by the more ugly types of vampire. Those shiny, perfect humans were interesting, sure, but she liked the monstrous ones.

She watched his fingers unfurl, wondered how affected the other was. He didn’t appear to be an emotional type on the surface, but she’d seen him crack before. How would he look when bloodthirsty? When not only moved by greed for the parts of the fae he hunted, but by actual bloodlust? Inge tried to imagine him as one of the patrons at Dance Macabre, teeth sunk into the neck of a human, unable to stop themselves. It wasn’t something that fit Parker, but then how well did she know him, really?

At least he hadn’t met any other mares, or hadn’t gotten to know them well enough to know about their blood. Inge wasn’t sure if Parker liked liars, but she assumed he wouldn’t enjoy having been fooled. “I guess you found that out the hard way?” She considered his request, mildly curious to see what he’d do if he saw her non-blood. “And other people’s blood also makes you …. filled with bloodlust?” That had to get in the way of his ‘profession’, she figured. “Unfortunate, considering your line of work.” Inge looked at him. “And what if you do become rabid upon seeing my blood? I would defend myself, you know.”

—

“...Yes.” The question was dumb, but he supposed she needed the clarification. “But you’re welcome to “ask around”.” Parker highly doubted, even as they engaged in this awkward conversation, that he was a vampire. It didn’t fit; he knew Metzli, he could see the look in their eye when they first interacted. Was that… how he looked when everything hazed over, when his vision was bathed in red and all of his higher intelligence was replaced by an animalistic need to consume blood? The word that Winter had used when they first met flitted through his mind and he tensed visibly at it, as though being confronted with an offensive odor.

No, he was in control. He always was. Always had to be. Every member of his family except for his mother said that he wasn’t capable of feeling anything. He was a machine, not a person… and right now, the machine, unfortunately, had some sort of virus, something that urged him to power it with blood. Parker was in control. He had to be. This would go away, and he’d be back to normal. Or whatever version of normal existed for him.

Some aspect of that version of normal was something Inge brought up, of course, as she mentioned his ‘line of work’. He wouldn’t admit it to her but Parker had been unnecessarily pent-up since then, feeling the fevered heat of whatever was stuck in his back flaring slightly. An artist without an outlet. “It’s not rabid.” The Warden felt the need to clarify first. “It’s… different.” Blue eyes turned to focus on nothing in particular again, avoiding eye contact with the demon. “And I expect you to. As I’ve mentioned, this isn’t for satisfaction or to fuel any desires. If you’re attacked, I fully expect you to fight back. And I will not hold it against you.” He made this as clear as he possibly could, locking eyes with her once more.

—

It almost sounded like he was doing her a favor, if she were to ask around. Like he was humoring her and her whims. Inge raised an eyebrow and said nothing, deciding she’d not stick out a finger for him. She had more interesting things to talk about with her fellow undead, after all, and she wasn’t appreciative of Parker’s tone. That these things affected her were best left unaddressed, though. To participate in an argument with a hunter was something she figured foolish. 

But still, it was curious. Whatever was afflicting him was curious. Inge wasn’t sure if she wanted to help Parker or if she just wanted to know whatever it was that was ‘compromising’ him. Her mind went to Dīs and their antlers and how they’d look in the warden’s collection. Maybe it would be better if the other remained compromised — though maybe it made him all the more vicious. “How is it different? You said you attack without meaning to.” 

She was glad, at least, that he expected her to fight back. It wasn’t like she had much to fight back with, but the astral was hers and she’d gotten out of tighter corners. “Alright.” He seemed to mean it. Inge slipped her hand into her coat pocket, producing a switchblade that she flicked open. She steeled herself, raised the same finger she’d cut open for him a while ago and slid the blade over the top of her finger to create a small cut. Underneath her split skin the glittery energy shone. She stretched her finger so her skin would strain and held it out to Parker, some of the non-blood drizzling on the table before them. “Well?”

—

There was a pause between the two and in that space of silence, however brief it might’ve actually been, Parker’s mind was working. It was always working. It never stopped, despite how he was sure that most people likely thought that he never did. ‘What are you thinking?’ His mother asked him more than once. ‘How can you be sure he even is?’ His father replied dryly before adding ‘You know, that’s one thing I like about him. No one can tell what’s going through that head.’

‘Daddy’s little serial killer.’

Loops of thoughts racing each other, each one wanting to be the one he thought of at any given moment. He shook his head. “It’s not a neurological condition.” Parker replied rather bluntly. “...I don’t think.” He added with a small admission that he wasn’t entirely sure what it was. He had some educated guesses for sure, and viewing Inge’s blood would help in narrowing down the potential list of things that he was aware it could’ve been. He cleared his throat and his brow furrowed slightly. If there was something he wanted to add onto it, it was abandoned and his blue eyes danced indiscriminately on the table between them as a temporary uncertainty washed over him. 

When she replied with a simple ‘alright’, the Warden released a quiet exhale through his nose and the same blue eyes that weren’t focusing on much at all suddenly and astutely honed in on the succubus, flickering to her face before moving to the knife she had procured from a pocket. He kept his posture as casual as he could’ve made it, though his fingers instinctively curled inward, pulling his nails across the rough wooden surface as a sign of anticipatory anxiety that seemed to match the pulse in his back. He’d be right. Parker would be right and wouldn’t react to her blood, then they could both go on their way. And sure enough, as she drew the blade across her finger and applied enough pressure to get the wound to ooze the aesthetic, glittering powder, he leaned back after carefully observing it for a moment.

“Nothing.” He sighed, a quiet relief able to be heard lacing his monotone. He looked up and around their surroundings for a moment as his hands acted on their own, reaching into one of the pockets on his cargo pants and pulling out an adhesive strip. “I apologize for wasting your time but I appreciate your willingness to cooperate.” He said, offering the strip out to her and breathing rather deeply, almost as though he were recovering from a weight being pressed into his chest slowly but consistently, drawing the air from his lungs, suffocating him with the unknown.

—

She was waiting with metaphorical bated breath as the energy that brought her life (she thought — she wasn’t entirely sure on her own biology) slipped from her hand. Inge thought herself plenty of areas, but when it came to afflictions – no matter what kind – she knew she wasn’t the wisest. She wasn’t interested in knowing about disease and disorder in depth, as it was ugly enough on the surface. This did mean she wasn’t sure what Parker was dealing with, nor if it put her in any danger.

Her other hand continued to hold onto her switchblade, the pearl handle a comfort in her hand. It was a small blade, but it was something. But no response seemed to come. Parker let out the breath Inge would have been holding if she still needed to breathe and she watched him carefully. “Good.” She took the strip, applying it to her finger and resting her hand on the table, closer to her chest. 

“My blood doesn’t have any … nutritional value to vampires, so perhaps the same goes for whatever predicament you’re in at present.” He was relieved, though he had a strange way of showing it. Inge figured that Parker wasn’t fond of feeling weak or out of control, which was understandable — she felt that way, too. It was still something she took note of, wondering how close the warden was with another warden in town. She hoped that this gesture of goodwill would go a long way. “You’re welcome, anyway. If you ever figure out what it is that’s plaguing you, I’d be curious to hear.”

— —

When she took the strip, Parker didn’t relax per se but he did withdraw his own hands, folding his arms across his chest as his blue-eyed stare focused on something else. “I don’t think it’s the nutritional value.” He admitted after a pause. “My mind knows I don’t gain sustenance from blood consumption. I don’t…” The Warden faltered, his fingers pulling at the material of his sleeves. “I don’t keep anything I consume down. It’s not nourishment, it’s not biology or vampirism.” The familiar pulsing sensation that was subtly bothering him came back and he moved in an attempt to not apply more pressure on it as he leaned back.

“I think I was bitten by a clinger.” He replied at long last and accompanied with a heavy sigh, one that conveyed a sense of disappointment, failure… perhaps a sting of embarrassment, as some member of his family had mentioned earlier in his head. “Their saliva… can emulate different effects. Some target undead. Some have no such specifications and can strip you of your abilities entirely, sometimes so severely that you can’t get them back.” Parker was particularly glad that he wasn’t experiencing that one.

“But there’s… one that… it makes you crave blood.” He straightened up slightly as he explained it. “Not a vampire, nothing useful or necessary like that.” As much as he didn’t like to admit that he had vampire friends now, who he did prefer having around and that it was… something they had to deal with. Parker supposed the necessity didn’t bother him insomuch as when whoever had to deal with it insisted that it wasn’t them. Blaming something else for the messes they made. “Apologies. I don’t mean to waste more of your time.” He exhaled and his icy blue eyes, now expressing what could’ve been a hint of melancholy though for what reason, he wouldn’t have been able to tell her. “I’m not compensating you as healthily as last time but if you’d like for me to pay you for this experiment, I’m willing to offer one hundred.”

— —

Her face pulled into a mild grimace. “Yikes.” Quite the predicament to be in. Inge found little empathy within herself for the hunter but she could still appreciate that vomiting other people’s blood back up was nasty. “So you have drank other people’s blood?” That was interesting. She’d like to pick his mind about it, for him to retell that occurrence to her in great detail and leave nothing out. If Parker was anything to her, he was her muse. 

Her eyebrows creased a little at his explanation, new information reaching her. She’d not heard of these creatures before. Though she knew, vaguely, that there were diseases that could affect the undead she’d never really come into close proximity to it. “What can they do to the undead? Where and how do they find their victims?” There was a sheen of genuine concern on her face, a rare thing. She didn’t want to be sick. She didn’t get sick any more and it was marvelous, one of the larger perks of being undead. Disease scared her — she remembered the hospital. She always remembered the hospital. It was the dark shadow at the end of her metaphorical bed. To be unwell, to be reduced, to be helpless and slowly dying … Inge would shiver at the thought if she’d allow herself to.

“So what is the solution? Is it like an insect bite, or a tick?” She remembered being young, coming home after running in the fields, having to check her body for ticks along with her siblings before they were allowed to bathe. Inge pushed the memory aside. “Ah, it’s alright. The one thing I have plenty of is time.” She looked at Parker a little funny, shaking her head. “No, I don’t want your money for this, don’t be ridiculous.” As if she hadn’t asked for far too much money for her blood before. “It’s on the house.”

— —

“I have, yes.” Parker didn’t like admitting it, but he was able to regain his clinical approach to the whole ordeal, not to mention he had somewhat hoped that she didn’t interpret anything he was saying as grasping for attention. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he had so much trouble expressing himself to others. “Fae, human, shifter… the only one I haven’t yet is undead blood but I’m not sure if I can.” He wiped the table of the glitter that floated from her miniscule wound and rubbed it between two fingers, examining it similar to how he had done so the first time they met. “Succubus blood is also exempt.”

Then she asked about the deadclinger, and blue eyes drifted back up to the demon’s face where he could read an emotion previously unseen on it. Was she worried? Parker didn’t think he understood why; she was a demon, not undead, so surely she didn’t have to worry about something as inconsequential as a supernatural parasite. “They’re ticks. They can be found anywhere, but deadclingers can sense undead blood.” He explained. “Their saliva infects the bloodstream and reduces them to their base instincts. Mindless, starving things. The sensation goes away with time; it should be over in a few weeks.” Granted, he hoped it was sooner given his enhanced physiology but given that this was a new experience for him, he knew better than to assume it would be shortened.

Inge let him know that he didn’t have to pay this time and it was Parker’s turn to express a rare emotion: faint surprise. His eyebrows raised slightly accompanied with a small tilt of his head. From what he had gathered about her, she was opportunistic, trying to further whatever endeavors she was working on or interested in. “If that’s true, then I appreciate your time and… willingness to be involved in my scientific inquiry.”

— — 

Right — right, he didn’t know she was undead. Inge realized her slip up a few beats too late and she was lucky to not have any red blood in her system, otherwise her cheeks would have flushed scarlet. She considered his predicament, the looming threat of him going to search for undead blood. She disliked the concept, not only because she worried about him finding out about mares but because she cared about her fellow undead in a way. “As far as I know they don’t really bleed. Or well, if they have blood — it’s rather useless. Not like their heart has to pump it around.” 

The idea of becoming sick in one way or another made her feel deeply unsettled and she didn’t think that was a good way to feel around the likes of a hunter. She hoped he’d think her look of dread was one borne out of care for someone undead. It wasn’t fully untrue. She also dreaded one of her loved ones becoming sick. “I trust you’ve taken the tick out, then. I suppose we must all return to childhood and check our bodies after every walk in nature.” Raise your arms, check under your knees, in the warmest folds of the body where the creatures liked to bite down. She felt itchy. She felt almost human for it.

She felt the impulse to leave, nerves crawling. “Of course. I’m an academic,” she said casually, raising from where she sat. Inge looked at the granules of non-blood scattered on the park ground. It might as well have been a college girl’s make up. “Do let me know if you learn more, won’t you?” She’d ask Anita about this — she knew things about bugs, after all. Perhaps she knew about these kinds too. Plus she was a safer bet than a hunter. “Have a good evening, Parker.”

— —

“I was thinking along similar lines, but…” The Warden fell silent for a moment. “I’m not sure.” He didn’t want to take any risks, not after his string of violent tendencies the past week or so. “Rest assured, I have removed the tick.” Parker had Winter to thank for that, though he still associated that day with intense shame. He hadn’t intended on it turning out the way it had. He hadn’t intended on finding himself talking to Ingeborg about her blood again, either.

But… he had. ‘And to think, all’a this mess was caused by one little insect.’ His father mocked him lightly as Parker sat at the kitchen table, wordlessly and calmly applying a cold compress to an inflamed circle on his arm. Granted, at the time his father was purposefully being obtuse - it was a simple thing and the bite hadn’t affected anyone else. There was no ‘mess’ involved then, not like now. 

The hunter shook his head faintly, sharp blue eyes following the succubus as she got to her feet. An academic, right. College professors tended to be a cut above their peers in the education field, even if someone like Parker didn’t really consider ‘art’ to be in the same level of importance as ‘math’. It wasn’t his business. She had shown up when he asked and extended her assistance and Parker had a greater understanding of the bloodclinger now. His fingers that were rubbing the glitter between them pressed each other hard enough that there was an audible sound of granules being scraped against skin. “I will.” He assured her, with a quiet honesty as he stared up at her form, which was shadowed by the light of the lamppost behind her. 

He would wait until she was gone before getting up himself; for now, he was going to remain sitting, feeling the cogs in his brain moving too quickly for the naked eye to process. The scale. The pendulum. His father’s eyes boring into his back from the inside of his skull. The taste of blood oozing down his throat, meeting with stomach acid that wanted to come back up. No more hunting, at least not for the time being. “You as well, Inge.”

[banisheed]

TIMING: Pre-goo LOCATION: University of Maine Wicked’s Rest PARTIES: Stingeky (@nightmaretist) and Stinkbhan (@banisheed) SUMMARY: A potty poltergeist forces Ingeborg and Siobhan to bond.

Death came for all. It sat still, knocking at the doors of life, inviting bodies into its dark and cold arms. What existed beyond Death didn’t matter; it came, it asked, people gave. No one gave more to death than Siobhan Dolan, who was born in its clutches, raised under its indifference and who worshipped under its rules and chaos. Fate and Death always came together—two sides of the same weathered coin—but it was a fact of the world that some people existed beyond nature, beyond death. What did her scripture say about people like Ingeborg Endeman? Mostly, that she was a horrifying abomination and an affront of the natural order. What did Siobhan say? 

“Fates, I can’t piss if you’ve spread your filth around here.” Siobhan scoffed, gesturing at the undead professor--this was probably some sort of violation of workplace principles but Siobhan didn’t care. There was only so much disgust that she could pretend she didn’t hold and discomfort that she could swallow down. She spun on her heel, uninterested in anything Ingeborg had to say. She crashed against the door, stumbling backward. She kicked at it, watching the hinges wobble but the door remained shut in place. “Okay,” she spun back around, rubbing her red nose. “Very funny. This is one of your…” Siobhan gestured vaguely. “...tricks. Open the door, Endeman.”

—

She did lack subtlety, this Siobhan Dolan. Ingeborg often thought this a complimentary trait in women (as centuries of subtlety had hardly done anything for anyone), but as the other used it to express her dislike of her, she found it unbecoming. Amusing, some days, but frustrating on most others — there was a benefit in having her undead status fly under the radar at her place of work, after all, and Siobhan could be considered a threat. Besides, there was that hint of paranoid concern she liked to deny which wondered if this woman was a hunter. (A passive one, if so, so seemingly not a problem. As of yet.) 

She watched the professor of whatever-she-taught walk into the bathroom as her own lipstick was raised mid-air, ready to repaint her lips red. “Ah, and I haven’t even gone number two yet,” she said, dotting her lips with the lipstick with her eyes trained on the more pleasing person in the bathroom. Inge’s gaze released her mirror image when she heard a crashing noise, watching her colleague turn around. Half-painted lips spread into a smile, eyebrows raising in amusement and interest. “One of my tricks? What are you talking about?” She wasn’t even being facetious this time: she was not doing anything. “The door is push, not pull. Do you read?” 

—

Siobhan’s eyes twitched. Her annoyance was not masked— the undead didn’t deserve decency or politeness. It was embarrassing to march herself back to the door and try all manner of directional force: push, pull, turn, caress, groan, push again. When she approached Ingeborg again, her face was red with anger. “Stop it. I don’t want to be locked in a bathroom with you; it’s not funny.” She felt like a child, complaining that some older kid was picking on her by moving her bone collection around. “I have pushed. I have pulled. Yes, I can read. No, that shade of lipstick does n-not look good on you.” The lie burned the back of her throat, searing her tongue on its pained journey out of her mouth. It was unfortunate that Ingeborg was attractive; she would have looked better decomposing but now she had robbed the world of the opportunity to have her bones. Siobhan spread her palm over her abdomen with hopes that her hand would soothe her twisting stomach; she reminded herself that the lie was worth it. “Putting makeup on a corpse doesn’t change anything,” she huffed. “Unlock the door. I want to be freed from your stink.” 

—

“Oh, trust me, the displeasure is very much mutual. I’m not keeping you here, though,” she said calmly, taking in the other’s anger with some kind of amusement. If this woman was a hunter, wouldn’t she take this opportunity to bring out a knife, some salt, or cover the keyhole. (Inge’s eyes flashed to the keyhole suddenly, glad to still see it uncovered.)  She continued putting on her lipstick, clicking the tube shut with the loudest noise she could produce and turning towards the other after leaving it on the sink. “Your dramatics are impressive. Are you sure you don’t wish to join us in the art department as a professor of the dramatic arts?” She did have the looks to stand on a stage, but that was hardly something that had to be said out loud. “Putting make up on a corpse changes all the same things it does for a living body, actually.” Inge moved towards the door, trying the handle while staring at the other — ready to prove that she was being ridiculous. It didn’t budge, though, and she tried once more while staring at it. “Well.” She looked at Siobhan. “What the fuck?”

—

Siobhan rolled her eyes. “No, it doesn’t. There is nothing more beautiful than a dead body— why would you put makeup on it? I want to see the discoloration, the desaturation, the gauntness.” Siobhan looked at herself in the mirror; she was beautiful but she didn’t look like a corpse. That was the tragedy of being a banshee: no livor mortis. Distracted by her own splendor, she nearly missed Ingeborg’s futile attempt to open the door. “You’re asking me?” Siobhan scoffed. “You’re the one that locked it with your undead trickery!” Siobhan waved her hands in the air as if the motion would prove her point, as if in between the waving Ingeborg would drop the act and unlock the door. The lights flickered. The bathroom groaned like a giant awoken from a nap. The lights flickered again. “I can't teach the dramatic arts.” What was acting but lying? There was a reason fae productions were often made using indentured humans. “But I’d be amazing at it if I could.” The light flicked off and when they buzzed to life again, red dripped from the mirror. 

Siobhan’s nose crinkled. “I think that’s a message for you.” The oozing red text read, simply: STINKY. 

—

Maybe in another world the two of them could get along. Professor Dolan was somewhat morbid, after all, with her talking of stages of decomposition as if it was nothing. Alas. “Then go find yourself a dead body? You won’t find them in the bathroom.” Ingeborg swiveled to the other, creasing her eyebrows in annoyance. “Undead trickery? I could use my undead trickery to leave this room if I wished! And I certainly would like to right about now!” She couldn’t completely, in all fairness, as it was day outside and Inge couldn’t take her body into the astral with her. And while escaping with just her spirit to leave Siobhan with a comatose body might be funny, she didn’t trust the other. “You know, I wish I could do this.” As the light flickered, she felt envious. Inge could do this in dreams, but never in the waking world. To her, this was a poor version of the dream world out there.

Inge stared at the message on the mirror, reading the word stinky with squinting eyes. “I’d sooner think it’s for you. The one who blames people is often the perpetrator of the stink.”

—

“You are a dead body, in case you have forgotten,”  Siobhan sneered; Ingeborg was being purposefully obtuse, she thought, but she couldn’t help but to fall into her play a little. The situation was frustrating and so was her company. “Don’t lie to me! You undead have…” Siobhan waved her hand around in the air again. Away from her tutelage of her family, Siobhan had no way of knowing what new, perverse tricks the undead picked up. It was unlikely that forty years created a brand-new, door-locking evolution in the undead, but Siobhan wouldn’t underestimate them. Diseases often adapt, after all. The lights flickered again and the bathroom groaned. The stall doors flung wildly, flicking open and slamming shut only to burst open again—each time accompanied by a loud and shrill banging. The STINKY on the mirror seemed to ooze more. “What sort of rule is that? Clearly, I am not the purporator of the stink. I smell lovely. Smell me.” Siobhan pointed to the stalls. “Stop doing that, Endeman. The sound is annoying.” Images of maggot infested corpses swarmed Siobhan’s mind all at once, unfortunately for whomever thought the sight would terrify her, it was the sort of thing she often pictured. As the faucets started to rattle, Siobhan got another idea.

“I think this might be a poltergeist, Endeman.” Siobhan said. “It’s very tacky of you to have invited one into the toilets. You struck me as a woman of more class–albeit, disgusting class.” 

—

“To you,” she sneered in return, refusing to agree with such a notion. Her body was strange, certainly, and Inge had her own mixed-bag relationship with it — but it was definitely alive. Not with something as arbitrary as human blood, nor tied to just one plane of existence: but it was alive, if only because it could be killed. “What even are you, Dolan, to judge me like this?” It was thrown in off-hand, a question she didn’t expect an answer to but wanted one for anyway.

The bathroom had to be possessed, or something close to it, and Inge felt something run up her spine — something like excitement. It wasn’t often that she was the one on the receiving end of some scaring – which wasn’t to say she was scared – and whenever she was, it was a thrill. Her eyes were wide when taking in the leaking lipstick, the flickering lights, the slamming doors and the suddenly running faucets. In her mind, pictures of dead bodies crawled around and she let out a sound of surprise. Whatever could do this had her admiration and envy, that much was certain — she wished she could manipulate reality like this. “Annoying? You have to respect the work, Dolan! It’s glorious.” 

As the other dropped the word poltergeist, it did seem to fall into place. Inge turned to look at Siobhan, eyebrows raised. “Doesn’t it get exhausting, being so presumptuous? I didn’t do a thing! But you have to admire its fervor, or are you incapable of looking beyond anything when it’s supposedly dead?” The sinks were clogged up, somehow, and water splattered onto the ground. “I wonder what that makes you, Dolan, a slayer of sorts …? Or just extremely dull?”

—

What was she? Siobhan preened at the suggestion of it; she was something great and powerful and perfect and beautiful and much, much better than the filthy abomination that Ingeborg was. She opened her mouth to explain what she was, and then she thought better of it and snapped her lips shut. It wasn’t wise to be so free with her knowledge, even as her fingers twitched at her side and her jaw ached, begging to be unclenched so the one, beautiful word, could be uttered: banshee. She had every right to judge the undead, ridicule them and make it known how much Death did not agree with their existence. Siobhan looked at herself in the mirror, fixing her strands of soft brown hair as STINKY continued to dribble down.

“Glorious?” She turned to Ingeborg, scandalized. “What is the point of it? Do either of us look scared? It’s a waste of effort.” Siobhan tapped Ingeborg’s reflection in the mirror. “Now this is scary.” As water splattered on to the ground, Siobhan lifted her feet, plopping around in the water as she groaned. All of this was nothing more than an inconvenience and she was just about to pull the salt she kept on her out of her pocket when the other professor went on. Slowly, Siobhan's brown eyes widened. “Slayer?” She clutched her chest, scoffing. “Slayer?” She repeated, offended beyond regular measures. She turned her head around and scoffed everywhere she looked, gesturing and opening and shutting her mouth as she struggled to articulate her disgust with the sentiment. 

“I’m a banshee,” Siobhan said, slitting clutching her chest. “A banshee! I’m Irish! I’ve got bones in my pockets!” She pulled the mandible of a mouse out of her inner jacket pocket. “By what idiotic metric would you even fathom that I was a slayer? A slayer! If I was a slayer, you’d be dead—again. I’d be beheading you right now! I would have beheaded you months ago!” Granted, she had thought about beheading her, but she thought about beheading most people that she meant—it was one of her ‘happy thoughts’. “A slayer!” She scoffed again and again and even as the bathroom started to flood, water rising up to Siobhan’s ankles. “I’ve never been so offended. I am a beautiful, superior fae and you would compare me to a disgusting, lowly human? And at that, a breed of hunter? Me?” Siobhan spun around. “I can’t–I don’t even want to look at you right now. You’ve offended me so greatly. If I wasn’t in exile I would sic pixies on you. You’re so lucky I can’t do that. You’re so fortunate.” 

—

It was true, neither of them looked scared. The poltergeist must be going through some of the possibly worst frustration a fearmongering creature could go through: the one that came with failure. These were cheap tricks, too little to inspire any kind of reaction besides one of glee from Ingeborg, and Siobhan Dolan seemed hard to shake herself. Still, she carried a certain level of respect for creatures and people similar to her, so she frowned at the other’s assessment. “Maybe they’re new to this, the scaring. We should support their efforts, even if they’re not particularly effective on us. If it was a freshmen here, they’d have peed their pants right where they stood!” 

She was annoyed with the water, which was not yet reaching her socks (thank God for her leather, expensive boots) but was capable of doing damage to the suede on the long term. She was more focused on Siobhan than the boots, though, wondering what her accusation of the other being a hunter would do. Either she was one, and it would lead to something annoying and potentially dangerous, or it would be offensive. To call something supernatural a hunter, after all, was a horrible thing. Inge knew that very well: when the tiny Bugbear had called her one, she had been terribly offended herself. There was no worse thing to be on this earth. 

And so, Siobhan revealed herself. She was a banshee. Now that was interesting, more interesting than whatever the poltergeist was doing. Inge stared at the bone, then at the other. “I don’t know, there are some real lazy slayers out here. You sure seem to share some of their viewpoints,” she said. Her hand traveled to her neck at the mention of beheading, caressing the scar that lined her throat. “A banshee is much better, though. I can’t say I’ve met any before.” Fae were strange things, still a mystery to her even if there had been decades of experience with the supernatural. They liked their elusiveness. She would respect it, if she wasn’t so curious herself. Her lips spread into a smile, impish like the pixies Siobhan talked about. Or, at least, so she assumed. “Oh yes, I’m very fortunate to be stuck in this room with you right now where we splish splash around. And what’s this, Dolan? You’re exiled?” Now, she was just going to be mean. “Can’t be that superior, if that’s the case.”

—

“What? Like they’re a child?” Siobhan was particularly offended by the idea of thoughtfulness; her mother was never forgiving towards her sensitivity and Siobhan learned that if anyone wanted to get better at something, it needed to be done with a firm hand. No, Siobhan absolutely wasn’t going to pretend to be scared just to temper the feelings of some untalented poltergeist. “You can scare a freshman by telling them there’ll be a group project. It’s not hard to scare a freshman.” She did it all the time and only occasionally by accident. 

“Shut your gob,” she hissed. She was done. The stalls kept banging and there seemed to be no end to the water rushing out of the burst pipes and Siobhan was done. She thrust the bones back into her pockets and rummaged the cavernous holes for the tiny packets of salt she kept on her; if there was anything that annoyed Siobhan without abandon, it was ghosts. She hated ghosts. “I’m still superior to you, you undead fiend; you abomination of the natural order; you disgusting, abhorrent, attractive, useless speck of wasted space. I am a banshee. I am a fae and I’m going to do something I should have done five minutes ago.” Triumphant, she pulled a fistful of tiny packets from her pocket; white paper jutting out from between her fingers. One slipped out from her grasp and plopped into the rising water, floating to the top where its black label glared at them: “salt” it read, with its own cartoon salt shaker. 

Siobhan’s eyes burst into pure blackness, two pools of ink. She shoved her salt-packet filled fist towards Ingeborg. “Do you want to be useful for once?”

—

“Well yes, a new poltergeist might as well be a child! I don’t expect you to understand, but there’s a learning curve when it comes to scaring. Not your area of expertise, though, so …” Inge shrugged, waving away the rest of her sentence. Siobhan’s comment on freshmen left her with a genuine sound of amusement, though, much to her own dismay. It was funny, but to laugh at something someone who disliked her said, well … it was below her. “And yet it’s so much fun.”

Siobhan kept going on, throwing vitriolic insults that Inge wanted to let slide off her back. She succeeded mostly, but she wasn’t immune to the nagging anger that rose in her as the other went on about her supposed superiority. She looked at the other with an angry gaze, “A banished fae,” she said, as if that would undo all of her arguments. “And oh, you’re so limited if you think the natural order is so boring as not to include us undead! Nightmares are natural, lest you forget, and besides — it’s not as black and white as you might want to think it is.” 

And then the banshee was pulling out salt, and worse, holding it out to her. Inge looked at the packets of salt, glad they were covered in crinkled paper, and looked up at Siobhan. Her eyes were as black as the India ink she used in some of her works, a sight that made her want to move closer to inspect it and grow inspired by it. “No.” She shook her head, curt and determined. “Get that shit away from me. Do what you’ve got to. I’ll watch.” 

—

Scaring wasn’t really Siobhan’s expertise; she had been raised to fit in, draw as little attention as possible, not that she really did that or wanted to do that. In fact, her whole family talked about the importance of plainness and never once practiced it. Anyhow, scaring wasn’t her business; it was a hobby. She didn’t know what suddenly made Ingeborg and authority and then it all clumped into place like a soggy jig-saw puzzle. Undead. Salt-aversion. The sparkle on her skin as she passed a big window on a sunny day, which Siobhan had previously begrudgingly accepted as the strange glow that beautiful people sometimes had. Her insisting that nightmares were natural without any acknowledgement that she wasn’t a nightmare, she was just a thing that could cause them—completely different.

Siobhan laughed, throwing her head up to the swampy ceiling. As she quivered with amusement, a couple more packets of salt fell from her hands and plopped into the water. “You’re so boring,” she said, lowering her gaze back on Ingeborg, “so predictable. How long have you been alive? You haven’t learned any style? Any originality? You’re not even moderately useful to the natural order; at least vampires and zombies clean up. What do you do except run around like a disease?” The black of Siobhan’s pupils burst, plunging her eyes into an inky darkness. The world turned dark and Ingeborg faded into a soft white stain. When she spun around, she found a girl sitting atop the stalls, greasy hair stuck to her bloated blue cheeks and her legs kicked out like she was running an invisible marathon. Siobhan tore open the salt packets and threw them at her. 

The flickering lights stopped, the stalls creaked on their hinges, wobbling with inertia, the faucets squeaked shut, and Siobhan flicked herself around, irises back to brown, scleras back to white. “You’re utterly useless, you know that?”

—

She was boring? Inge let out a similar laugh to the banshee’s, finding the entire statement so ludicrous, so ridiculous — hadn’t Siobhan been proving this entire time that she was small-minded and limited? She couldn’t understand why someone would not find the existence of undead interesting, why someone would think the mere idea of there being people out there who could move from one plane to another boring! She was anything but boring. She refused to be anything but boring. “You’re the boring one,” she retorted once her voice had ceased to bubble with that echoing laugh. Her eyes were wide with indignance. “You know nothing of my style or originality, because all you know to do is narrow your eyes and stare down a tunnel of small-mindedness!” 

She had half a mind to put the banshee to sleep and give her a daydream, show her how original and unboring she could be — but she refrained as there was still that poltergeist to deal with. Besides, when she saw Siobhan’s eyes turn inky black she was enthralled, thinking the woman more beautiful than she had ever appeared before. Inge watched with a begrudging awe, wishing she could appear that way when on the earthly plane but limited so dreadfully in this existence.

Everything ceased, then, and it seemed that the inky black eyes and salt-throwing had done their job. Inge was annoyed that Siobhan had succeeded where she could not, but she tried not to show it by shrugging casually. “I don’t like getting in the way of my ilk,” she said, sparing a look at herself in the mirror. At least her lipstick looked right. “This was very enlightening, Siobhan. We should do it again.”

—

Siobhan’s insides coiled and the beginnings of a scream burned behind her ribs. She didn’t say anything; Ingeborg Endeman had earned the final word and Siobhan was left soggy and clutching mini-satchels of salt. When the professor left, somehow prettier after their ordeal than before it, Siobhan waited and then followed her out, watching her back as she claimed the hallway with her even strides. She wasn’t sure if she wanted Ingeborg to look back and see her and if she did, what would she see? Siobhan didn’t know what sort of face she was making, she’d avoided her own gaze in the stained bathroom mirror as she exited. She clutched the wall and held her breath. Finally, Ingeborg turned and disappeared and finally, Siobhan could breathe. 

Ingeborg Endeman was dead, unbothered, delightfully macabre and timelessly beautiful and Siobhan hated her for it. 

[freyjaofthenorth]

early medieval (late 12th c ce) rune stone with an inscription in latin, anyone?

[obsessioncollector]

I'll find the right phrases, forget the black art of words, for Ivan I shall write in all artlessness, like the country girls back home write to their beloveds, like the queens who write to their chosen ones, without shame. I will petition for a reprieve, like the condemned who will receive no pardon.

Ingeborg Bachmann, Malina, trans. Philip Boehm

[heart-songs]

I am writing with my burned hand about the nature of life.

- Ingeborg Bachman

[herecomesoberon]

Without worry he draped the day around his shoulders, until one day he stood fringed by an aura of radiant light, in whose circle shame was not tolerated, nor the ultimate peace of patience. Those who damn the war are chosen to battle in this light. They scatter the grain on the dead fields of the world, they lie in the firing lines all summer long, they bind the sheaves for us and float away upon the wind.

Ingeborg Bachmann, "A Monologue of Prince Myshkin to the Ballet Pantomime of 'The Idiot'"

[zofiawithaz]

[pm] They need a hug and intensive therapy. There are TWO of them? Wonderful. As if having one skulking about wasn't bad enough.

[user is inactive for several minutes]

[pm] I suppose I thought there was something to come back to.

[pm] Kinda tends to with these fuckers, doesn't it? They reckon that it's their birthright. Do something else with your life, right? ANYTHING ELSE. Anyway, his mother is dead. Good riddance.

I reckon he's gonna be occupied these days with taking care of his brother, but yeah, keep an eye out. This town's fucking stupid. Why'd you come back?

[planet4546b]

I CAN THINK OF NOTHING ELSE BUT THIS MACHINE

the beginner’s guide, 2015/the archive of alternate endings, lindsey drager/jon fosse’s search for peace, the new yorker/house of leaves, mark z. danielewski/model of new babylon, constant nieuwenhuys/ornithopter, richard siken/james watts to lind, 1765/buckminster fuller with his domed city design, 1971/the garden of forking paths, jorge luis borges/the clochán, david malloy/base of the christ steeple under construction, la sagrada familia, 2009/matilda bernstein sycamore on writing on your own terms, lithub/daily bread, ocean vuong/the rose, jay defeo/the beginners guide, 2015/how to build a table/duel with cudgels, francisco goya/solaris, stanislaw lem/into thin air, jon krakauer/dicken’s dream, robert william buss/magic show, paige lewis/the machine, lemon demon/house of leaves, mark z. danielewski/la pensée, rodin/the old catcher considers the failing of his knees, devin kelly/leaving port, ingeborg bachmann tr. mark anderson/the painting that includes all paintings, richard siken/the beginner’s guide, 2015/high to death, car seat headrest/the clochán, david malloy

[tri-ciclo]

“I am writing with my burnt hand about the nature of fire.” ― Ingeborg Bachmann

[normalbrothers]

i don't read literature for any other intellectual pursuits than locating little blorboisms in the writing. sorry for doing that to ingeborg bachmann tho

[virtuouslibertines69]

"Everything I’m doing is an undoing, the deeds themselves are just misdeeds in the end." - Ingeborg Bachmann, from Three Paths to the Lake; “Eyes to Wonder”

'Katharsis' by David Schermann

[cafeleningrad]

Ok by all means the movie "Eden" doesn't seem to be supported by a lot of PR, neither is it met with a lot of public anticipation despite starring both Jude Law and Daniel Brühl, but I've my five cents about it.

For one, the trailer looks badly cut. Second, for being set in the Gallapagos island area, Hollywood slapped their default Middle Americas-piss-yellow-filter over the gorgeous scenery. Third, this movie is failing from the get go. The real life story this is based on isn't a tragedy but autoirony of Germans germaning out in the most German way to ever German.

Alright, anyone remotely familiar with the immigration history of the Americas knows how Germans projecting their fantasy of "living with untouched nature" and spreading their territory-claim towels before anyone can end the count on three is a very German thing.

Except, emmmigrant Germans complaining how suffocated they feel in Germany act, ironically, in the most German ways possible.

The casting decided to cast almost entirely blonde people because they were Germans, except for Spanish-German actor Daniel Brühl...

So, the first emmigrant to Floreana island was Dr. Ritter who was into anthroposophy/reformhaus stuff. So he brought along his lover (whereas he was still legally married) who had MS. But Ritter claimed the good air and contact in nature would be cure enough.

As you can imagine, his lover, Dore Strauch, with MS in a previously uninhabited island, was doing all the actual sustanance work whereas he was writing a newletter for German papers how perfect and idyllic his "Eden" was.

Queue the Wittmer family who also believed their chronically ill son would be curec by contact with nature after reading Ritters newsletters.

Ok, this is something audiences who haven't been to Germany before wouldn't know but Ritter and Strauch were both from Berlin, the Wittmer family was from Cologne. Meaning, these are massive clashes of temperament. The gruff, Prussian-minded Berlin couple vs. the Rhineland jovial nature who mastered the art of understating bad situations.

Interviews of Margarete Wittmer still exist on the web, where she speaks pure Colonia Plaat mixed with Spanish terms in brutally German pronounciation. It's a shame they all speak English in the movie because Daniel Brühl would nail the linguistic hillarity.

The family also brought along their German Shepheard named Lumpi.

What then ensues is so funny: I mean yeah, sure living on a previously uninhabited island wasn't a stroll in the park, the families lived one hour by foot apart and still they managed to have very German neighbourhood disputes of envying the other's garden, their house, their ordering system etc. No I'm not joking these were they biggest gripes with each other.

Oh by the way, Margaret Wittmer gave birth to two childrne on this island, kinda disenchanting the idea of "natural birth". I desperately want to see the regular Hollywood scene in which Sydney Sweeney justpressed out a baby out of her body, craddling it with tears in her eyes but a smile on her lips, cooing it's name: "Rolf...", most adoring expression in her eyes.

By the way the second daughter was called Ingeborg Floreana. On the other hand a Guatemalan friend said that he was in awe of the name Ortrud, and uh many Ingrids were born in 80s Argentina, so I guess this sort of hysterical naming convention joke is lost in LatAm.

So, anyway the third party to the island was a scammer Dominatrix and her two lovers.

So a lot of property issues ensue, and how did everyone solve these quarrels? As good Germans theywroter strongly worded letters, and filed complaints to the Ecuadorian government.

Who on earth fought the fights and struggles of Floreana was a drama when this is just your regular German neighbourhood dispute in a tropical setting.

[majestativa]

Your blog is a treasure. Can you recommend your all-time favorite poets or collections?

Some poetry tends to get a bad wrap, but the quotes you share are typically soul-stirring. What separates the heights from the so-so to you? Authenticity? Imagery?

Thank you endlessly, love.

When I imagine a life without poetry, I suffocate. I choose to live this way, surrounding myself with the finest written words so as to momentarily forget this wastelandish state of existence or deeply ponder on the nature of human sensibility.

I only select what electrifies my soul. I need meaning to “function,” so I dig for it in places that are often unknown & less exposed.

Here are 20 distinguished ladies & gentlemen that helped me grow as a human being:

Juana de Ibarbourou: Umbral. One of my favorite muses along with Dora Maar & Kiki de Montparnasse. Her cursed sensuality, her aura, her platinum bones, her sorcerous wounds; everything about her is regal.

Florbela Espanca: My beloved. A masterpiece of a woman.

Nazik Al-Malaika: I stumbled upon her verses when I was a child. I fell in love with her name. Nazik means ‘delicate’ whereas Al Malaika refers to ‘Angels.’ We crossed paths several years later, and by inhaling her mourning, I was reborn full of light.

Edith Södergran: Who can paint the face of tragedy and starvation with blooming roses and glittering blood but a dreamy Cinderella who carries Medusa’s heart?

Forough Farrokhzad: Reading her is like being caressed by God. Her audacity to live is contagious.

Joyce Mansour: Half a sorceress, half a banshee. Behind her volcanic writings hides an eternally wounded child.

Hilda Hilszt: She x-rays people’s souls with the dexterity of a madwoman.

Ingeborg Bachmann: An angel with rough femininity, caught in the storm of Celan’s roses.

Gioconda Belli: When eroticism meets refinement. A soft Lilith; a fierce Eve.

Anna Akhmatova: “Gabriel or Mephistopheles? The Demon himself with Tamara’s smile.” Writing is indeed prophetic. She’s at once Tamara, Gabriel & Mephistopheles.

~

Hafez of Shiraz: The man who introduced me to mysticism. One of my personal archangels of poetry.

Rainer Maria Rilke: When genius meets simplicity. Eros incarnate.

Vladimir Mayakovsky: He’s the twin-soul of my soul. Discovering him in 2012 was the best thing that happened to me that year.

Arseny Tarkovsky: We both burn at the feast and still don’t know why we broke ourselves.

Henri Barbusse: He made me weep when I least expected it.

Maurice Rollinat: My eternally haunted dark Romantic. (If Poe & Baudelaire had a wild child.)

Rubén Dario: A majestic regal encyclopedic entity. He's surreal. ♥

Vicente Aleixandre: His book “Longing for the Light” was a revelation to me.

Edmond Jabès: An equally tormented complex soul. A magician of words.

Yone Noguchi: “Oh Lord, is it the reflection of my heart on fire? Is it, my Lord, the rain carrying tragedy from the Heavens?” What else can I say? ♥

Honorable mentions: Simin Behbahani, Liliana Ursu, Joumana Haddad, Georgina Herrera, Valzhyna Mort, Olga Broumas, Francesca Lia Block, Guadalupe Amor, Charles Baudelaire, Fernando Pessoa, Badr Shakir al-Sayyab, Mihai Eminescu, Miguel Hernandez, Sohrab Sepehri, Novalis, Augusto dos Anjos, Friedrich Hölderlin, César Vallejo, Sully Prudhomme & the entire Surrealist gang.

Concerning my poetry books’ recommendations, I’d like to know your themes of interest. I’ll pick them accordingly.

Much love. ♥

[reydeyflummyx759z]

Grant's Hell (Parts 1/??)

Based on an anon's prompt about Liz going to Grant's Farm for a campaign.

Good Lord, this was fun to write. With the prompt "Barnyard". Female | Allergy | SwH

The sun had barely peeked over the horizon on this dreary Monday, yet the commotion in the limousine was already reaching a crescendo. The mayor of Extremire, a town known for its peculiarities, had lost any semblance of calm she might have had to start the week. Her usually vibrant amethyst eyes, which sparkled with a mischievous glint, now bore the telltale signs of an allergic assault, reddened and surrounded by dark circles that suggested she'd had a rougher night than even the most seasoned party-goer. It was as if she had been crying rivers of sneezes.

"Hehh... RADZCCCCHHH'HIIU! HRRREZCHHHH'iiuu! HAAAAAADZCHHHHH-SHHUEE!" The mayor's sneezes were explosive, ricocheting off the plush velvet interiors of the limo like a barrage of artillery fire.

The atmosphere inside the luxurious vehicle was a tumultuous blend of irritation and discomfort as the entourage approached the Grantwood area, their destination for the day's hospitality campaign. It was an event that had been meticulously planned to showcase the town's welcoming spirit, but the mayor's hay fever had turned the morning into a veritable battleground.

Ingeborg, her scatterbrained assistant, had the audacity to smile through the symphony of sneezes. "What a delightful day we're having!" she exclaimed with forced cheerfulness as they navigated the bustling streets of St. Louis. The contrast between her chipper disposition and the mayor's distress was starker than the starkest of skies.

"It's a lovely day for allergies," the mayor murmured sourly, her voice muffled by the tissue she held to her nose, her eyes watering so much they looked like they could flood the Mississippi. She shot a glare at Ingeborg that could have cut through steel, yet the assistant remained blissfully oblivious. "Very fucking lovely." She added as she blew her nose loudly.

Even Auguste, a man of poise and refinement, couldn't escape the wrath of the farm-laden air. He let out a trio of sneezes, each one more acerbic than the last. "Hih'Kschiu! Hdd'KSCHH'iiu! Hdd'IzzzcHH'iiu!" He tried to be courteous, using his monogrammed handkerchief to stifle the sound, but the effort was futile.

"Gesundheit to the both of you," offered Caiaphas, the ever-composed dark-skinned android, his eyes never leaving the screens that monitored their progress. Despite his synthetic nature, even he found it difficult to ignore the human-like suffering of his companions.

The mayor's retort was cut short by another monstrous sneeze. "Fuck, I can't... ugh... RADZCHHH'IUU!" Her frustration was palpable, the sneeze resonating through the confines of the limo like a gale-force wind. "Not my fault, I... uhh..." Liz tried retorting, all to no avail, sneezing up another storm. "Oh... shi--iH!! HERASDZCCCHHH'oooh! HRRRADZCHHH'ooouh!! Huhhh.... HRRREDZCHH'Iiiiuu! huhhh... HRRRRESHHHihhh! HRRddzchhh-IUUU!! Ahhh'EDZCHHHiuuu!!"

"Liz, can you at least try to keep it down?" One of the council members pleaded, their voice tight with annoyance.

"I'm... I'm trying!" Liz protested, her voice thick with the struggle to contain the sneezes. "I... HEH!!! HERRRADZCHH'IUU!! I can't, hehhh--HEDZCHHH'iu! Help it."

"Every sneeze sounds like a tornado!" Ingeborg exclaimed, her voice high and shrill as she flinched with each explosive exhalation. "Are we going to blow away?"

Of course, fuck luck. Liz had to resist ejecting Ingeborg with her biomechanical arm, which promised the strength of an 18-wheeler. Try as she might, the almighty Madame Mayor never sneezed just once...

"EADZCHHHHih! HRRADZCHHH-SHUE!! Herrr'UDZCHHHH-SCHHHUUU! HEDZCHHHH-UUU!!" Each sneeze in the limousine felt like nuclear bombs going off in a closed space.

"Mon Dieu, can't you sneeze any quieter?!" Auguste growled, rubbing at his own nose, "Gods, you'll blow out my eardrums at this rate!!"

"Everyone will need disability after we reach the plains." Councilman Roarke grumbled, his voice a baritone whimper. "We'll all have hearing aids."

The tension grew thicker than the pollen outside until finally, the limousine pulled up to the gates of Grant's Farm. The council members collectively braced themselves for the impending assault on their olfactory systems.

"YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION." The GPS's automated voice filled the cabin, accompanied by a trio of cheery dings that seemed to mock their plight.

"Thank goodness," Caiaphas murmured, visibly relieved.

"God is good; thank you, Jesus," another councilwoman added with a heartfelt sigh.

The mayor, however, was far from placated. "You do realize I hired you all for a reason, right?" she snapped, her voice a mix of pain and annoyance. "I can't just sit here and..." Another sneeze rocked the limo. "Hehh... ARRR'EDZCHHHHiuu!"

"And what might that reason be?" Auguste shot back, his exasperation clear in his emerald green eyes. "To give us all tinnitus?"

"I wasn't planning on... HAHHH'EZZCHHHH'IU!" Liz's sneeze was a sonic boom. "I wasn't planning on ihh'HH-RRRDZCHHH'iu! RDZCHHH'UU! EDZCHHHH-iuu!"

"By God, you're louder than my father on apple season." Auguste winced, earning another glare from Liz.

The group looked around, the silence as heavy as the scent of disinfectant that would soon permeate the vehicle.

"Is this... a fucking... joke?" Liz managed to say, her voice tight with both nasal congestion and irritation.

Ingeborg fidgeted with her phone, her eyes darting around the screen. "N... no?" she ventured, her voice small and trembling. "We're supposed to film the campaign here. This is Grant's Farm, right?"

The silence that enveloped them was as thick as the fog of sneeze particles.

Auguste, ever the realist, broke it with a resigned groan. "Get ready for Hell." The group walked over to the parking lot, the destination punctuated by Liz's powerful sneezes.

Once the group entered Grant's Farm, a group of children clearly on a field trip recognized Liz. "Look, it's the mayor!"

The teacher of the group, a black, rotund man with balding hair, apologized for the trouble. "Forgive the kids, Miss. The kids just had lunch." He extended his hand for a handshake.

Liz shook the man's sweaty hand, immediately regretting that she did so in the first place. "No worries, sir. I understand." Liz smiled, even when her nose itched like a thousand ants. It itched so much that it almost burned to the touch. It certainly didn't help that he wore an overpowering cologne, the kind that even Auguste wouldn't touch with a 30-foot pole.

Thankfully, the kids looked like middle schoolers who were in dire need of someone to talk to. One of the kids exclaimed, "We have that assignment, remember?"

God... What assignment?

"Okay, okay," The teacher relented, "I know you have an assignment due tomorrow on important figures. I ask that only six of you ask the mayor a question."

"Yo, Miss Mayor! What do you like about St. Louis?!"

"Miss Mayor, are you married?"

"Do you agree that Spaulding can suck dick?!"

At the third question, Liz would've blurted out her grievances if she could. That kid deserved a golden medal. Nevertheless, the teacher declared order. "One at a time, now. Or you won't get to watch a movie tomorrow."

Then, Auguste had an idea. He knew Liz was a second away from exploding from hay fever. "Actually, Madame Mayor was just leaving. If you prefer, we can answer questions on her behalf."

At that point, annoying as he was, Liz knew he was a lifesaver. She would've hugged and kissed him right there. Ingeborg took pictures of Liz waving to the children while the teacher answered. "Madame Mayor is heading off to do other things. If you want an autograph or a picture with her, raise your hand."

Thankfully, it was going to be a group picture. One and done. Of course when Ingeborg took out her camera, the itch in Liz's nose turned into a drip-fed torture session. The eight council members and Liz gathered together for a group photo with the teacher's class.

Hurry up, Inge... Hurry the Hell up...

"Okay, 1, 2..." The brown-haired, spectacled woman took a beautiful photo. Apparently, it was entirely possible not to look like a walking nightmare during peak allergy season near the entrance of Grant's Farm. Even worse, right after the picture, Liz knew that picture was one of many times that she screwed up.

"Thank you, kindly, Mr..."

"Langston Everwood." Of course, he had to have some jazzy name only a true St. Louis native would remember. Come to find out, Mr. Everwood was a social studies teacher for Gateway Middle School.

"Yes, a pleasure to speak with you, Mr. Everwood." Liz's pearly whites beamed at the shorter man. Perhaps wearing heeled shoes was a mistake! She could already feel imaginary calluses at her feet. "Let's go. NOW." Liz whispered into Ingeborg's ear.

At that point, Auguste volunteered to escort Liz further down the entrance, where allergies were going to rear their ugly heads.

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

And that is just Part 1...

Ooh boy.