anitagaribaldi​:

open to everyone !

     The attic of the bed and breakfast was so damp, so lurid, so cluttered, that one wouldn’t think that Alice, nor Gertrude, had taken the time to sort through more than eighty years of things. Such an assumption was, more or less, correct.

     Dusty, wooden crates sat stacked on top of each other, comingled with yellowed pages stuffed into overcrowded bookshelves, and racks upon racks of summer blouses and winter fur coats. Anita’s boots stepped between discarded rolls of fabric, and the plywood floor glowed with a disturbed party, peppered with loud chatter and the skipping needle of the parlor’s record player. Although she was alone, footsteps echoing against dark walls, Anita hooked a finger under the collar of her blouse, tugging. She was a woman with a strong stomach–one couldn’t slice through internal organs being squeamish–but she couldn’t help but feel as if the walls were closing in upon her, ever since her unpleasantly cold fingers had tugged on a frozen lock.

     The idea of being trapped in Gertrude Stein’s tea party was unpleasant enough, that Anita had taken to rummaging through crates, not in possession of the usual cleaver, hammer, even the butt of sword or shotgun. Reaching into a spider’s web, Anita wrapped her hand around the frosty, dull end of a crowbar.

     A wave of relief washed over her as she shoved the sharp end of the tool into the window frame, the wood aching and splintering under the force of Anita’s upper arm strength. The window remained, frustratingly, in tact, despite it’s perturbed groans.

     Head growing hot, Anita hitched up a leg, adding her boot to her efforts. With a sharp crack, the crowbar flew from the window, flying back into a flimsy wall and knocking down a barrage of old books and patched trousers.

   x

 “If you aspire to break through the window, I regret to inform you the struggle is fruitless - how far, do you believe you would get, in shoes like those?” He sighed in watching - he’d first sighed to himself, quietly, before breaking into language. John believed it some sense of duty to speak words of mediation, to offer his company as a semblance of solace. To spare her embarrassment of being caught in such a state, was impossible; but he leaned down to offer her his steady hand, his countenance softened by her state of evident distress. “I wish no more than you, to be kept prisoner at this dreadful tea party - Abigail, my books, are far better company. But it would displease me greatly, to see you injured in the pursuit of a futile escape. Come, may I not offer you a cup of tea, gentile conversation? We must grin and bear the night - come morning, attempts to sweep through the deluge, may be made.” He could only attempt to mitigate the most urgent symptoms of claustrophobia, having no current solution to their pressing sate. The night was excessively dark, still raging wild and wet; surely, the work of the heavens. 

abigciladams​:

     there were few locations in area in which she frequented as the lion’s share of her leisure time was spent within the walls of the quaint home she shared with john sharing soft words, and tender touches. routinely one may find abigail amongst the shelves of héloïse’s library. today was no different. finger tips drumming mindlessly on the base of the books clutched in her hands, lightly filling up the stillness within the halls as her eyes scanned the spines before her. it was as time did not exist to the woman, contented to complete her job as surrounding herself with written words felt natural. time marked only by its start, finish, and the visits from her husband that she welcomed with open arms. in fact they had become expected, a break she came to find herself counting down the moments to on some occasions.

     warm rays shone through the cracks in the curtains, a golden hue washing through the aisle she had found herself in. elbow resting on the sturdy accumulation of titles awaiting return to their home, hands reaching before her to slide volume after volume back into their prior position, humming contently as she worked. the rich voice belonging to the man with whom she had long loved roused her from the reverie she had been envisioning, eyes shining as they met john’s. ‘ you wish to aid me in my labor ? you have not come to deter my from my duties with that devilish grin and celestial words of yours ? ’ the questions rhetorical in nature of course, this song and dance was anything but new between the pair of them, eyes rolling with a peek of a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.  john’s mere presence was enough to draw all of her attention, love and admiration bubbling up in her chest. ‘ you need not convince me, maupassant’s words will certainly be sufficient tonight. ’ a hand reaching up, fingers brushing a strand of hair back into place as she continued, ‘ one mustn’t be immodest my love, though that question may be one for the ages. what is it that you believe ? ’

     His natural place seemed by Abigail’s side; his eyes and ears were wholly dedicated to her. John addressed her softly, though his words were honeyed by coyness, and teasing. “Devilish grin? You have fumbled the word handsome, but I shall forgive the offensive - celestial words I shall grant you, though I am a humble servant. Have I ever led you away from civic duty?” In Abigail’s presence, John always saw fit to assume a bantering air - expressions of light and refined emotions, shone in his dark eyes. The colouring of romance did well upon his visage, which was softened invariably, when alongside his bride. The temperamental  and vexing aspects of John Adams were smoothed by her influence - he rose in both intellectual refinements, and improved his virtue, for Abigail’s favour. Kind subjects of conversation always grew between them - he only wished to communicate the good between them, after a lifetime of unsteady eras. 

   Bright too, was the destiny of his sweet wife upon entering Purgatory. Abigail kept his love, she aided in his progress and her own - on his happiness, she was the foundation, cornerstone, and continuous architect. John indulged himself in the gratification of pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, before adding a dozen more; his eyes, always expressive in the delegation of tenderness, luminously and smilingly avowed his delight. “You humour me, and rouse my suspicions. If you seek to slide Fitzgerald or his cohorts beneath my nose in a week or two, I shall be convinced you merely placated me.” She was forever the more agreeable of the pair; but a woman as luminous and well-read as Abigail, could not wholly be trusted. John indulged himself, whispering “I believe you be brought to your knees by my sweet temper and celestial words, my love. Do you deny it? I half pray that you do, so I may display my sweeping prowess.” 

@abigciladams​

       Rid of the cretins who haunted his office, he was free to venture to Héloïse’s library - the peak of John’s day, lay in his merry reunion with Abigail. In this profession he had adopted, his success was quite cemented; but no tantamount case, nor bustling lawsuit, compared to domestic pleasures. Striding across town, John neared a skip in his step - not that he would ever fall into such squeamish displays.  He felt the autumn sun beating down upon his back - it was soon to relinquish the sky, to harvest moons, as the cloak of dusk fell over their little town. The gold and ruddy orange moons were soon to rise, sitting astride blue horizons, peaking above mountain lines. There was no answer to the question of where they dwelled, or why; but as John regarded the sky, he decided to be content with its beauty regardless. 

   Upon entering the library, John tore through aisles and lingered in stacks, perishing for her good word - but thrilled, by the anticipation of seeking her out. Abigail knew of his coming, it being a daily ritual, and surely thought to greater antagonise him, by tucking herself into backrooms. At last, she was known to him, perched beside a stack of books; diligently, rehoming golden spines. “Do you wish for a stool, little friend? A terrible rascal, that top-shelf; so unkind of it to mock you, like this.” Love could shine no clearer, through his dark eyes as he delivered his warm accost, resting his hands around her waist. John had no intentions of aiding her work - rather, he would be a nuisance, deterring her with kisses and warm words. Abigail had a type of spirit which forever empowered to give constant strength and comfort. She would gladden delight and embalm darkness, which sought to settle upon John’s moods; she was utterly, the very best of his humanity. And surely, she would smack his full force, with the copy of Dante beside her. “What book shall we bring to our bed, tonight? I favour Maupassant- but I will suffice, for Colette. The library looks so well on you; your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes bright. Unless of course, it is my presence which has such a tantalising, swooning, effect on you.” 

sphinxfm​:

greta   hadn’t   exactly   fled   the   theater   once   her   latest   play   had   ended,   but   it   was   close   enough   –   she   had   barely   gotten   notes   from   the   director   before   she   was   moving,   slipping   out   of   her   costume   &   wiping   her   makeup   from   her   face.   acting   with   a   live   audience   put   her   in   an   odd   headspace,   sometimes,   made   it   hard   to   find   her   way   out   of   the   character,   hard   to   find   her   way   back   into   herself,   to   settle   back   in   to   those   world   weary   bones.   (   of   course,   one   could   make   the   argument   that   she   was   always   playing   a   character,   but   she   had   too   much   on   her   mind   already   to   ponder   that   now.   )   home,   she   knew,   would   help,   perhaps   curling   up   in   front   of   a   fire.   yes,   that   would   do   nicely.

she   slipped   out   of   a   discreet   back   door,   rarely   frequented   by   anyone   other   than   herself.   so   rarely,   in   fact,   that   she   almost   ran   right   into   the   unexpected   presence   standing   in   the   alleyway,   barely   stopping   herself   in   time.   “oh   !   ”   she   said,   &   any   other   night   she   would   sound   annoyed   or   apologetic   or   surprised,   depending   on   her   mood,   but   this   time   she   simply   sounded   tired.   “i’m   sorry,   i   didn’t   see   you   there.”   she   sidestepped   them,   vaguely   managing   to   resist   the   instinct   to   walk   away   without   another   nicety.

open   to   all   !!

   The play being over, John had need to dwell in the hall, crowded with simpering patrons and beaming lights. He detested the frenzied stir and commotion, which accompanied the climax of a performance; to enjoy art and to do it quietly, was a habit far under appreciated. He broke through long clouds of gentlemen, and ladies, his dark cloak a contrast to their rainbow hues. A back alley offered reprieve from the fuss he derided so heavily - in the midst of annoyance and prejudice, John was removed from his surroundings, and collided suddenly with another body. In a throng of calmer faces, Gabro’s would always stand alone - having just commanded the stage, she was unmissable. “I shall concede, that I am equally to blame for our collision- let us mark it a happy coincidence, then, that our paths have crossed.” 

    Abigail had been otherwise detained, and he had found refuge in conjuring her figure beside him; replicating the pleasure and comfort, her genial presence brought him. John did not believe his visage to be a smooth one, of warmth and amiable feelings - but he offered a smile, all the same. “Do you flee your ravenous admirers? I am no fanatic, though I find myself equally enthralled by your work. Unless you have made plans to take up residency in this alley, perhaps we may celebrate the night’s glamour, with a drink.”

alfrcddouglas​:

Starter for: anyone

Setting: Office of the (still to be titled) Purgatory newspaper

“By god, please tell me you have something interesting to say.” Bosie’s ears had figuratively perked up from the moment the bell of his office door at rung, announcing the entrance of one of the town’s residents. They might have been just coming to pick up the latest issue, but he could never resist a hope of something worth printing for once. “I would rather die a second death than be forced to print another story about what’s happening at the library, or a horse throwing its shoe.” Smoke from his cigarette wafting around him, Douglas looked up from where he sat at his desk, adding as an after thought: “Or if you have a complaint, you can take it to the law office across the street.”

   “Interesting? You are British - I believe said bar, to be incredibly low.” Douglas had few faculities which recommended himself to Adams, being neither perceptive to others sentiments nor interested, in designs not his own. And he was British, horridly so.  John’’s nose contorted as he glowered upon Douglas. In the man’s countenance, there was a teeming plentitude of smug comment, checked only by a lack of subject, with which to rain down upon. “If any soul here is to be well-accompanied with legal pursuits, I am sure it to be you. You’ll be glad to know however, your name is only mentioned in hypothetical suits.” John did not possess a great deal of benevolence, even as he stood in the office, heavy with clouds of smoke, to appeal to Douglas. “I have interest in printing an article, however - may I pray, you find the subject permissible. An exposé, of sorts.”

katherinethequene​:

catherine  had  been  a  formidable  foe,  none  could  deny  the  fact,  not  even  those  who  sought  to  undo  her.  she  had  fought  with  nail  and  teeth  to  hold  onto  she  believed  was  hers,  and  for  her  daughter’s  future,  until  all  strength  escaped  her  —  yet  here,  she  was  but  a  woman,  with  mundane  concerns.  too  mundane,  at  times,  she  would  muse  as  she  glared  at  the  book  on  the  shelf  in  a  distance  too  great  for  her  diminute  form  be  able  to  breach  it,  especially  not  when  she  already  carried  at  least  three  more  volumes  in  her  arms  ( she  should  not  take  inspiration  from  heloise  on  this  one  matter,  she  knew  it  so,  yet  she  was  nothing  if  not  stubborn  and,  this  time,  she  had  grasped  too  high ).  

just  as  she  began  to  considering  if  she  should  put  these  down  on  the  floor  ( struggling  with  a  shudder  in  horror ),  a  shadow  between  shelves  causes  the  former  queen  to  perk  up,  the  soft  spanish  in  her  voice  rising  in  tone  as  she  calls  out  for  the  newcomer  to  this  distant  section.   ❝ excuse  me, ❞  she  swallows  the  stern  questioning  over  the  possible  permission  or  reasoning  one  would  roam  around  these  halls  hoping  she  would  warrant  solicitous  behavior  from  the  other.   ❝ would  you  happen  to  see  the  stairs  on  your  path  here ?  it  seems  the  one  from  this  section  has  been  misplaced  somewhere. ❞

     His first business was to establish his reign in the chess tournament, housed in a back office of the library; John spared no niceties nor minced his ego, as he collected another weeks victory. Set upon the stacks with renewed confidence, he sought a new set of novels to consume - he would not be bested by Abigail, on their weekly tally of who had read the greatest number of books. A man of words in life and a gatekeeper of their power in death, John was his very best, amiable and good, when in Héloïse’s domain. Turning into a new aisle, he alighted upon a small figure, visible beneath the glowing lamplights. Catherine - the summation of his fervent opponents in life, stood before a dizzying array of books. She had been marked a scorned, pitiful figure during his tenure on earth; he found the description utterly deceptive and poorly founded. In death, John took great measure of her power, and agency imbued by sheer will. He raised his eyes to the shelf, which towered above her minute frame, and hastened his step, so that they would be shoulder to shoulder. “What a terrible crime against those of smaller statures - I have not set eyes on a stool or ladder of sorts, but I fashion my arms strong enough to lift a book. Which title, do you seek?” It was always a curious affair, to observe and remark the texts another perilous soul sought; John was so often, guilty of consuming those dedicated to his own time on earth. “

♡ HARK —— ! yet another has risen in Purgatory ! the curve of [ HIS ] face likens them to [ MARWAN KENZARI ], but don’t be fooled — there is only one [ JOHN ADAMS ]. upon arrival, they settled in as a [ LAWYER ], and have since aligned to the [ VIRTUES ]. it’s written that they’re [ ASTUTE & DETERMINED & COMPASSIONATE], but whispered that they’re [ PROUD & HOT-HEADED& STUBBORN ], so tread lightly. may their heart remain whole. [ suki, she/her, 22, gmt +1 ]

a bit late eep but nevertheless ! 

keeping adams entirely canon (with an obvious change skskss) so general history, involvement in the revolution, all remain the same 

john’s partnership with his wife, remains one of his main pillars in death (so it was in life) and their relationship, his most shining accomplishment

he’s embittered slightly by the demise of his presidency, but self-satisfied in the favourable adams legacy; if jefferson ever showed up though, he’d still fight on sight

in purgatory, adams strives for something; there’s no war to be won, no nation to be built - he struggles with a lack of purpose, but tries to invest himself into his profession

if you want to sue, defend yourself, raise some hell, adams considers himself the best lawyer in town - thank you, very much. 

articulate and well-mannered, adams is an agreeable man; but he’s stubborn, slightly impatient and bullish, and he hates to ever be wrong 

lives merrily with his abigail, and the quiet hours they spend together, reading or pouring over texts that cement their legacy, make him happiest

eager for friends, companions of any sort, rivals, clients, etc !