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#d as hell. im living with my grandmother and father and they make me feel like SHIIIIIIT. not worse than my mom did yet but shes partly why
sterekficrec · 3 years
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Lost fic masterpost 2.0
This is the new masterpost list for lost fics we haven't found ourselves yet and we need some help with finding. This list contains all asks that are asked after May 31st, 2018. If you asked us something before that date and it hasn't been answered, please check out our Last Chance Asks post first, if it isn't on there feel free to send us the ask again.
If you know what one (or more) of these are then let me know through an ask and mention the number.
Thanks in advance for all your help :)
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1.
Hii! I'm looking for this fic I read a while ago, it was on ao3 and kind of short I think.. Stiles catches Derek smoking weed naked, and it involves shotguning.. I remember it had embeded images of shirtless Derek(or some model who looks like Derek more likely) sitting on the floor by the bed.. Hope somebody knows this, I really want to find this :'(
2.
Hi! I don’t know if you can help with this but I’ve been looking for a fic everywhere. Stiles is older than Derek and Talia brings him in to help Derek through his rut or heat. I can’t remember much else. I hope you can help!
3.
Hey, I was wondering if you could help me find a fic where stiles thinks Derek doesn't find him attractive Derek doesn't get hard, and Derek thinks that stiles doesn't want him because of this and there's just hella miscommunication?
4.
Hey I was hoping maybe you could help me find a fic? All I remember was that is was like a retelling of season one but Stiles was older and an FBI agent?
6.
Hey there! I wanted to ask about a fic I read some time ago. It’s sort of au. Stiles doesn’t live in Beacon Hills anymore but helps out Deacon and him and Derek meet when he helps out Dereks pack with something. He’s a witch or something like that. I’m sorry for being so vague and in one of the cases Derek gets possessed by a demon, who kills people by dehydrating them. And Stiles gets the demon out of him. Have you guys recced anything like it? I really want to read it again. Thanks :)
7.
Hey!!!! So I was wondering if you could help me find this sterek fic?? They are married and they have a few kids I think mpreg. It has a lot of chapters and in one of them their daughter I think her name may start with an l goes to a dance with a vampire, Derek isn’t so sure ab it. And one time stiles has to go on a trip for work or maybe a retreat with Scott and Derek has to console there few month old, as he hasn’t been away from stiles. Please please!!
8.
I was wondering if you’d be able to help me find a fic? Derek and Stiles are on a date and they have Cora with them. When they’re buying tickets, the person at the ticket counter flirts with Derek and assumes he’s chaperoning a date between Cora and Stiles. I think Stiles yells oh hell no and then kisses Derek?? I wish I could remember more, but that’s all I recall..
9.
I've been looking for a certain nsfw fic where someone "gives" Stiles to Derek as a birthday present, I'm pretty sure Stiles is tied up in a hotel bed or something like that. Thank you so much in advance 💖
10.
Hello! I read a fic once and I cannot find it again and I would really like to reread it. Of what I remember the sheriff is an alpha and dies and Stiles has to take over and the sheriff left a lot of debt. So Stiles starts to sell off chunks of land and works a ton of jobs to try to pay it back.
11.
Hey, I’m looking for a fic where Stiles is a spark, but he’s hella freaking powerful because when his mom died he kind of tried to bring her back, but it latched onto his baseball bat? I think Lydia is actually the alpha of the pack, and Laura and Cora are alive (I think the rest of the Hales are too?). Derek was like, literally married to Kate for a while and then they divorce and Stiles and him break into her house and totally trash it. Help????
12.
I was wondering i you could help me find a fic (i'm desperate), the only thing i can remember is that derek keeps a 20 dollar bill by his door in case any girl scouts come by, but they never come because the moms think he's some kind og bad guy. Stiles meets a girl scout mom and konda confront her about it (and by confront i mean like really yell at) i think it might have been a slowburn fic Thank you:)
13.
I've been looking desperately for this fic where Stiles gets Emissary/Druid training from Deaton but eventually Deaton refuses to teach Stiles anymore so Stiles leaves Beacon Hills in search of another teacher he leave sometime before the alpha pack he finds a teacher and travels a lot but eventually returns Beacon Hills after a few years very powerful helps them defeat somthing and eventually hooks up with Derek.
14.
Hi please if u could help me this sterek fic? Both derek and stiles were deputies . Derek was new there and parrish like stiles which made Der jealous . I dont remember much but help ..
15.
Hey I was hoping you could help me find a fic? It's been a while since I've read it, but I know it was based around the sacfricial killings, but they were being used to resurrect some people I think? It was magic!Stiles, and at the end he kinda changed the spell to resurrect the Hale family instead? Sorry I can't remember much else, but I know I really enjoyed it and I can't find it at all. It would mean a lot if you found it!
16.
Hello. Love this blog helping find fics for other people some of which I’ve read and loved. I’d love if you could help me find a fix where stiles, Jackson, Erika, issac and Boyd are selected to be seventh to the hale family. Mr. Harris is the servant and the living family is Cora Derek Laura Peter and the grandmother. Stiles of course is Derek’s servant and finds the truth out about his forgotten pass and what he is to Derek’s. Changing him Erika and issac into werewolf’s. Hope you can find!!
17.
Hello! I was wondering of you could help me find a fic. From what I remember, Derek comes home (from college I think) for the first time in years, and finds that his family loves Stiles, who he has never met. They hate each other in the beginning. Thank you for any help you can give, and thank you for all you do for this amazing fandom! :D
18.
hi!im looking for a sterek fic that has stiles staying in beacon hills as a supernatural doctor? and then he gets an email from derek that says that derek is hurt. stiles also has a bunch of journals full of information about the pack. and them stiles has a really bad leg injury. and the sheriff is dead. stiles listens to either mozart or bach to calm down, i can’t remember. please, help me. sorry if my descriptions are a little messy, im stressing over it bc i want to reread it. thanks.
19.
i’m trying to find a fic where the pack accidentally wishes on a shooting star about stiles, and they wake up in this alternate universe where stiles doesn’t know who they are and he’s being brought in by deputies, && they find out that stiles is a mage of some sort in another pack, i’ve been trying to find it forever. also thank you!
20.
For the prompt you asked: what about Stiles going crazy trying to plan the perfect Christmas party with the pack but everyone has a different religion or belief and Stiles is squishing a little of everything in there, the party wont even be on Christmas eve but in a different neutral date or smthng. And obviously since most of the pack is still busy with school(or college?)he ropes Derek into helping with preparations. Obviously they end up making a big mess out of everything. they also fight a lot untill Derek snaps and Stiles realizes that Derek's only problem with Christmas is he misses his family so much(and the only reason Stiles wants to party it's bc it makes him remember his mother)And the pack arrives at the new Hale house to find them like that, depressed and with a burnt out dinner in the kitchen, ligths popped and tree destroyed. And it magicaly snows in that moment(or maybe it's Stiles?)
21.
Hi, sorry for my bad english. I’m looking for sterek fic. I know I read it in AO3. I don’t remember much but almost in the end Stiles and Chris are arguing because all the stuff his family did. How bad Stiles was tortured by Gerard and I think Stiles was pemanently injured in one ear and one eye. And also Chris was yelling that he killed his father and Stiles said in the end it didn’t mather because He was damage forever. I really hope you can help me.
22.
hi, so i was hoping you could help me find a sterek fic where stiles and derek are childhood friends, and stiles is pining after him but derek and paige are dating, and stiles gets jealous when paige is sitting in his seat and almost has a mental breakdown? i think stiles starts ignoring him, and derek realizes that he no longer sees paige as his future mate but stiles. thank you!!
23.
Hi, Sterek fic I can't find. With Stiles drowning, bc of himself or feelings being too much, Derek notices and saves him, and the Derek warms him by turning into his alpha form? Stiles really like shifted Derek. Thank you guys! :)
24.
Hi I was wondering if you could help me find these 2 sterek fics where: 1. Derek and stiles are on a stakeout looking at a bank I think when someone approaches the car and Derek pulls stiles into his lap and stiles begins to question his sexuality and if Derek likes him. 2. God I can’t believe I didn’t save this one but I can only remember a scene in the fic where stiles and Derek were at a drive though movie theatre and they were kissing and it was all about Derek self healing. Pls help.
25.
Hey I'm trying to find this fic on archive that I read before but I can't seem to find it. If you don't do this sort of thing sorry in advance. But if you do all the teenagers are alive and Stiles is getting bullied by a group of douches so the pack challenge them to a series of games. Girls vs girls and boys vs boys. They win of course. Anyway if you know of this fic please let me know
26.
I need help finding a fic pls. Stiles meets Derek young (around 4ish) and they're soulmates (Derek knew when Claudia was still pregnant). There is def an age gap. Stiles grows up knowing Derek is his mate, and tries to mate with him, but because they spent so much time together while he was young, stiles's wolf develops quicker than it should and goes into heat, so they try to separate them. Mama S. and Hale family is still alive, and theres an alpha/alpha mate convention at some point. Thanks!
28.
hey! i'm looking for a fic where stiles is living on the east coast working for the government and then he saves somebody's life by recognizing that the agent was walking into a trap of a vampire coven so he starts working with this supernatural sector of the government (and people named jessica and jason i think) and gets sent to a national council thing and reconciles with derek and the pack after having left beacon hills and stuff
29.
Hi! ❤️ thank you so much for taking the time, I was just hoping someone could help find that sterek fic where it’s established relationship, and stiles works for a company because he came up with a famous slogan for some type of candy/food and the company rlly loves him, at one point goes on a business trip where someone tries to have an affair and stiles is like WHUt NO and goes back to Derek immediately feeling guilty even tho he was 100% loyal? Thank youuuu ❤️
30.
Hello! I love this blog a lot , keep up the good work. :) I was recently reading a fanfic where stiles is kidnapped by jennifer and she uses derek’s semen in a spell to make the “werewolf messiah”. Can you help me find it?
31.
I am looking for a fic. Derek is the alpha and he and stiles get together and cook meals. First Boyd is added to the group and then Isaac. Isaac becomes a foster of Boyd's parents. Then Erica is added. They give Erica the bite after discussing it with her parents. Please help
32.
Hi! Looking for a fic where Stiles is bitten by a fox at the zoo, changes into an actual fox, which means he’s terrified of the werewolves, including Scott and Derek. Derek has to lure him out with a trampoline (definitely inspired by that video of a fox on a trampoline). I looked everywhere I could think of but no luck :/ hopefully someone’s heard of it! Thank you!
34.
Hi! I’m scouting the internet for an old sterek fic I read once where stiles and Allison bond over the summer after s2 and in a drunken mistake Allison gets pregnant but it’s not romantic? I can’t find even a trace of it anywhere but I VIVIDLY remember it
35.
Not a fic Rex but could you help me find a fic? It’s been months apon months since I have read this fic but it’s a sterek fic and stiles was kinda of controlling and would never be a good bf to Derek so they never did anything derek wants to do only stiles. And I remember they talked about it and were getting better and Derek asked to go on a hike to show stiles this pond or something idk for sure and stiles almost says no and it’s angsty and amazing.
36.
Hi! I've been looking for a fic that I read a while ago, I don't know if it's been deleted or not and I don't remember it clearly. But from what I remember, at some point Derek stayed with Stiles and his dad in his wolf form because he was traumatized and felt like he was inconvenient to everybody? Sorry I'm not being very clear but if that rings any bell... Thank you!
37.
hi! There was this Sterek fic form Isaac's POV where he was Stiles' PA and he really shipped him with Derek, but all the other two do is fight-- and in the end, he finds out they've been married for around 5 years. Do you know it's linked, by any chance? :)
39.
Hey! I’ve been looking everywhere but I can’t find this Sterek fic and was wondering if you could help me? All I remember is that Stiles is pregnant, him and Jackson are really close friends, and something about ‘is Thursday a good day to tell your ex you’re pregnant?’. Thank you so much if you could help! ❤️
40.
Hello! Okay so I have my been here in a while, but I've ran out of fics to read. And I'm not sure if you guys are still active. But do you guys have some where Sterek start dating, but it's because one of them like the other and the other one thought, "why not?" But they end up falling for the other. Sorry I know this is too specific. :/ but thank you!!!
41.
I'm looking for a fic that Stiles was invited to Derek's wedding to Julia/Jennifer, but it turns out he was magically controlled to go along with everything so she'd have control of the pack???? Eventual sterek.
42.
Hiiii! I'm wondering if you can help me. I read this fic forever ago and it was a supernatural FBI type situation. Stiles was magic and sold potions on the side (I know to at least Ethan). Deucalion was selling drugs that were killing people. I remember that the drugs made you hover in the air before you died and Stiles got drugged (also pretty sure he was a suspect). Derek was an agent. Thanks in advance!
43.
Hey I'm really sorry to bother i am looking for a fic were stiles and derek are in a long term relationship but derek starts to neglect stiles so he decides to leave for a new apartment and derek realizes how much he has been missing. thank you i hope you can help me
44.
Hey! So I’m looking for 2 sterek fics that might have been deleted but I’m not sure. The first, someone is poisoning the wolves to makes them shift, and stiles and Derek get locked in a cage so that Derek would kill stiles. The second one, the pack goes to college, but Derek breaks up with stiles to keep him safe, and stiles starts taking pain killers. The Alpha pack shows up, but at the end Peter tries to kill Scott or Derek to become an alpha again. Any idea? Thank you!!!
45.
Hey I'm looking for a sterek fic and going out of my mind because I cant find it! All I remember is that they had at least one kid together and in the epilogue or sequel or something they were having a family dinner where their college age oldest daughter was bring home her boyfriend to meet the family. And I think the younger brother was non-binary of some sort and they were worried how the boyfriend was going to handle that. And werewolves existed but still a secret. Thank you in advance!!
50.
Im sorry i might be stupid but i cant find the askbox, im looking for a fic where stiles and derek are mates and there might be a abo dynamic, derek knows they are mates before stiles is born because he meet Claudia while she i pregnant, they start of young in the fic but get older as i goes. I must have been an explicit one. Sorry for any inconvinience
51.
a.
Hi! Looking for a stereo college au where stiles is obsessed with Greek mythology and even got a tattoo of it. Some internal homophobia in there too. Thank you in advance!
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b.
hi! i am looking for this sterek fic i read last year I think. Stiles and Derek are both in college and Stiles is crazy about greek mythology - has some of the stuff tattooed on him. Derek is kind of closeted and maybe a little internally homophobic but is crazy about Stiles. Stiles has some Dark Things that happened to him back in BH.....Eventually Derek gets him a ticket to go to Greece? Any ideas? Thank you in advance!
I think these two are asks for the same fic, if not I seperated them in a. and b. so let me know the latter if they are not the same.
53.
Hello, sorry I have another ask. I'm looking for a fic where werewolves are known and the hale family is alive. Stiles has to spend time with every member of the pack to determine compatibility I think? They all dislike him. Laura hates him because they had a previous encounter and she bruises him. It's a sterek fic I think. Thanks!
54.
there's a fic i read years ago about stiles and derek both being accountants and working together. i think stiles was a new employee? possibly a student/graduate? sorry i dont have much information, its been years since i read it and i just randomly thought about it but cant find it
55.
Hey! I swear I got this Fic from y’all but I cannot find it now for the life of me. It’s a college AU where stiles rushes fraternities on a whim and meets Boyd. Boyd is a legacy for Derek’s fraternity and joins them, Stiles ends up rushing and joining Scott’s fraternity. There’s a whole bunch of pranking that ensues including Stiles stealing Derek’s pledge paddle... it’s a fantastic fic but I can’t find it
56.
hi!!! i was wondering if you know the fic where the pack finds actual wolf cubs and decides to raise them??? i remember it being a WIP and the wolves names were sköll and haiti (?). btw: i love this blog so much 😭😭💝
57.
hi! I’ve been looking for a fic where stiles (for a reason that I forget) pretends to be gay and ends up dating Derek while still pretending to be gay and then actually falls for Derek in the end. I can’t seem to remember what it’s called and I really wanna reread it. Hope you can find it!
58.
Hi, I’m wondering if you could help me find a fic. One where Derek had to sacrifice his love for Stiles to keep his family alive (some sort of curse on him to make him fall out of love) and magic!Stiles does everything to break the curse? If you know it please help
59.
Hi! I’m looking for a Sterek fic on Ao3 where the day after Stiles and Derek finally go forward in their relationship this random ass guy shows up, claims he’s an old friend of Derek’s from New York and convinces the whole pack, minus Stiles, too. From what I remember he used their names to place a spell on them to control them. Derek attacks Stiles then kicks him out of the group, Lydia shows up and helps Stiles break the spell because she’s queen, and they get the guy arrested. Plz help?
60.
Hey guys no pressure but theres been a fic stuck in the back of my head for months and I can’t find it. What I remember is that the pack are in a bar when a siren does a siren thing and everyone in the bar is under his spell and it was something d&s could resist only because they were truely in love. Sorry if this doesn’t make sense, English is hard for a dyslexic
62.
Hey!! First of all...... thank u so much this is always so helpful..... Second of all, I can’t remember the name and hopefully you can help?? It’s Sterek, it’s not an AU. Derek leaves and moves to Montana? Colorado? Something like that and coincidentally Stiles ends up going there for college and slow build???? And knowing these boys, some Angst™️
63.
UGH!! Can you help? Stiles goes to stay with Derek in Brazil?
64.
HELP, goin crazy looking for fic I wanna reread, Remember tons specific odd details. Listing them w/ hopes someone knows what I'm taking about! ABO adjacent, Stiles heat is called a wetting, Stile's dad gives his hand away only cuz its good alpha Derek, marital/mate tradition w/ fancy ornate bathtubs, Stiles has skirt w/ embroidered list of his skills on it, Derek bad a verbalized emotions. Regency era. Stiles has a miscarriage w/ lot of self blame. Issac is Derek's ward since he's a kid. Aaah?!
70.
Hello I'm trying to find a fic where when Stiles was young (and with the help of Lydia or Scott) did a spell to never find his soulmate. Like it was: he will have blue eyes, no green and brown; he will be strong enough to lift a car; he will play cello. The point of the spell being to not find him. Later he meet Derek and freaks out because he is perfect (multicolored eyes, werewolf strength...). Please help me find it! Thanks
72.
I am looking for a fic that starts with Stiles and Derek researching but then Stiles gets turned on and him and Derek end up hooking up. It's a 5+1 fic
73.
Hi! Can you help me find the fic where Stiles, Sheriff and a few other people from town were held hostage by werewolves(?) but also some humans I think and they were planning to escape but stiles said they should stay put. And at the end or towards the end Derek bursts in as a full wolf and stiles has to talk him down so he’ll shift back and the people who held him hostage know him as one of the most dangerous in the Hale pack.
76.
Hi Mod(s)! I am currently looking for a fic about magic Stiles. I don't remember any of the pairings, but I vividly remember a conversation between Stiles, Allison, and Lydia. To prove that his magic is real, Stiles sets his lacrosse stick on fire. Allison is prejudiced toward magic and says that Stiles could probably light a house on fire, and Stiles responds that he could, but then he would die of organ failure. Thank you for your help! I appreciate the time and care you put into this blog!
77.
Hey, thanks for all you do. Do you perhaps know a fic that is basically a rewrite of season 1 but Stiles has a dog, and Derek gets jealous of the dog, honestly I've been searching everywhere for this
79.
I have a question
all I can remember is Alison is matriarch of the hunters, Stiles is sassy as fuck... I think he was magic. I believe there was a coffee shop showdown where Alison didn’t realize that Stiles was there... I can’t remember if it’s a recent fix or something I stumble across finding new docs to read.
Cheers
80.
Hello! I've been trying to comb my way through your blog and searching google but I haven't been able to find the fic I've been looking for so I hope you can help me (and I hope I'm not missing the post and making a duplicate)
The story is a sterek fic where Derek goes to stiles for help because hes developing a sexual problem and only trusts stiles to look up the answer. Stiles find out it's likely a mate thing and suggests derek figures out who hes been spending a lot of time with. Derek checks out and crosses off each of the pack before settling on Scott (because of his scent, thinking its what's triggering the response), turns out its stiles and that stiles has a very active libido and that's what's causing Derek's problem.
I swear I had it saved but I can't find it in any of my bookmarks. So, any help you can provide at finding the fic would be super helpful! Thank you!
81.
hi, hoping for some help finding a fic? from around 2015 - sterek (either established couple or they got together during +), there's a big bad that mind controls or possesses Derek and makes him stab stiles. then in the next part stiles trains with the argents and they're still trying to fight the big bad. there's an OC that stiles is jealous of bc she is able to bring Derek out of the mind control/possession when he wasn't able to. that's everything I remember. any help is appreciated! thanks!!
82.
There is this fic that I cannot remember the name of. It’s a very slow burn where stiles and Derek once they decide to be together, wait until 18 for kissing (before that they do Eskimo kisses) and then to like 21 or something for sex. It’s really sweet and cute and stiles is understanding of his trauma. It may have been a de-aged derek, cursed, bonded, or fake/pretend relationship? If you know, I will love you forever and ever +1.
83.
I'm looking for a long Teen Wolf fic. Here's what I remember.
Stiles left to join the FBI. Cut ties with Beacon Hill. Never looked back. Becomes an FBI wunderkind.
On behalf of the FBI he goes to some werewolf or Supernatural Council event with his unit. It's a complete surprise the Beacon Hill pack is there, they're all cold shouldering each other. Everyone has grown into their own, and the pack is beyond thriving. Derek is some high muckity muck.
Scrooby doo mystery plot stuff, ends in Sterek.
It's long and has some time stamp sequels.
Does this sound familiar? I've been looking for it to reread.
85.
I’ve been looking for this one sterek fic where stiles has a crush on Derek and Derek is like in high school while stiles is still a kid. And like stiles comes over to the Hale house to hang out with Derek and he catches Derek making out with a girl (maybe Kate) and it breaks his heart.
86. 
Hi :) I’m looking for a fic where Stiles and Derek fake being in a relationship when Derek has to go to some werewolf retreat. Stiles learns magick and can see strings that run between…mates, maybe? I think there’s also a toddler named Luca running around. Idk I remember reading this YEARS ago and would really like to find it again🥺
87.
Hey. I was wandering if you knew of a fic that’s kinda oldish. But stiles and Derek meet and they’re like mates or soulmates or something. Anyway stiles pack which is like Scott, Allison, Lydia, Danny etc have been cursed by a witch and I thinks they’re getting their power drained or something? They’re lived are in danger and Derek helps coz Stiles is his mate. Possible chance they’re all at college
88.
hi! I am looking for a sterek fic. stiles works two jobs and is really tired driving home one day and accidentally rear ends derek (who is a cop?) who then comforts him when he freaks out. it is abo au and the pack are included. thanks in advance!
89.
Do you know a ao3 fanfic about sterek where stiles just presented as an omega and gets taken by the government to be the omega in dereks military group?
90.
Hey I was wondering if you could find this fic for me? I’ve been looking lol night and I can’t find it anywhere. I know it’s on AO3 if that helps at all.
So it’s a royalty au and pretty much Derek is a werewolf and he invades stiles kingdom under peters orders but when Derek gets to the palace stiles father isn’t there as stiles has hidden him and he ends up marrying stiles and stiles is like tricky and stuff and there’s one scene where they are in the garden and dereks soldiers end up in a field of wolvesbane and gets really sick and stiles goes in to save him and he gets really mad at his guards for letting the wolf just walk into it. And Peter is bad and intends on killing derek and stiles realises this and tells him and Derek ends up killing him. I think it would be classified as enemies to lovers? I hope that’s enough info to go off of
Thank you so much in advance I really appreciate it if you find it!
91.
Hi I have been looking for this fic for literally years, all I remember is that stiles and allison had a kid together years before when they were both on the outs from the pack in LA, but they come back and scott and allison end up together again, and derek left beacon hills for years but comes back and settles but keeps leaving and stiles is upset—eventual sterek of course—and there’s something big going on supernaturally? And stiles gets intense migraines? Honestly it’s been so long I could have imagined this haha but I will be so grateful if someone has heard of this! Thank you for all you do!
92.
Hi there! I read a fic a looong time ago and unfortunately, I can't find it. What I remember, is that Stiles and Derek move out of Beacon Hills and also get their own dog. I also think at first Stiles was on his own and he moved away for himself, not necessarily bc he was pushed out of the pack, but that may have been in a different fic and I'm just mixing them up. So sorry for being so vague! I hope you may be able to find it
93.
hi! i'm searching for a fix where the pack goes on vacation and derek and stiles have to share a room. basically stiles thinks that derek doesnt like his scent and leaves the windows open and they freeze their asses off lol. i think it was in a cabin or something in the woods.
94.
Hiya! Not sure if you’re still taking SOS Fic Searches. I cannot for the life of me remember anything more than a sterek fic with stubborn Derek / Stiles where Jackson asked Stiles out on a date on Valentines Day knowing Derek would be jealous, but when Derek doesn’t step in immediately, after the “date” Jackson texts Stiles “you’ll thank me for this” and then kisses him on the porch and Derek wolfs out and chases him — thus allowing for them to discuss their feelings and get together (but also keep it a secret from the pack for being assholes and making group chats without them)
95.
i’m looking for a fic that starts with stiles and derek getting into a fender bender. it’s in a universe where everyone registers as a dom, sub, or switch. stiles is a sub and derek is a dom. derek works with scott. after the accident stiles brings derek cookies and brownies at work. derek is some sort of officer or something that works with dom/sub rights or something?? there’s a protest which stiles goes to and it gets violent and at another point someone vandalizes where derek works. stiles and jackson are friends and jackson coaches lacrosse. i’m sorry if this is vague but i appreciate the help!
96.
I'm trying to find a fic and I'm hoping you can help- I've read it before but can't for the life of me find it on Ao3, and it's killing me! It's one where Stiles is magical, Scott pretty much goes insane- and there is a super amazing scene towards the end where Stiles winds up magically taking Scott's wolf away and giving it to Melissa, who lovingly embraces it. It was a great read that I could have sworn I bookmarked :(
97.
Hi! I’m not sure if you can help me find a lost fic. But I thought I’d give it a shot and ask. I read this Sterek fic within the last couple of months and i remember very little unfortunately. Basically I remember that stiles was allowed to sleep in dereks bed and Derek was acting like that was no big deal, but everyone else in the pack thought it was a massive deal because wolves and scent and stuff and I remember one of the women in the pack was pregnant but no idea who. This is so convoluted and I’m sorry. If you can’t find it no worries! Thanks!!
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lunasaturnine · 4 years
Text
Vienna and cultural trauma
WOW so cool to sign into tumblr and see 99+ notifications, and think “oh a post got some attention,” but it’s actually just general attention!
My astro blog is ready for some action! Or maybe ppl are just bored bc of the quarantine. Either way, it would be cool to write.
I want to write about VIENNA.
I just took a course about somatic healing of trauma and it gave me a good overview of how trauma recovery works. Chapter 1 of trauma recovery is gathering resources. Chapter 2 is dipping or oscillating back into the memory, whether it’s a clear memory or just something held hidden in your body, with your new resources, and allowing circles to complete. Chapter 3 is being bigger bigger brighter in the world !!! (It’s a nice course, it’s on somatopia.com, it costs $40 if you have that to throw around, it’s like 2 hours of videos of a nice man talking in a soothing voice in intelligent language about healing from trauma)
Now I’m thinking about cultural trauma and Vienna. I have long felt that helping to heal the Hitler wound of Vienna is one of my soul’s major dharmic thrusts. So I googled “healing cultural trauma” and most resources out there talk about the trauma of the victim culture. That kind of trauma is totally different, because it recommends amplifying the traditions and greatnesses of the culture, and when you’re a cultural perpetrator of violence, amplifying the greatness of your culture is a trigger because cultural superiority is what lead your culture to be violent. But there are still a lot of resources with a lot of valuable information. I’ve only skimmed a couple things so far and it seems like one thing people emphasize in cultural healing is human connectedness.
The internet is a little hard to navigate on this topic, but I found an NYT editorial called “I loved my grandmother but she was a Nazi.” The author’s sweet grandma was literally a Nazi but she was a nice person who didn’t hate Jews. When the author talked to her about it, she would deflect. “He said a lot of things, I didn’t listen to them all” and “I was caught up in my own life” etc. The author says, that’s bullshit, there’s something she’s avoiding, and I can’t understand what it is or why she’s doing it, and I’m hesitant to say this because it might seem like I’m trying to forgive Naziism but I’m really just trying to understand who I look at when I look at my grandmother. It’s the most direct address of the West’s Nazi wound that I’ve found in my two and a half minutes of searching on google and I think it’s on the nose.
In the readmore are my more concrete thoughts on potential resources for Western/German/Viennese healing, and thoughts about what working through phase 2 would look like for a perpetrator culture.
Resources
On this reddit post:
https://www.reddit.com/r/history/comments/5nfqwp/my_grandmother_grew_up_in_nazi_germany/
there are some resources. First of all, 1. there are people from diverse backgrounds respective to WWII, coming together and talking as equals in the same kind of “room.” The descendants of the persecuted and the persecutors are together and they are not enemies. The knowledge, and SOMATIC FEELING EXPERIENCE, of that, can be  a resource. I am typing over this brusquely and that’s Mercury magic for you and you should know that I just burst into sobs. That in just a couple of generations, the grandsons and daughters of enemies can be together and not hate each other and even love each other is an immense resource and can be leaned into at any point. There is a vast well of cultural relief available here. My tears are thankful, grateful tears, tears of relief. I am thinking of the parks in vienna that are holocaust memorial parks. I am thinking of that horrible statue out in front of the Albertina that is a memorial to cultural violence but at the same time, also represents the trapped soul of the Perpetrator culture, since we are all One. In the same way that a piece of music which opens with a terrifying chord represents both the terror experienced by the terrorized, and the menace of the terrorizer, AND THE FEELINGS IN THE terrorizer that caused them to generate this chord... off on a tangent, and I’m not sobbing anymore! That was crazy. I have a tendency to lock my feelings up, but being alone in this house and in this quarantine, I can open up locked wells of feeling like that.
That resource is IMMENSE, and it’s RIGHT in front of our faces all the time. I took a class on 20th century germany in undergrad, and the professor was a young guy with a Nazi grandfather, well I’m not sure if he was a Nazi but he was a German soldier, and he remarked on it. And I think at the time I thought “how lovely” but if you sit with that feeling, it’s deep as hell. And if you sit with it from the perspective of a penitent perpetrator, it’s REALLY FUCKING DEEP.
So that’s available. Im gonna post this real quick as a way of saving the draft but I have more ideas.
Okay. Continuing,
Resource 2 also from reddit post
The top respondent says his German POW uncle had a British GF. That’s similar to the first resource, but more immediate. I’m sure there are lots of stories like that. Intercultural experience that nullifies certain tensions
Resource 3 also from reddit post
The stories of people who did do the right thing... maybe. I dont know. I’ll get off this post soon but it’s interesting. Idk if this counts as a resource, it’s kind of a tangent, but the more I learn about karma and trans-life inheritance of it, the more it seems true that it really is better to die living in line with your beliefs than to live safely. Like the person in Pweuy’s post. That father died but his karma was pristine as far as this was concerned and perpetrator trauma did not cling to him.
ok jesus this is an interesting post... the girl skipping over the river of blood as it trickled out of the asylum... the hitler youth boy befriending a lamb and the nazis slaughtering it in front of him... the russian soldier who guarded the german girl because she reminded him of her daughter...
Okay. Before I go on, I want to clarify that I am not specifically talking about people who held Nazi beliefs in their core. There is a special type of perpetrator injury that is specific to that kind of thing, true villains and terrorists. I’m talking more about “ordinary Germans” who didn’t think very hard and got swept along, moderate supporters to moderate resisters. As a culture, they were moved by the tides into Naziism. They have culpability, but not the exact same kind of culpability as perpetrator people. The culture moved to perpetrate these crimes, and they were a part of that culture. That’s the specific kind of wound I’m interested in healing. There is a poster on that page whose grandma really loved Hitler...
Ok! I spent a lot of my energy in that page, now its 10PM and I still have veggies to prepare. I need energy for this next thing I was going to talk about.
Resource 4 - this one specific coffee shop
I’m putting *s in its name because I like this blog anonymous. P*****n is a coffee shop in Vienna that is the only happy place I went. There were places that were ok... and fine... maybe pleasant... but this place was American levels of happy. Waiters danced around and were actually relaxed and happy. P*****n’s theme is intergenerational communication. It hires grandmothers to work behind the counter, and make pies, and you’re supposed to buy a slice of their pie and talk to them a bit. And then the waiters are young, and they communicate with the Omas. And the Omas are maybe not old enough to have been Nazis but their parents were.
They also include a bit in all their menus about intergenerational dialogue and wondering what more they can do and how they can be more of a space for it.
I had MANY genuinely pleasant little experiences there... and I think that little space that some person with a vision made, is a blossoming flowerpot with lots of healing energy where true dialogue could happen. So that could be a resource too. The happiness of that place. In fact, these conversations could happen there.
But I wouldn’t want to break the space. The course I just took talked about titration, which is just accessing a TINY part of the traumatic memory, so you don’t get overwhelmed. This is a very icy fucked up conversation for a lot of people. My Viennese friend told me to talk more quietly about it than I was. Actually I did talk about it there with some people! The German girl was surprised that I thought Vienna had a wound. So was the Irish girl actually. For other people it’s really evident. My Viennese friend. D**n. Rf: “it’s ALL I feel when I am there.” ME. God that conversation was sooo gentle and sweet and light. The Irish girl was wondering if she should move to Vienna or stay in Barcelona, and the three of us talked about Vienna nd it was SOOOOO LOVELY, holy BALLS.
But even if we don’t hold conversations there exactly, that could be a really good place for conversation to start. I could reach out to the people who run the shop to ask them about it. And then maybe conversations could happen in other places (don’t want to spoil the sweetness of the shop).
Resource 5 - personal as I investigate maybe not really a resource - but yes maybe it is a resource: Grounded, comfortable people who are Viennese, and who understand the goals and also understand the sensitivities of Viennese people more than I do; 
Resource 6 - people who are experts at cultural healing in victim cultures
Resource 7 - fostering dialogue between those two parties, also me.
Again I’m really playing fast and loose with the idea of resources. Maybe. We’re starting to move into phase 2, also, because with this dialogue, I want to open up some scripts for how to TITRATE sensitively.
phase 2
For instance, notice that I didn’t say something like “Remembering Vienna’s amazing heritage of incredible music that has the power to redeem and heal equal to and more accessibly than religions.” I think it’s true that Viennese music is a major healing resource (BEETHOVENSCHUBERTMOZARSKLTBSLJRTHBLEWSKJNS:OFDFD), but since it is bound up in Viennese identity, that notion is complex. Also, it’s not only that Viennese identity is nasty because it’s nazi and therefore that gives Schubert etc a dark tint, but also, the grand things that Vienna has contributed to western culture are now a part of Vienna’s current wound of degradation, cheapification, and humiliation by TOURISM. although I will say that I think Resource 8 should be MY OWN deep internalization of the healing power of Viennese music. Posting again to save...
...not only does that music help me be healed, but it also helps me understand healing process in the specific language of the culture i’m interested in
okay.  Phase 2. 
A picture of what I think sorta needs to happen
I think Omas that say “It was just a lot of talk, we ignored it” and “I was busy in my life”... I think what needs to happen for a perp culture is for them to actually own their part in the villainy, to claim it and stand in it and feel the pain, and say “I’m SORRY, this was HORRIBLE, I AM SORRY.” THIS WILL ALLOW THEM TO BECOME NEW!!!!!!!
That’s a v different healing process from like native american healing etc.
I really think somatic approach is a better road in than cognitive because, god, imagine cognizing all of this HORRIBLE SIN bit by bit knowing your culture perpetrated it and not having anyone to blame it on. Jesus.
How might the process of getting there look?
This is vague especially now that I don’t have that burst of energy. Conversations...
Here’s a question. After resource gathering.
“Knowing that bells rang for Hitler in Vienna, how does it feel to be Viennese?” IN YOUR BODY?
Damn THAT’S GOOD! THAT’S THE FUNDAMENTAL QUESTION. How does it feel to be Viennese? The goal is for it to feel OK.
Um, speaking specifically about Wiener trauma and their welcoming of Hitler, a few years ago, I read this in some guidebook, Vienna’s government acknowledged that they welcomed Hitler and that they were wrong, and investigating that is important for my mission. It’s cool because 1. it’s a Big Ol Step and 2. it lays groundwork for all of this.
Step 3 is really beautiful to think about. In the course I took, it’s where the instructor got out of his soothing calm neutral demeanor and started speaking passionately and bursting with smiles.
In addition to being able to be more firmly grounded in their own individual and cultural identities...
Okay, so, I’m drawn to this because I’m drawn to it, punkt. That’s all. But also, and I think I’m really late on the uptake here, I think I was due in Vienna many years ago, I think that whatever work I do in Vienna is helpful for the echoes of Naziism in today’s world, such as Trumpism (which does not...exactly... have the same kinds of premises but uses a lot of the same kinds of mecahnisms) and actual brazen nationalism, white supremicism, and far right movements. Hitler is a LOUD and REVERBERANT figure in our history for this kind of energy, and if we can do healing surrounding him, re-discovering resilience in the moderates, helping them go through the emotional journey they need to go through, they will be a beautiful resonant horn call from the past, a solid core of NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! that will strengthen the culture of the entire FUCKING world.
Music will be a part of it.
I have always loved Vienna, and I can’t really analyze it. I love it like a girlfriend. I know she’s problematic. And she can be really really horrible.
The wound is deep. The horribleness, the life negating quality not only of the FUCKING WRETCHED SHOP CLERKS, but also of the WAY -- THINGS -- HAPPEN, of the overall weird ass SPIRIT in Vienna, is... God DAMN WHY do I like that city so much? It’s bizarre. It’s very pervasive. I don’t enjoy experiencing it, I don’t think it’s attractive, I don’t like it. I love Vienna THROUGH that wound. I REALLY LOVE Vienna. That’s one of the clearest things that I know in my heart. I love Vienna... and that’s the whole story. It’s one of the easiest things for me to say.
Lots of people love a city. We do it for reasons. I think our hearts are drawn where they are drawn because we are attracted to healing the specific karmas of places. The karma of my hometown is mainly racial, with native american underneath. The coffee shop that is equivalent to P*****n serves often as a place of racial conversation and healing. It is actually pretty amazing. And once there was a white supremacist with a gun there and he stood up on a table and let people see his gun. He didn’t yell or anything. But that vital thing happened there in that coffee shop.
Excuse me I also love coffee shops and Vienna is the land of coffee shops.
Okay. I love Vienna! I literally love Vienna, with my heart. I love Vienna.
One last thing. I’m saving then editing...
The postscript: A major resource, and it kinda sidesteps some things, is language. It will be much better if German is spoken in these conversations. When I went to Vienna last, I didn’t prepare my German because when I went to Vienna first, everyone spoke English and it was simply easier to speak English all the time, so I figured I wouldn’t try to give the illusion and disappoint. But lo... the native people really, really resent it if you don’t even try to speak German. They actually seem to experience it as an injury. It is wild, if you’re not expecting it.
ALL OVER VIENNA I saw the Graffiti stamp/brand, “Tourism is terrorism.” 
When I was in the airport and the cute customs dudes asked me the purpose of my visit, I said “TOURISM” and they laughed. That was fun. But it was a lie. I was a pilgrim. I... know I was a tourist, technically. But I felt such hatred for the tourists standing like apes in front of the Schubert statue in the Stadtpark. Their wretched selfie smiles plastered on top of the emptiness of their experience. My purpose in Vienna had nothing in common with theirs. And I claim that I didn’t do a lot of the tourist things - not many museums or concerts or whatever.
One of my more pleasant memories was going into a used book shop and asking about a book in the window, a German-language edition of the tao te ching from 1923 (a very strange time). I asked in English. The clerk was confused and asked if I spoke German, and I answered in German that I spoke some German, but was learning, and knew the TTC very well, and that it’s simply usually easier to speak in English. I might have used imperfect German, but I felt dignified and natural doing it.
Ok, not only the German language, but the quiet Viennese demeanor of Scorpiness. Scorpscorpscorpscorp. Quiet, observant, emotional, and responsive to gentle tenderness and consideration, and traumatized by brashness. 
Both the spoken language, and the language of the demeanor, I think are somatic approaches that sidestep cognitive...things and make the culture feel unconsciously accepted and open.
On my first trip I learned howwwwww AMERICAN I was, and then on my second trip I opened myself up to my inner Wiener and was quiet and scorpy, and I felt warmth emerge from the people and city in response. It felt really right, and it felt like i was honoring...her, and it felt um sort of romantic. ha 
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fmdxjerome · 6 years
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*naomi pokes her head in after disappearing for the 600th time* bonjour 
family things where the reason i was so m.i.a. this past week. but i’m here now and i’m going to follow and unfollow people. update some things (like points, plots and tag lists) and head into ims. the good things. sorry i keep disappearing, it’s a weird time. i hope you all are doing good though. people who i have not talked to yet, i’m sorry i still haven’t introduced myself to you all. i’ll gradually work on this. people who i plotted with before, you know i’m gradually trying to get back to that too. i’m very out of the loop with everything.
though! working on some things. writing, photoshop, things, yeah.
but that aside i kinda wanted to take the space of this ooc post to elaborate on the headcanon i wrote yesterday? because? wow. uh. what the hell was that. i wont talk about the topics of the story itself so dont worry if they are triggering to you, i wont be mentioning anything in here.
i just. i started writing the headcanon because my inspiration for anything else was nil. i had things done for my starter (things that had to go out before it for the starter to make sense) and i was preparing to write but nothing came out. and i saw the days ticking by then so i thought “a headcanon will give me something to put out as i dont want to loose jerome but also don’t want to go on hiatus again”. i thought it’ll be like 1000 words and just explain seulgi and chanyeol a bit but it turned into that. i kinda got sucked into it. like, very badly. i wrote it in two days and two nights with little sleep and a lot of tears and it fucked me up but not in a bad way persay (not in a good way either but). after my hiatus i’ve been all kinds of weird with jerome? i haven’t known how to put him out there and advertise him as a cool dude to new and old people in here and i blame my mood for that? because when i was all meme kid 2000 it was easier to thrust him into people’s dm’s, but then after the hiatus i’ve been so goddamned serious about everything that even the funny posts i try to make dont make it to the blog because i think about them too much? (honestly. i have a backlog of memes guys.). then i write that, start writing that with the beginning and end in mind and it’s so goddamned dark but it gets my emotions out and makes me feel more intrigued to flesh out jerome. it relieves me a bit. 
because the thing about jerome is that family is one of the most important things for him. and exploring chanyeol, who had everything jerome had wanted when he grew up (to be raised by a mother who looked like him and loved him), made me find jerome again. it’s the comparing of lives that do it, how two brothers that came from the same prompt live such different lives because of the polarizing answers their mothers gave to one of the hardest question in life. but then again they have so much the same; the drinking, the faces, the laughs, the ridicule, and so much more. they’re more like twins than they are brothers, just years apart and not quite the same.
(there is a reason why *if you read the story* i pinned their situations against each other often, give the perspective of jerome’s life whilst giving context to chanyeols)
and i dont know if jerome will ever know about chanyeol, meet seulgi, find a connection with his mother, feel a bond with his sibling (who’s connection form is almost done, i’m hoping for a sister) or find the bad of himself in his father but it’s the start of exploring this part of jerome’s life, his bloodlines, that get me so much more into jerome’s story. because it is such an important piece in his life.
and look, you might think “but thats marie!” if you look over his blog or read his bio (please dont. its ugly.), that she’s the most influential thing in jerome’s character as she’s the one who basically created “yuddy”. and yeah, she’s important. he still gets anxious when she teeters with the information only they know and still gets furious when he sees her face. but it’s family that starts it all. 
he wouldn’t be as searching for warmth if it wasn’t for the fact that he views himself to be abandoned when just a baby, which his mother did with all the heart break in her heart. he wouldn’t be as proving and intense if it wasn’t for the fact that he feels like he has just one moment to cement himself in someone’s memory as something to desire (whether its about music, lust, love, etc.). he wouldn’t be as afraid of loosing important people in his life if he hadn’t lost the most important one of all.
also, he wouldn’t be as natural with the flirting and the charming smirks if it wasn’t for the fact that his father had that natural allure to him, too. had that bad treatment, too. had that booming confidence, too. and had that selfishness, too. (i villainize chanwook a lot. but he was just a guy who didn’t like commitments, he wants the fun and nothing else. hmm doesn’t that sound familiar.)
yuddy was a reaction to marie, but made possible because of chanwook. hey, thats pretty deep.
anyway, what also was interesting with exploring chanyeol was the fact that jerome’s biggest wish was to be able to look at someone and recognize himself in it. with his adoption family he obviously couldnt do that. and to add another layer in his hometown there were no korean faces, no ethnicity he could belong to. (i dont know how it is in legit laval and martigné-sur-mayenne as i am just a dumb kid who only has the internet to find things out BUT as i live in a western european town *obliviously naomi you’re dutch* thats pretty big and those towns arents the biggest i can use my own experiences and grab the data/information i can find on the internet to create young!jerome’s school and daily life environment.) but he could live with that if he just had a mother or/and a father he could look up to and see himself. there have been days where he’s been bullied for the shape of his eyes or the colour of his skin, there have been days where he’s been fetishized for them too, and if he was allowed to look up at his mother he could see the same pairs of eyes stare back at him. and if he’d look at his father he’d see the same coloured skin. he’d feel more at ease. but he sees blonde hair and peachy skin instead, sees hazel eyes and different noses. add a DEEPER layer and he can’t seem to find where he gets his ugly wide laugh from, or his aggression when provoked. the gentle touch to the things he loves. the intensity of passion. the greed of selfishness. he doesn’t know where the traits come from, who gives him those traits, or if they are purely his own. and he truly wished he did.
and with that as he stands on stage now he is unaware that he makes two women cry every night. blissfully unaware that he has two mothers look at him and see the man that left them but see their missed sons too. he knows nothing of that, and so he knows nothing of the impact he’s making with simply existing. (boram looking at jerome is still very ambiguous in my mind though as her kid can appear in roleplay but seulgi’s view is pretty cemented)
okay shit this kind of turned into some weird exploration of jerome? i started writing this like 6 hours ago what the hell. i’m so slow. maybe this is helping me too with making that re-introduction thing i still have to make. great. well what you can take from this is that jerome has a definite baseline when it comes to his personality and i explored that in chanyeols story where he was the one who got it yet felt undeserving of it?
it’s affection. his baseline is affection. his baseline is warmth. for him as a person, a real person, his person. and not for anything else. and it’s nice to look at the people that gave that to him, the people that didn’t and the reasons behind it.
his biological mother couldn’t give it to him because she gave him away before she could. (the only exception being the first moment in the hospital room 26 years ago.)
his biological father couldn’t give it to him seeing as he didn’t even care to know him.
his adoptive parents couldn’t give it to him as they only saw him as a prop next to jade vases and ricepaper fans.
his first love marie couldn’t give it to him even when he thought she could, but then in time he realized she never loved him for him. realized she never loved him at all.
his grandfather has given it to him, as he sang with him to old tunes and learned him how to cook. his grandmother did too before she fell away.
frederic and halit gave it to him, freddy when he cemented himself as his first closest friend and halit when he pulled him along and shared his family with him. they both gave him a home, and they both gave him the concept of best friends.
julien too gifts it to him now, as he has poked through the shields that is yuddy and has never stopped grasping at the heart that is jerome.
its interesting. it’s all interesting and i’m kind of content that i threw this headcanon out there? or wrote it. (even if not many people will probably read it because of the content matter or because its dumb long or other reasons) because its really a start for me to explore jerome other sides more, the other important things. with the marie story half way finished and her changing in severity in his life, it’ll be interesting to further explore the facet that hurt jerome the most. bloodlines.
ok i got to stop because literally no one is having time for my wall of mess i mean wall of text and its getting way too late/early whilst i wanted to reply to some dms so im just going to grab my phone and start typing there. until i fall asleep. which honestly can be in a few minutes as today was stressful (my cat couldnt poop and i cried lol i’m actually a mess.) 
ALSO if you read the story, the program seulgi watched when she saw jerome for the first time was You Hee-yeol's Sketchbook when DEAN was on. and the songs she heard where HALF MOON (D) and ORDINARY PEOPLE. (which are probably one of my favourite performances of dean.) easter egg. or something like that i dont know-
ok naomi out
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*uses a gif of my sweet winter child as i haven’t used one in ages*
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PART ONE HEHE Hey i rlly need some prompts. If you can😸: B's sister passed away. B and Bs mom r fighting to take the custody of B's nephews away from the kids dad (alcoholic and reckless). The children (C and D who is 6) dont really like B (especially C, who is 16) bcause hes not that responsible either, but B is the only one who his sister trusted to take care of her kids. I dont know if Im making myself clear. Its like, i got the idea, but i dont know how to put it on paper.
PART TWO HEHE I hope you can help me. I haven’t really done my research so, if something sounds childish or “telenovela mexicana"ish, please let me know
This is something, that if done in the right way, isn’t going to be childish! It will make for a really interesting story! :) Sorry for taking ten thousand years to get back to you, I’ve had some things™, as always, going on! x
So, C and D have just lost their mum, which is obviously a hell of a lot to deal with for a 6 and a 16 year old and it’s going to be harder for them, when they don’t have their fathers support.
Some things that you need to consider are;
Do they want to stay with their dad?
Do they want to live with their grandmother?
Obviously they’re not a fan of B, but why? How is he irresponsible compared to their alcoholic father?
Does C want to raise D himself? Often teenagers in that situation will feel responsible for their younger sibling and don’t want the help from other people.
Why did the sister trust B to take the children, especially if he is irresponsible?
Is C acting out after losing his mum?
Do C and D try to run away?
Secondly, you will need to do some research into the custody battle. I don’t have a lot of experience with this, but here are some things you will need to talk about.
Their will need to be a social worker involved. Perhaps they are the person the children feel safe turning to.
You’ll have lawyers and court cases. It is a lengthy battle, gaining custody of children. It won’t happen over night.
B’s feelings about it all. Is he prepared to go through all this for the kids, or is it just something he is doing because he feels like he has to?
As for dialogue prompts!
“You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not my real father!”“Like your real father is that much better?”
“We don’t need you! We can take care of ourselves!”“You’re 16. Like it or not, you need me!”
“Why are fighting to take my kids away?”“Because they need a parent.”
Hope this helps! Let me know if you want something different :) 
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nate-the-ok · 5 years
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Sugar Napkins Glass
One of my larger projects, written in a particular mood, then I got out of the mood. Lost interest. Its a time investment, fair warning
Sugar, Napkins, Glass: Chapter 1
           Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The things sea air does to cream cheese.
           Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. (Three more furious scraping sessions)
It was late evening on the isles of Costa Marco, and Greg Sattle was deeply contemplating how drowning actually felt as he psychologically held his nose and cleaned the day`s cream cheese stains from the floors of his seaside café, The Port Side. He certaintly never imagined himself as the owner of some cream-colored scene out of a Martha Stewart Magazine, but crazier things have been done for love. Well perhaps not, Greg thought to himself. Ships were launched. Hundreds, perhaps thousands have died. But no one surely would subject themselves to ten years of imprisonment in a coffee shop. Her name, as apt as names go, has changed over the years. First, it was Elizabeth. Then, it was Liz. Then it was Ellie. After that it was Mom. Now its…well there are a plethora of profanities on Costa Marco relating to nagging old sea hags.
As the sun set over the ocean waves, bubbling and rippling the light from a distance, inducing a trance-like state for all of the barely clothed onlookers, Greg scanned the beaches, reigning down his mighty judgement upon all of god`s creation.
“Perverts. Sicophants. Mankind is a disgusting thing. All of these people, living artificial lives in artificial clothes, with artificial personalities, having sex with each other and drinking and lazing about. The fat jiggling bipeds live meaningless lives, consuming and consuming and consuming. A colony of walruses lives with more honor”
While deep in his sociopathic rants, Greg`s only son and heir to his legacy, Samuel, sauntered over to his father.
“Hey uhh, dad”
Greg hated his son. He was positive that he was the dumbest person on the entire island. No, the entire planet. It wasn`t even that that bothered him. It was his stupid, rage inducing manner of speech. It was a cross between the calm, swaying way of the islanders, and a lifetime of listening to the worst music god ever created. It was like listening to a four year old whine about having wet himself for 23 years. There were many occasions where Greg would chuckle to himself as Sam stubbed his toe on a door, or got beat up by a gang of street thugs. Ah the glories of cosmic justice he thought to himself. Now he approaches, likely to ask for something, as all weak willed individuals do on a regular basis.
“Yes Sam?” Greg said with obvious disdain, mocking Sam`s imperceptiveness, and crying on the inside that his son would always be, that stupid.
“I was just wondering if you wanted to loan me like uh…fifty bucks?”
Another thing that bothered Greg about Sam. He had zero charisma. He came off as needy and useless as he actually was. The only job he could ever get, was washing dishes at the cafe, which somehow, he still showed up late for. You couldn`t send him to military school to straighten him out, because they`d probably kill him for being such an annoying little shit, and say it was an accident. It was that part, that he regretted that his son would die, that really bothered Greg. Why god? Why other than by blood relations should I care about this…
“What exactly for?” Greg retorted
“Um…Im taking a girl on a date and I uh…need some spending money”
It was here that Greg paused. Surely, with this small investment of mere material gains, perhaps this will finally change sam`s silly ways. Hopefully he falls in love with this girl, and eventually she breaks his heart, that always toughens up a man in the end. Good god was sam a virgin? It`s a distinct possibility, but how could he know? Sam never confided in Greg. Ever. What the hell. Maybe it`s worth a shot.
“Sure, here…consider it a bonus…actually it`s not a bonus you`re a terrible worker and if you weren`t my son i`d fire you”
“Thanks dad!” Sam replied with renewed elation, as he scurried out the door, hopping into the old convertible Greg had gave him for his nineteenth birthday. Another failed attempt at manning him up.
“Maybe im just a shitty parent” Greg said out loud to himself.
Maybe he`s a lot of shitty things. However, that`s not nearly the most important part of this story.
“Oh a whisky oh a danny, when will the whisky run dry?” Bellowed each member of the small crew. Caribbean lobsters were rare, but in recent years, their populations blossomed, for almost unfathomable reasons. Regardless, dozens of fishing companies cropped up around Costa Marco, looking to cash in on a commoditiy, which pound for pound, was more valuable than gold. Of this small crew of the “Sandy Boot”, there was Rook, the boats` captain. He was a truck driver, for more years than he cared to remember, or forget for that matter. When the sea called to him, he remembered childhood stories his grandmother told him, of sailors and pirates, of heroes, and most importantly, drunks. Those decades of sitting in the cab of a truck, passing by non-descript highway rest stops and meaningless landmarks gave him a hunger for a real culture, and companionship. Sure there was the occasional bar-room hookup, as many as a guy as old and as fat as him could get but…he wanted a friend. More than anything.
           Rook did the song justice, and drained the last swig of whisky from the clear glass bottle. Happily giggling as he spun the thin aluminum wheel around in the cabin making a course for home, while the other members of the crew scoffed in sarcastic disappointment. The small lobster boat only cost the crew a collective fifteen grand to purchase and insure, but had already made them incredible returns. None felt the weight of that more than Trip, the crew`s most experienced fisherman, but also the poorest. You see, Trip was a local to Costa Marco. His ancestors were slaves, and each preceding generation were slaves. First to white men, then to oppressive governments, then to drugs, and finally, to the sea. Many of the ethnic locals to Costa Marco are fishermen. But not all of them were ever good fishermen. All of them, save for Trip. To anybody else, he was just another kid who knocked some poor girl up, and ruined the rest of his life, trying to take care of a kid. To Trip and Louisa, they were in paradise. Sure they lived in a small apartment by the docks. Sure they didn`t own a car, or even have a checking account. What they did have however, was the kind of love that we all refuse to believe is real, and a beautiful baby boy to match. Their life went as followed. Trip would get up early in the morning, and join the rest of the crew on the boat to fish. Louise would wake with the sunrise and feed their child, sipping tea and reading books, gossiping with her neighbors on the beach behind their home. As the sun went down, she would build a fire, and cook a meal of chopped fish and island fruits. When Trip returned, he would walk onto the beach, lay on the sand next to his wife, take his son in his arms, and they would laugh until the fire left their minds, and fell to embers. When the clock struck ten, the three of them would settle down to bed, and the process would begin again. I`d wager that at the time, since Trip had finally been able to bring in good money, they were the happiest people alive.
           As that rusty old boat pulled into the docks, and Trip called to Louise, Margo was tying off ropes, and looking over cages that had been damaged, eager to repair them. She was a kind of inquisitive, thoughtful human being that had been completely ensnared by the mere concept of rope in general.  She could not explain just how-hold on a second, a woman? On a boat? Believe it or not, yes. A woman on a boat. Perhaps it was because Rook`s guilty pleasure was staring at her ass when she pulled a cage up from the sea. Perhaps it was the fact that on Costa Marco, everyone was too laid back to care at all. In reality, it was the mutual understanding between workers, that if you wanted the money, you worked hard for it, and you weren`t a total bitch, then you could fish like anyone else. It was that kind of atmosphere that Margo really craved. The kind of togetherness and happiness that was alive in the isles of Costa Marco. She could walk the streets on a Friday night, and join any party she wanted. Smile with whoever she wanted, laugh with whoever she wanted, and drink with whoever she wanted. It was her other craving though, that drove her to the fishing industry, and to the seclusion of the house she was able to purchase, just outside of town.
           Cinnitar. A strange name for an incredibly popular opioid. It`s popularity wasn`t in it`s nature or it`s flawless marketing. It`s popularity was based on it`s safety. Margo would walk home from the boat after Rook distributed the previous day`s pay, spend a third of it on Cinnitar, and crash at her place, unwinding slowly into a peaceful, yet dreamless sleep. The gimmick associated to Cinnitar was that no matter how much of it you took, you couldn`t die, and there were virtually no side effects. While initially created to humanely kill family pets, when the formula was released to the general public, crafty chemists soon realized the drug`s massive potential. Margo had a massive amount of reasons to take the drug, but only one that she really couldn`t get out of her head. Her Abortion. Breaking up with Grant. She wasn`t supposed to feel guilty. It was the right thing to do. She was taking control of her body, and her life. Where did that ever get her? Where could it have gone? These kinds of questions only frightened her more when she knew Trip`s story, and watched his family eat dinner on the beach a hundred times. She wanted that, more than anything she wanted that, but she made that choice a thousand years and a thousand miles ago, and there was no way to go back. So it was here, that she would lay back on the hammock, ladle some Cinnitar into her arm, and imagine she made the choice she wanted, maybe even the right choice.
           Suddenly, the newest member of the crew, Spencer, was knocking at her door. Margo couldn`t even stand to respond, and hoped he would just go away. She only ever invited him over along with the whole crew one time, as a housewarming party, but besides that, she had been a hermit. Spencer though, was persistent, knocking away like an idiot, because he saw her going in there…which yes, means that he followed her.
“Oh well, I guess she was just tired from fishing today. It was pretty hot out” he sighed to himself.
           Margo relaxed back into her hammock. She liked Spencer. As far as guys went on all the islands, he was pretty cute. But it had only been…two years? Since she up and left her home in Georgia to find her way in the carribean, just to throw herself at the map and see where she could stick. It had been a long time, she thought. Maybe too long. Maybe she should give Spencer a shot, she thought, but before she could explore that line of reasoning, another wave came over her, and she was further back in that hammock than ever before, further back in her past and her guilt.
           Walking home at night on Costa Marco is a very surreal experience. There are Boas hanging in the trees, pigs and dogs scurrying about, and when you hit the city, it`s a complete paradigm shift. There are vibrantly dressed locals and self-proclaimed locals dancing and drinking and laughing, jabbering and swooning to the hastily strummed guitars and battered drums. When Spencer left that small but happy place in the world, he turned down the many streets until he reached his own little cobblestone corner. Really a treasure of an abode, an old colonial townhouse, shoulder to shoulder with the infinite, but not quite well laid out rows of the other townhouses. He turned the old iron key, creaking open the heavy wooden door, into his own little grain scented shelter. Throwing wood into the fireplace, and firing up his laptop, he began to peruse his greatest passion… bread. Artisan, hand crafted, wood baked, the boy was obsessed. You see, Costa Marco was surprisingly devoid of this kind of bread industry. No dish, local or otherwise served or prepared on the islands required it, in fact, one would be looked upon with a small amount of disdain if seen eating a sandwich. This kind of atmosphere suffocated Spencer. He wanted to share his passion for bread with everyone he knew, by opening his own bakery. You could imagine by this description, that Spencer was a simple kind of guy, but in a magnificently pleasant kind of way. Spencer had spent most of his life travelling, as his father and mother were both in the navy, which meant that for the most part, spencer grew up on naval bases and with other navy kids. They all wanted to follow right in line with their parents, as disciplined and honorable scholars, pilots, or sailors. Spencer wanted none of that. All he wanted, was his bakery. It is hard to determine when, where or how he became obsessed with bread, or why frankly anyone cares, but all this interest is a testament to, is the kind of purity of heart Spencer possessed.
“Just a few more weeks” Spencer muttered to himself with a smile,
“And they`ll all see”…He trailed off, sensing he was tired, and rising to his bedroom. With each thunk of the heavy wooden steps he thought of Margo. How pretty she was. How her hair glistened in the midday sun. How the waters rolled off her skin. Yes, this is love, he thought.
           The crew of the sandy boot were a lively bunch. The money was good, but what would it mean if they couldn`t buy paradise in…paradise. Poor old Greg was no exception. As he forked the thin steel key out of the decrepid lock of the café, and wandered over to his old Toyota truck, he began for the first time in his life, to seriously examine the choices he had made. For an inimaginable amount of time, Greg was locked in his relationship with Liz. Funny. He hadn`t even called her that in his thoughts in years. He could sense it. Just like how he sensed some asshole slowly crawling up his tail light on the old highway.
“Why I oughta” Greg snarled to himself, well aware that he only said that due to the fact thousands of other faces on the televisions did before him,
           What he “oughta” do became less and less clear. His stream of consciousness was inundated with images of graphic, brutal violences he would inflict on the morally devoid creature that parasitically perched itself on his mechanical posterior. While making a curve on the old road, he caught a good glimpse of the driver in his rear-view mirror. It was just some...average young woman. Really nothing of great stereotypical or demonstrative worth. Suddenly, a wave of sympathy overcame Greg. Maybe she was just having a bad day. Maybe she was just angry about something. Maybe he had tailgaited her some time ago, and this was her form of revenge. Maybe, and entirely possibly, she was thinking the very same thoughts he was in his car, driving home late at night. Wondering about all the things he had done, the bills he had to pay, or the big decisions he would have to make. And a big decision, he certaintly did have to make. And it would pertain to whether or not he would stay with Liz.
           It wasn`t like it was rocket science. Greg wasn`t always this spiteful, this mean, or even this domecticated. Liz hated camping. Before he met her, he could barely stay out of the woods.
“Yeah, Camping. Another thing to look foreward to when she`s out of the picture” Greg said aloud to himself, in rhythm with the soft country music on the radio.
“And that stupid kid of ours. He can be HER problem”. His voice began to rise with elation, as if the lightball was slowly coming on in his head.
“And I can finally smoke a cigar, inside or out…Hell ill be sure to ash`em right in the carpets”. The rhythm was infecting his reasoning, a little song being invented as he talked more and more.
“Oh yeah you bet it baaabay, that I`ll be smokin` up the town…do do do, pah do do pah pah… Oh yeah won`t be a clean carpet arooooooouuund” He laughed and tapped on his wheel as he sang his little song, all the way up his driveway.
           Greg didn`t even bother to go in the house anymore. The ol` salty sea skank (his favourite colloquialism), would always be there to ask him how much money he made at the café that day.
“It was your idea bitch, and you`d know how much we were making if you ever left the house”
Greg pondered that hypothetical strategy in an argument as he walked into the shed, and flicked then lights on. Upon the table, lay his only true love. His beautiful bearded lizard, which he named Tequila. Greg…Greg was the kind of guy who loved to watch things. To be in control. There was nothing Greg loved more than to feed Tequila, in the morning before he went to work, and at night when he came home. Despite the fact that all the simple lizard ever gave him was the occaisional eyeball lick, or even a rare nibble on his fingers, Greg interpreted that as true affection.
“Oh little Tequila, you look so hungry!” Greg said, opening the cabinet above the lizard`s massive tank, and pulling out a small colony of grasshoppers.
Greg thought for a moment as he fauned over his pet, and smirked when he said, “So hungry that these little sons of bitches…might not be enough”
Greg put the grasshoppers back in the cabinet, and pulled another tank up from the ground across the floor. Within, rested half a dozen garter snakes, just now becoming startled at being lifted on the table.
Then, with the methodical preparation of a serial killer, Greg donned a leather apron and a pair of leather gloves, grabbing the fattest snake from the tank, and sealing the rest away. Greg took time to examine the creature, ensuring that it wouldn`t be strong enough to possibly hurt cute little Tequila. Of course none of those snakes stood a chance, but even a scratch on one of his stubby little legs would deeply disturb Greg. He gingerly placed the snake in the opposite end of Tequila`s tank, pulled up a chair, cracked a beer, and just watched.
           Tequila was quick to take notice. It wasn`t very often that he had roomates. The new company was very exciting, but quite strange. Like an innocent, scaley puppy, tequila plodded off of his log, and towards this new arrival.
“Hold on a moment” Tequila thought to himself, slowing his pace as he analyzed the scent of the creature. He approached with caution…and a feeling…came over him…
           Within a flash, bits and pieces of his new friend were strewn throughout the sand, a chunk of it`s torso sliding down his gullet.
“No…Not Again!”
           Greg was sufficiently appeased by this display, and took the time to clean the cage while Tequila was occupied with his food, and changed his water.
“Isn`t it maaaaagic” Greg sang to himself, as he closed down the shed, and turned off all the lights, only dimming Tequila`s light in his tank.
“He gets scared of the dark…musn`t do that to him” He muttered, having thought about it and said that phrase a thousand times by now, it had become more of a routinely incensed nervous tick, for now  Greg would have to actually go inside his house, and face his wife, which especially as of late, had become thornier than Tequila. Yes, thornier. Nothing else… weirdo.
           Greg walked up to the bug screened back door, and as he climbed the second of the three steps, the light above the door came on, which meant that Liz was fast approaching, likely having seen Greg leave the shed. He opened the door, with her standing in front of him, crossing her arms and staring at him with pursed lips. She always had a flair for the dramatic. Never seemed to like existing in a state of calm or contentment. As far as Greg knew, she loved to be miserable and combative.
           Greg wasn`t really in the mood for one of her fits. He knew how the argument would go. He knew exactly what she would nag him about. The Café isn`t making enough money, the house needs renovating, you need to spend more time with sam, you need to work out. It was the last part that bothered Greg the most. His physique had never been exemplary, he knew this, and he thought she knew this. Where did this desire for a six pack and biceps appear? When she started to have to shimmy through the closet door sideways?
           After a single, tense moment, Greg simply put his keys on the hook beside the door, and walked on by. Sure it required one awkward shove, and really did nothing to appease Liz, but what was the point? All she wanted to do was argue till the sun came up.
           He casually walked over to the kitchen and pulled some raw fish he had bought from the market two days earlier, prepared a skillet, and began to sear it on the electric oven, not expressing a single emotion aside from blank disdain as she walked in, still pouting about…well he didn`t even bother to find out.
           He kept standing over that fish, casually turning from side to side as he grabbed various spices off the racks beside the stove. Ultimately, he found her performance entertaining and predictable. She had done this a thousand times. She would continue to do this a thousand times. It had been years since he stopped wondering what he could do, what he could say so she would finally hug him after a long day of work…again Greg felt regret.
“How terribly attached to a terrible woman have I become? I would be so much happier if I just…left. But I can`t…How fickle the heart is”
           He remembered when they first moved into the house. They had arguments yes, but they were small, never lasted long, and were always resolved. He thought that was the sign of how resilient they were as a couple. Over time though, with the innumerable failures of Sam, the highs and lows of the café, the hurricane…Their arguments grew more fierce. They could argue for hours. First it was a low rumble. Then it was a scream. At least he`d get the occasional “I love you” from her. Nowadays, he couldn`t even remember the last time he, or even she said it.
           He could remember the last time they cooked together. It was beef stew. He remembered the sound of her laughter as they casually splashed the red wine into the broth and their glasses. He remembered how warm she felt in his arms as they fell asleep on the porch, stinking of wine and spilled stew.
“Yes…that was the last time we were happy together” he thought to himself.
           He slid the fish off the skillet and onto a pan, turning around and placing it on the table, unsuprised to see he wife still standing there in the doorway, maintining that blank, judgemental expression. He sat down, pushed the plate to the side slowly, and motioned for her to sit down. Slowly, she rose from her stance, and took the chair across from him. After a long moment of silence, and losing the staring contest with the tribal figurine in the middle of the table, Greg spoke.
“Aren`t you tired?” He asked, deliberately, implying so much with so little.
In complete understanding of the implications, she replied
“I…Yes… I am”
“How long has it been…since you were actually happy to see me?” He asked, having completely forgotten about the fish growing cold beside him.
“Too long” She curtly replied.
There was another long pause as Greg began to feel a wash of emotions come over him. He really loved her. There was no denying that. He began to process the thought of her not loving him, images of her leaving, of her looking away when he passed her on the street. It began to destroy him in ways he couldn`t imagine. He couldn`t stop it, he had already set in motion.
“ Do you still love me?” He asked, having asked a thousand times before in the past as a rhetorical question, always replied with “of course idiot”, or “you know I do”. This was the first time he really meant it, and really wondered. And it really hurt.
There was another long silence. Everything felt colder, and darker to Greg. His life, and his worldview were hanging in the balance. The fact that she even took a second to consider sent him spinning. It felt like a knife was being pulled out of his chest, the sheer anticipation of what he knew would come next.
Liz rose from her chair, and took a picture off the wall. It was from years ago, when the whole family had taken their first vacation together. Greg was standing over Liz, his hands on her shoulders, as She was sitting on a canoe, sam in her arms, still a baby. She came back to her chair, and put the picture on the table, staring at it for yet another agonizing eternity.
“I loved you for who you were…but not for who you are”
He could not think. He could not speak. He responded as blankly and as simply as he could muster.
“In that case…I want you out of the house by next week”
“What? Greg that`s completely unreasonable” she said, which to Greg indicated that she wanted to go, and she wanted to for a long time. It also enraged him for some reason, that she would have the gall to break his heart, and still ask for reparations.
“I don`t particularly care. Actually, here`s the deal. I`ll give you that goddamned café, and ill keep the house, which I paid for by actually working at MY café. I swear to god if you say it`s somehow yours to give, the only claim you have was that it was your goddamned idea. It`s in my legal name, I did all the work to get the land, to build the damn thing, and still ran it for ten years. Take whatever damn money you`ve got saved and get an apartment in town. Maybe you`ll find a skinny Cuban guy to sleep with while you`re there!” Greg yelled.
“Just…fuck you Greg. Fuck you.” Liz replied, tears streaming down her face as she ran upstairs, the clunk of her suitcase slamming to the floor. Greg didn`t care. This was the hundredth argument they had gotten in, and he was making sure this was the last. He was angry, but only as a way to drown out just how upset he really was.  
The sound of the suitcase hitting the floor, of dressers flying open, was the melody to which Greg went on his laptop in the living room, and electronically transferred ownership of the café over to Liz. He promptly went into their bank account, destroyed the split account, taking what was his, and establishing his own account. “Hmm…She only has $38,000 left…How did she even earn that much?”. He didn`t bother to find out. He had now financially cut her out of his life. The wonders of the internet.
There was a pang of regret in Greg. Perhaps this was too extreme. Maybe it was, but there was no coming back from what he just did. Those two minutes of conversation could have gone a thousand different ways. It began to feel like he chose the worst way possible. All he wanted was for Liz to love him again, but instead, he pushed her away. Was it justified? After years and years of these arguments maybe it was. He just felt like he needed to…pull the plug, so to speak. Just to cut it off and end it. So, he reasoned, like any other case of amputation, it would hurt, but in the end, he would be better off. Still, he wouldn`t have an arm. That was ultimately the question. Would Greg rather have a cancerous, venomous part of his life that made him miserable, or not have that at all? What was worse? What Greg did know is that it was too late to wonder. He had tried medicating for decades, with know sign of remission. Now, Liz was coming down the stairs, and Greg began to be so upset that he couldn`t think of any more medical juxtapositions.
What was worse was that she didn`t even look at him when she went out the door. All he could yell at her was that the Café was her responsibility now, and she`d have to find a way run it in the morning. He remembered the keys in his pocket, and threw the café key in her car as she opened the passenger door to throw her suitcase in. She still did not look at him. She refused to look at him. Even when she was pulling out of the driveway, She didn`t even look towards the house, and sped off to town. So Greg stood there, on the porch, and for the first time in fifteen years, he cried.
It wasn`t like how he imagined. The house didn`t feel free. A weight wasn`t lifted off his shoulders. It felt empty. Like there were still parts of it that were actually hers. He wanted to call her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, that she should come back and they could talk things over. It was too late though. He knew her. She would take this whole incident to heart. She would go through with it, regardless of how she still felt about him. The ultimate issue was that they both loved each other, but they couldn`t stand each other. It was a sick, unhealthy way of existing, and Greg sought to excise those feelings as he cleaned up the bedroom and the bathroom, putting whatever she left behind in a box, which he was debating either burning, burying, or throwing at her whenever she found out where she lived. Fortunately she was pretty good about it… in fact it was too good. Maybe she had rehersed this. Maybe she was just waiting for this argument, the go ahead, the justification to finally leave. She had to have been thinking about it. Way more than he actually was.
           The reality was that when you`re married to a woman for thirty years, she accumulates more crap than she could possibly fit in one exceptionally large suitcase. She took the essentials, her clothes, her jewelry, so on and so forth. What did she leave behind? The kind of things that hurt to still see. Photos. Letters. Little arts and crafts, any kind of sentimental object.
“Regardless” Greg said to himself.
“This was going to happen one day or another…just when and how were the only questions…doesn`t change the fact that I still feel like shit about it.”
There really isn`t anything he could do except just sit on the bed, and imagine what life would now be like. Where his fit of rage and honesty really put him. He didn`t have a job anymore. That was something to consider. What could he even go for? He had a degree in business management, and sociology. He had years of experience running small restaurants. Those kind of credentials don`t get you far in this kind of a place. What really mattered was that he was old, fat, and…didn`t have Liz. He felt guilty about not being more sympathetic. About not feeling at all bad for essentially kicking her out in the middle of the night. It was just…her words. I loved you for who you were…not for who you are”. She had, without any kind of anger or impotice, said the most hurtful thing Greg ever heard in his life. He regretted ever complaining about her, even though that complaining was mostly to himself. He was angry, shocked, and plunged into this deep pit of depression all in an instant. The fact that he suddenly lost control of his emotions wasn`t forgivable but to Greg…it was understandable.
                                                 -----------
 Greg awoke the next morning, with a pain in his chest. The knife wound from earlier had moved to the center of his chest, slowly ripping and tearing. It no longer felt metaphorical. It was a literal, real pain, and as he saw it… it was all his fault.
“What am I thinking?” he said to himself, squinting his eyes as he sat up in the morning sunlight.
It was eight o`clock in the morning. He normally got up at six to get to the shop and open by seven, but what the hell. It`s not his problem anymore.
“I am a grown ass man and I`m pining after that hag?”
Oh god of course. The only reason he was sad was because he only chose to remember the good parts of their marriage which to be honest, were just as she described. They started good, and tapered off around… jesus a quarter of the way through? Did he not remember the endless, pointless, and frustrating fights they would get in? How she would blame him for how Sam turned out? No. He shouldn`t feel sad. The only reason he does was…human nature.
“Yeah… that`s gotta be it.” Greg thought.
He got up, and went through his typical morning routine, plus a mug of rum and fatefully, a cigar on the porch. As he took deep, long tokes on the sweet treasure he had denied himself for years, he began to remember what kind of a man he really was.
“Just getting in touch with my ego. It`s what Freud would want”
Suddenly, he remembered his only friend, and ran to the shed. He scooped up little Tequila from his tank, and placed him in a basket (formerly used for bath towels…why would you want a smaller towel? Why not just the one size towel? Another annoying mystery of Liz) beside him, pouring him a little dish of rum.
“This is the life eh Tequila? A bit of rum, the lazy island breeze, and the cool morning sun…I just feel like staying right here. Doing absolutely nothing. In that way I guess we aren’t that different eh little man?”
Tequila had already taken a few sips of the rum, and began to feel groggy, making a movement with his head that appeared to Greg as a nod.
“The food god has poisoned me…the sweet smelling liquid was a deception…”
The spiny lizard felt the warmth of the sun on his scales, and reminisced on the few times he ever saw the great ball of orange light.
“Perhaps I am dying…why else would the food god bring me here?”
Hours indeed did pass. The sun rose, and all the island birds were chirping and cawing. Greg used to think it was an annoying racket, but now, a little buzzed on the rum and having meditiated in this state for some time, it was a chorus, more beautiful and sanctified than any church choir he ever listened to as a kid.
Greg felt sore, and decided to rise from his seat, and noticed that Tequila had finished his bowl of rum, and now was listing around his basket, attempting to escape.
“I think it`s high time I did something…that I expanded your perspective”
He picked up Tequila, and brought him in the house. He had never left the confindes of his tank, save for the one time Greg brought him out in the yard to run around a little bit. He gently laid him on the couch, set out a plate of pre-killed grasshoppers and a dish of water, and closed the door behind him.
“I`m just curious as to what the hell happens” he giggled to himself.
“Also as to what…has happened”
He grew morose, and finally decided to assess the damage on what happened the night before. As he was pulling out of the driveway, he questioned for but a moment, the soundness of the decision to let Tequila have his way with the house.  Before he could consider that for any  longer, he saw Sam pull into the driveway, or attempt to. For the first time in his life, Sam looked truly angry with his father. Greg sighed, and pulled back in the driveway, getting out and leaning against the bed of the truck as Sam pulled in himself.
“Hey Dad can you tell ME what uh, happened last night?” Sam said, with a kind of difficulty that made it very apparent he was inexperienced with this emotion.
“When did you find out?” Greg said, with the kind of calm respect he never gave to Sam. He was innocent here. He deserved to be treated with respect when it came to this, of all things.
“Last night Dad. Mom`s staying at my place right now” Sam answered, still pseudo angry with Greg
You mean the apartment I pay for? Greg thought. No. This wasn`t the time for bitterness or sarcasm about anything. Not with Sam.
“Sam, I know you`re a man and you have a lot of things of your own to worry about and pay attention to but…you must have known this was coming”
“OF COURSE I did dad! I just never thought you would be the one to…do it. And that way? Do you know how mom feels right now?”
Greg sighed heavily, and moved to the porch. Sam followed, eagerly awaiting his father`s answer. Greg sat back down in his chair, and sparked up the short cigar he had been working on since the morning.
“Come on Sam…Sit down” Greg motioned to the other seat, formerly Liz`s seat, back when he and Liz used to do things like that together. Sam complied, and pulled the chair over to sit beside his father. Greg looked out at the island and the jungle, the ocean and the birds flying over the canopy. Sam sat staring at his father, incredibly nervous as to what he would say next. Greg looked over, and began.
“As you know very well, your mother and I loved each other very much, and that`s how and why you came about…but that was a very long time ago. Now we just make each other miserable, and we just need to go our own directions”
“That still doesn`t explain why you were so fucking rude about it” Sam said, calmly responding. It was the first time he had ever cursed in his father`s prescence, and frankly, it impressed him.
Greg took another cigar from the wooden box, and waved it as an offering to Sam. Sam nodded, and awkwardly fumbled the lighter as he lit it up. He coughed, and took the cigar between his thumb and index finger, resting his arm on the arm of the chair, the way all the mob bosses did in the movies.
“You know what kid…you`re right. Maybe it was a bit much for me to have done what I did and said what I said the way I said it last night. I can`t take that back…but you know what? If I did it any other way, your mom and I would have second guessed it, gotten back together, and six months later I`d be thinking about doing the exact same thing again. I know it was a shitty thing to do but…that`s how your mom and I are. That`s how it would have worked out either way”
Sam didn`t seem satisfied with the explanation, and kept looking off in the distance, waiting for a further explanation.
“Listen, just help your mom out for a few weeks so she can find a place and get back on her own two feet. I assure you, after all of this is over, her and I are going to be far better off, and you`ll start to see that in both of us”
Sam continued to stare foreward, but then began to speak.
“I just can`t understand it. How two people can be together so long and now…it just happened so fast”.
“Yeah kid… it still kinda feels like just a…nightmare right now. Like it hasn`t really happened”
“Do you still care about her?”
“I`m…I`m not sure”
They now both stared foreward. For the next moment, Sam put the cigar in his mouth, stood up, and went to his car without saying goodbye. Greg couldn`t imagine it. He had lost Liz, and now he wasn`t sure if he had lost his son. It felt wrong, but he indulged his desire to ash his cigar, which had gone out in the long pauses of his conversation. He leaned over the chair to the rug, made two little eyes, and pondered what kind of face he should make. Had everything happened the way he thought, maybe it would have been happy. Had he really and truly regretted his decision, it would have been sad. All he could accomplish was a long, straight, simple stroke along the pattern.
                       There is a kind of surreal nature to the inside of Spencer’s bedroom. The junglewood timbers and the two hundred year old stonework of the roof are the first things he lays eyes on in the morning. When he gets up and looks around, there is a computer, and a primitive modern plumbing system jammed into the old washroom. The space felt hijacked by modern amenities and the ever demanding creature comforts of a technological generation. As Spencer rises, he is careful to have a steady hand as he shaves with the straight razor he bought at the old market when he got off the boat, appalled by the apparent lack of multiple blade technology. While it had been six months since then, and his aim had improved, not a week would go by before he would give himself a solid nick on the jaw, and he would be reminded of this embaressment when the salt of the sea was splashed in his barely visible wound.
           He was always a hard working kid, who quickly got over the whole “up ‘for dawn” moans and groans that were associated with being a professional fisherman. It took a particular kind of talent to get in his fishing overalls and his graphite grey hoodie, make a decent pot of coffee in the five dollar French press he had to work with, and head down to the docks in time, all with only three lights in the house.
           While it was dark in his house, when Spencer began to walk the streets is when his childhood fears really began to resurface. At least at night the darkness was always dulled by the sound of music and the songs of drunken tourists. This early in the morning, most everyone who was out the night before was holed up somewhere, or was enigmatically dumped in a gutter, resulting in more than one occasion when he would accidentally kick one. The resulting groan would scare the hell out of Spencer, sending him nervously jogging down the street for a moment, before he looked back and saw a tattered figure slowly shift on the ground. The sight gave him no relief, but he endured.
           The morning air in the town of Tileo had a bitter, metallic tang to it, which began to mix with the smell of dead or dying fish and sea air as he approached the docks.
“soon… it’ll be cinnamon… flour… rye” Spencer said to himself, panting as he shuffled towards the docks.
           Rook was always the first to greet the crew as they arrived. He didn’t wake up any earlier than the rest of them, he just slept in a little house by the dock where they docked the boat, always fiddling with a lobster trap or studying the weather reports when Spencer walked down the dock and jumped on the boat.
           “early as always” Rook slurred, not taking his eyes off the monitor.
           “I thought we established that you liked that kind of thing” Spencer slurred back, stacking the fixed traps on the back of the boat.
           “I do, but one day that enthusiasm will kill you”
           “trust me man, if the money weren’t good, I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic” Spencer replied, standing up to put his gloves on and give a cordial wave to Trip as he jumped on the boat, only a few minutes later than Spencer.
           “Hey Trip how`s it going?” Spencer asked, in the way he had been for the past four months. It seemed too sarcastic, too obnoxious to say “good morning”. There was an unspoken pact agreed upon by all the crew members to avoid the phrase in general.
           Trip gave Spencer a hearty pat on the back, and leaned over to help him drag in rope.
           “Feel good enough to make some money…shit it`s colder than a witchs’ teat today”
           Spencer was proud that he taught Trip that phrase.
           About fifteen minutes later, Margo appeared, quickly plodding towards the boat, hood up, her hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie.
           Ironically, she was the sunniest of the crew, typically buying something for the whole gang so they wouldn`t have to fish on empty stomachs. Today, it was a plastic netted bag of oranges.
“Thanks darlin’” Rook muttered, catching the orange as she tossed one to each of the crew.
           A few more moments were spent organizing the tackle and throwing overall straps over shoulders, and then Rook gave the word to cast off.
           The rhythm of work had become as automatic and unconscious as breathing to even Spencer. It went as followed. See bouy. Throw hook. Drag up trap. Empty trap into tank. Either stack the trap, or throw it back. Really the only person who had to actually think about their job was Rook, scanning the computer screen, and his paper maps, trying to find his traps and direct the crew which traps could wait, and which traps to pull in.
           Due to the constant, straining mononteny, conversations between the crew would be running, and incoherent as they haul in their catch. Despite how this description sounds, they did not suffer at all under this strenuous labor. When each lobster dumped in the tank essentialy was another five bucks in each of the crew`s pockets, they had very little reason to complain. This kind of money, fishing easy waters, attracted drifters and shills, old hands and young hopefuls alike. The beauty of most of these fishing boats based off Costa Marco was that hiring and firing, well that was all at the captain`s discretion, weeding out all the lowlifes who didn`t meet the island`s “exacting” standards. The territorial government of the islands was almost non-existent, which led to virtually no enforcement of labor laws. Rightly so, because the fishermen of Costa Marco lived under a non-verbal, contractual agreement. To work hard, not to piss anyone off, and to enjoy life once in a while. If you were the wrong kind of personality, the wrong kind of person, hell even if the captain thought your fashion sense was abhorrent, all of these things were grounds for firing. The result? A tightly knit community of hand-picked fishing boats and their captains. Now it would be obvious to discover that most boats had some unfair preferences for their crews, locals picking locals, Hispanics picking Hispanics, black captains picking black crews, all of this was rampant and obvious, but nobody complained. It was more like a friendly competition, to see who, or what kind of person could really bring in the most cash. Which really befuddled Spencer, who finally decided Trip might not be offended if he asked Rook why he brought on Trip.
“Hey…Hey Rook?” Spencer asked, panting as he bent over to throw a trap in the water.
Rook looked up from his monitors quickly, obviously bored with his task as the weather seemed to be pretty much dead for the day
“What`s up Spence?”
“I`ve been working on this boat for a while now and…”
“Yeah?”
“I know how things are around here…Ah let me cut to the chase”
“Spit it out man” Rook asked, laughing a little at Spencer`s awkwardness.
“I`m just wondering why you brought on Trip…I mean, I know he`s a good fisherman and all, and a really nice guy, but…From what I see that isn`t what most people do around here”
Trip looked up from the back of the boat while spencer was asking his question, shrugging his shoulders and smiling, as if he couldn`t help just being an awesome guy, but his mood became serious when Spencer finished, his gaze turning to Rook.
Rook paused and stroked his salt and pepper beard, taking a quick glance at Margo, and then returning to his thoughts
“You said it yourself. Great fisherman, great guy. What else could I ask for?”
“Yeah Good point good point…” Spencer became nervous, as he now looked like a flaming racist.
“Oh don`t go shaking in your boots now Spence. I know you meant well” Trip piped up, grinning at Spencer, empathetic to his existential plight.
Spencer smiled nervously and shook his head, sighing as he bent back down to throw another trap.
           Margo, largely oblivious to this whole exchange, staring off into the ocean, readied the last hook for the morning. Throwing it with impressive accuracy, a skill that was acquired over years of experience, and thankfully carried over to horseshoes. The effects of her habit were unpredictable at best. Sometimes she would be warm and sunny, optimistic and happy with the disposition of freshly poured chamomile tea. Other times, it was exactly as a hangover should be, a writhing, seething pain in her gut and a pounding in her head that always drove her to the point of swearing off the stuff for good, and made her despise every ray of sunlight or moment of attention thrown her way. Today however, was a great day. She had long figured out the exact formula for warding off these hangovers, that being exactly seven and a half hours of sleep, with two cups of coffee and half a lemon before leaving for work. That recipe always perked her right up as she made her own stroll down to the docks. It was that state of contentment, a lack of bereavement, that was almost better than getting high itself. In this kind of condition, she was really and truly just a fisherman on an exotic island.
            As the crew halted work for the lunch break, huddling over the canvas covered interior of the boat as the midday sun bore down on them, Margo decided to make a tactical move. For almost a year and a half, she would always turn over a plastic bucket and sit between the two fiberglass benches that ran the length of the covered section of the boat. Rook would wheel around his chair in the cabin, opening the door to talk to the rest of the crew, Trip would sprawl himself out along the right bench, and Spencer would sit, with a hunched posture, nervously leaning against one of the polls holding up the canvas on the end of the left bench toward`s the captain`s cabin. In this fantastic mood she was in, she decided to sit directly next to Spencer. Within a far closer proximity than could be deemed permissible between coworkers or aquaintences. A single hand length, to be exact.
           Spencer, munching away at a chicken wrap he had constructed himself, tried to play off the gravity of such a maneuver. Surely her bucket was no longer suitable for sitting, after all a rather rotten lobster did explode near the bottom. No amount of bleach could…
           Never mind that tragedy! This wasn’t some kind of middle school panic attack he should be thrown into. Enough fanticising. Just…talk.
           Thankfully, Rook broke the slow silent munching between the four of them.
“You know Spence, you were a little right about earlier”
“About what” He calmly,, yet nervously responded.
“About how it was unusual I took on Trip”
“Oh yeah?” Spencer calmly replied.
“You see… there is a story attached to his being here”
Trip rolled his eyes and scoffed, laying back on the bench in amusement.
“About oh I`d say coming on six years ago, I was just a lowlife truck driver, travelling the mainland for no other reason than sheer boredom.”
Spencer was relieved this appeared to be a happy story, as was indicated by Trip`s relaxed posture, and apparent annoyance for hearing this story-
“Close to a dozen times you`ve told this story old man” Trip piped up packing away his belongings, quickly trying to get back to work
“Oh ho ho not so fast there man, and that`s an order…I`m telling the story and you`re going to like it” Rook commanded, pointing one of his thick, calloused fingers at Trip.
Trip dramatically slumped his shoulders, and plopped back on the bench with a grin on his face, and his hands covering his cheeks.
“You see, one day down by Orlando, after hauling a whole bed full of toilet paper, I decided that I had had enough of that shit…”
There was a long pause, when nobody would appreciate his-
“Woooooooow” Margo said
“I know right?” Rook grinned, chuckled to himself a bit, and moved on.
“I just parked the truck by the beach, and took some time to weigh my options. After a long while of just watching the um…sunset…yeah the sunset”
“Huh” Margo sarcastically snorted, fully aware of his “admirations”
“As I was saying” Rook continued,
“All of the sudden, this crazy sonofabitch just runs a ground, right on the beach, out of nowhere, clinging to the steering wheel like Ahab”
Trip now began to nervously recoil, smiling and giving one or two laughs as the story continued
“Me being the only one there who wasn`t passed out, who actually knew what was going on there, I ran over to check out what was going on”
“Ran?” Trip asked with the foxy smile that dressed his sarcasm.
“Shut up asshole I`m telling the story. How about when you tell it you can say I flopped like a seal and dragged myself across the beach ok? Christ”
The crew now laughed in unison at Rook`s flustered anger, so much so that even he couldn`t keep a straight face.
Stopping himself to guffaw every now and then, he proceeded,
“So…heh, this guy is just like…completely out of it, absolutely dead tired, and I ask him, “Hey man are you okay?”, and heh heh, this guy just said, “I`m going to be a…Father!””
Spencer laughed the loudest, Margo only laughing because his was so infectious. She had heard this story a couple times before, but she didn`t want to seem too distant.
“I know! With the dramatic pause and everything!... Jesus Christ that was so damn funny, but let me tell you, I didn’t let him know that!”
Rook settled himself, and resumed in more technical terms, talking with his hands as he described the next part of the story.
“So Trip here was hungover something fierce, and judging by the bottle in his hand, he was trying to drink his way out of it. That didn`t really help his situation, because he was almost three feet on shore at that point, and nobody else seemed to give enough of a damn to help. At that point, only a few people had whipped out their phones to take pictures of it”
“You know I`m really disappointed that I don`t get to tell this story, because I`m sure someone must`ve called the cops” Trip added, partly shameful that he was drunk, alone, at sea, which is something every fisherman knows is incredibly dangerous.
“Well they only called the cops after I pulled the next stunt…so I got the idea to just unhitch my truck, and just… push him out to sea”
“No way!” spencer interjected, amazed that such a thing could even be accomplished. He remembered a time when the whole family was on leave, and the car his parents rented to go to the beach almost got stuck in the sand. Should`ve known better.
“Yes way, so I deflated my tires a bit, and after twenty minutes of that, I just drove out and over, and ever so slowly, pushed him out to sea. Now I had either neglected to tell him, or maybe he just forgot that I was going to do this, so he was just freaking out this whole time just screaming, “what are you doing you crazy white man!”
Rook had attempted to impersonate Trip`s accent in that last part, which got a good laugh out of the whole crew.
“So once I had got him free, I got a little thought in my head, and I just said “Hey, fuck it” and I jumped on the boat with him”
“That`s fuckin insane man” Spencer replied, noticing Margo almost hanging on his shoulder, the heat of her overworked body warming his right arm, just barely out of reach.
“Two days later, a few angry calls with the truck company and the bank, and here I am…you see that house on the end of the dock used to be Trip`s old dive, but I bought it for a pretty sum from him, and paid for most of the boat. And that my scrawny friend, is how a low down truck driver became the captain of a lobster boat. Fun story eh?”
           Work continued as normally as it does on a Saturday in the sea.  The only thing that changed really about the routine is that on this particular Saturday, Rook demanded that they all go bowling at the only lanes in town, which for reasons…disappointingly within comprehension, was called, “The Long Dock”.
           Nobody in the crew actually had a car, because really, there wasn`t a need. Besides, the only thing you could buy on the island were old steel shipping containers with wheels, or whatever passed for drivable in the pool of old Chevrolets or Cadillac’s imported back in the 80s. Only a small, select few of wealthy CEO`s camped out on the far side of the island actually had new, even nice cars, but they rarely mixed with the gentiles of Tileo. Why would they? The cobblestone streets were so awfully maintained that you could lose a toddler in the gaps. For the Crew though, they wouldn`t have it any other way. People like Rook and Margo grew up hating rich guys and their million dollar carbon-coated palaces. The real fun of Tileo was just walking the streets, brushing up against the occasional sweaty islander, weaving and winding through the historical pathways and not so new infrastructure. It was an organic experience, which began to clash at the bowling alley.
           You see, the only really well developed, actually paved road that ran through the outskirts of town, went by the alley. All of that roadwork and development had happened during the nickel mining boom back in the 80s, which “The Long Dock” truly reflected. Gaudy neon lighting, stale, pale concrete walls, and brushed steel and glass doors that looked like the rust was finally getting to them. In the parking lot, the dichotomy was clearly noticeable. On the right side of the doors, there were Maseratis, Porches, Mclarens, so on and so forth. On the left, were the old Ford trucks, the beamers, and even the occasional indian motorcycle.
           The inside of the alley was equally divided, hell there were even separate counters on each side. Over the last five years or so, the rich guys and their heirs began to notice something about their collective of mansions and resorts they called Keith`s Bay. What a god awful name it had, and how tasteless all their neighbors were. Each one would try to one up the other, adding an infinity pool or a twelve story New England lighthouse. Between the upper-middle class tourists and sheltered trust fund kids, a few of the residents formed a small clique, the only clique that ever ducked out of town for more than twenty minutes to go into the jungle and “focus their chi” with the maid. These ten or twelve guys were a bunch of savvy internet millionaires, old coal mine owners, and fast food moguls that felt that because they went to the bowling alley twice a week, they were the “real islanders”, and the rest of the whiney losers that just hung out in town were inferior to them.
           Of course the locals and others like the crew had some disdain for these guys. Not that they were rich, but that:
“They really just fuck with the way everyone is around here. I`ve been to that stupid fucking “Douche Bay” man. All it is, is a bunch of huge, white buildings…and I`m not a racist or anything Spence, but the whole place is just filled with Asians who don`t speak a lick of English”
“I think they`re Koreans man” Spence added, trying to break up Trip`s angry monologue with some analysis as they picked out their balls.
           Spence always chose a purple ball. He didn`t know why. He didn’t care. It`s just a habit like any other. But for some reason, he felt pissed that the guys from Douche Bay had monopolized the rack that the balls were on. No matter. He`d just use an orange ball. Fuckers.
           “What difference does it make? Asians are Asians man” Trip continued, waiting for his turn, as Rook, as a rule, always went first.
           “Hey man, you`re telling me you`re not racist, but that`s kinda racist to say. What would you think if I said hey, “Blacks are Blacks”. It just completely disregards the individual differences between the different groups, and believe me, they make the distinction” Spencer argued.
           “Well at least I look different than a guy from the Bronx or a guy straight out of Darfur. They all look like they`re all coming out of the same iphone factory” Trip grunted, tossing his first ball.
“Shit…a seven ten split” he muttered
           Rook and Margo laughed a little, and Spencer lightened up.
           “I don`t think the bowling gods appreciated that comment” Spencer said, waiting for Trip to attempt a spare.
           “Well whatever the fuck I think about Asians, the fact of the matter is that they`re being treated like slaves. They all live in these shitty condos and its like, fuck, why don`t they just build a bunkhouse and chain`em to the floor at night. They can`t leave, they all eat at the one Chinese-“
“Korean” Margo jokingly interrupted
“Fuck you Mo” Trip scoffed in an embaressed, high pitched laugh
Rook chimed in, grabbing the sides of his eyes to squint them, “Don`t you mean Fook yuu?”
Margo and Spencer mimmiked the captain, prancing around Trip, squinting their eyes and professing their love for ramen noodles. Trip`s unwarranted distrust of Asians was often the subject of teasing.
           After three games of heated competition between the four, Rook emerged as the winner, by only three points over Trip.
“A truly worthy opponent...well now my wrist`s sore. Who wants a drink?” Rook bellowed.
“Not me man, it`s already midnight, I`ve gotta get home” Trip trailed off, laying his ball back on the rack
             Chapter Two: Sour Shots
           The greatest part about the jungles of Costa Marco was that nobody seemed to be there. At least, that was the best part to Greg. Propped up against a tree stump, balancing a tin of coffee on a rock next to the humble cooking fire, he took stock of his provisions, seeing just how long he could stay in the mountains.
“Another week maybe. So long as I don`t mind eating rice and tuna for the last few days” he muttered to himself, hoisting himself up and sliding on his poncho
           It had been several months since he kicked Liz out. Or at least, that`s how everyone seemed to take stock of it. What Sam or the coven of witches Liz called friends thought about him didn’t matter He cared more about how many pairs of dry socks he had in his bag.
“It`s a midlife crisis” they`d say.
“He was always kind of an asshole”
“You deserved better anyway”
           After it all went down, he was barraged with calls from her friends, who either berated him, or acted as mediators for negotiations. That was how he got the money to take some time off. Climbing around the tight path of a mountain trail, he began to rant, as he always would when he was positive he was alone. The trees and the snakes were the only ones who seemed to listen anyway.
“She sold the fucking café…bet it was for a vacation with a little peurto rican guy” he grunted, hoping over a log
“At least she gave me half. Fucking half…goddamn I hate her. Every opportunity she got to tell me to fuck myself, she took it. Then she pisses and moans about being lonely…ha…never was a problem before I met you…”
           This kind of therapy could go either way for Greg at this point. He would either put a machete through a tree, or he`d end up laying on a rock, calmly listening to the rustling of wild boars in the bushes.
           He had the money to do these kind of things now. Early retirement was treating him well. But overall, he wasn`t satisfied.
           At least, not until he put together the perfect storm of simplistic material satisfaction.
“Ok Greg…just like the little seniorita in Kipp`s Cove taught you”
           He had stopped at the peak of the lush mountain cliff, sluffing off his pack and setting Tequila`s little wooden cage to the side, under the shade of a leafy bush. Pulling a couple of limes and a tin cup out of his pockets, he began to ruminate on his recent bar-hopping adventures. Greg was a real people person, a man of culture. It was also his personal belief, that the best way to understand a people and their ways was to drink what they drank, the way they drank it.
“And the Venezuelans are bitter socialists” he said, as he spat out the strange concoction he conducted from memory
           Watching the acrid liquid drip down the rock as the afternoon sun braized his skin suddenly gave him a bout of existential dread. This wasn’t the life he wanted to live. This wasn`t anywhere near where he wanted to be at his age. Farting around on a tropical island with a lizard, divorced, unemployed, pickling himself with every latin beverage under the sun.
“Christ…Pete`s a goddamned English professor. Josh has what- seven kids?” he muttered to himself, taking stock of the accomplisments of his old college friends.
“And I mean, Fred smoked so much weed we thought he`d lose a chromosome. Now he`s making six figures with a tire company”.
Greg`s morose self pity turned to anger, and then to a calm, quite acceptance.  There was a reason he went on these hikes. To disconnect himself from that kind of anxiety and appreciate his surroundings, slowly mellowing his mood with a neat burbon and Cuban cigar, allowing the breeze to massage his lurid eyes.
“Regardless…there needs to be a change” he said, swaying the bottle over to Tequila`s bowl, giving him a few more drops.
“Nothing major. The last thing I need is to go back to the states. They`d probably institutionalize me the second I got off the plane”
Greg chuckled to himself, feeling the handle of his machete gouging into his side as he took another swig.
“I need a simple job. A simple job, that makes me feel fulfilled *swig* as a man”
           By this time, the horizon was dark with storm clouds and an evening sunset coming on, creating a molasses enamel on all the rocks on the shore. In the distance, Greg could see the ships coming in, bobbing gently on the calm ocean glass. Soon, fantasies of being out on the open ocean fishing the ocean`s bounty danced across his addled brain.
“what a wonderful profession. Where being a drunk shrew is actually a virtue”
Or so he thought
             That night, a storm did indeed roll over the island. It was fierce, for sure, but not fierce enough to stop the festivities from continuing inside one of the many lively dive bars. There were even a few fishermen playing a rather extreme drinking game. If you flinched at a lightening strike, you drank. As you could probably guess, Spencer wasn`t doing too well.
“Look at him, still shaking like a leaf even three shots in!” Trip scolded
           It was true. Spencer was in fact, visibly nervous. Not neccesarily because the thunder and lightening were beginning to sear the masts of every boat in the harbor, but because the alcohol was beginning to convince him that now was the time confront Margo about his feelings. Rook, sporting an even longer salt and pepper beard, could see from the head of the table at the back of the sour smelling shack that the kid was going to make a big mistake. And, maybe, a small part of him was feeling territorial.
Placing his big paw of a left hand on spencer`s chest, he saved him
“ Boy, stay down. Look at these hands” he gargled, slamming a beer down in his right hand
At that moment, a flash and rumble, but not a single quiver from those beastly mitts.
Spencer was forced to try and get ahold of the reigns of his depth perception. Standing felt like something he was disinterested, the sullen and aged booth he sat at becoming fuzzy to the touch. Suddenly the seven or maybe only five shots he had downed had caught up to him all at once, and he wasn`t going to have any more, or else risk an incident like last month where Trip had ruined strawberries for him forever.
           Margo was far more sober, but certaintly not by choice. Nobody else had noticed but she had only finished half of her glass of light beer from the tap that may as well have been creek water given its quality and the horrifically poorly washed glass it came in. Her interests were growing more and more desperate with every joke or story she had to smirk and gesticulate her way through. The only thing keeping her from picking up her chair and using it to fight her way through the packed cigar box of a dive bar she was crammed in to get home and get her shit was the face that the storm outside could put a two by four through her chest at any minute. Death might be preferable to having to pan across the bar one more time to see the well exposed crack of Captain Stug`s ass trying to escape his cargo shorts at the bar. Stug was too old of a salt for anyone that wasn`t the bartender to tell him what to do, so on his ass marched outward as stug got more and more drunk. Christ. It was like watching a seal clubbing on national geographic. Could’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so hard to watch.
           “10 bucks I get this quarter in there” Rook said, holding the silver coin between his calloused index finger and thumb. Margo noticed that the whole table had been staring like she did. Spencer saw that others in the room were either giving Stug a wide berth, or sizing up their own marksmanship competitions.
           Looking to find some immature joy, Margo joined in.
           “I`ll fucking take that. You haven`t thrown a hook since I came on, doubt you could hit an ass crack at twenty paces” Margo joked. The others would have laughed if they weren`t all pushed to their respective limits. Margo and Rook slammed down what their bleary eyes perceived to be ten dollars a piece on the stained wood table, then Rook sized up his target. In one majestic, fluid motion the quarter left his hand, flying straight and true over the bar counter, tapping between bottles of whatever the hell Cesar could stack behind him.
 “gat..damnint” Rook grumbled, shuffling back into his seat as Margo swabbed her hand across the table, scooping up the crumpled dollars. She didn`t care. She needed to go home.
           The taste in her mouth was like she`d threw up a flower shop. She hated it she hated it she hated it. The heat and the sweat and the air and the smell the smell the smell. Too many people too many things, eyes, sandels, fucking stray cats every fucking five fucking feet in this tiny fucking block on this tiny fucking island. Home. She needed to get home.
           Margo suddenly, abandoning any kind of formal convention, stood up and walked out of the bar, the wind and rain whipping momentarily like a jack in the box as she opened and closed the door behind her. Spencer was too out of it to do anything, but others were slightly alarmed. A few, tired of waiting, tried to follow her out but were blown back by healthy gusts of wind. Spencer was worried. And he wondered why she would leave like that.
“Should we call the cops? No way she makes it out there!” he yelled to Trip and Rook
“Cops are busy enough, wouldn`t risk it. Woman`s always been skittish. Her house ain`t far so I wouldn`t worry too much. Either of you wanna hear about the time I got held up by a biker gang?” Rook largely brushed off Spencer`s distress, motioning to a waitress for more whatever would occupy his time. This grew into what could only be a fruitless and flirtatious conversation.
           Spencer turned to Trip for some sympathy.
“ Are you just going to sit back and let this happen?”
“ If anything man she`s got the right idea. I`ve gotta go check on my family at some point tonight. The whipping I`ll get if I`m not back by midnight oof” Trip joked.
           No one was taking him seriously, which would have made Spencer feel uneasy if he were more sober, but like any young guy with a background like his, he was curious.
           “well I`m going” Spencer said, gathering his wallet and finishing his drink. He put up his hood on his rubber coat, bracing himself for his excursion. Before he left, Trip followed behind him with his own boat issued rubber coat, and the two of them turned to give a gruff but well understood farewell to Rook, who was far more comfortable wading out the whole storm and then some in the back of that bar.
           “I think you`re crazy boy” Trip said to Spencer.
           “But good luck anyway. I`ll see you whenever Rook says its safe to work again” Trip said, putting his hand on Spencer`s shoulder, then opening the door, fighting the wind walking towards his home on the shore.
           Spencer couldn`t believe it, but the wind felt rather calm as he walked towards margo`s home. It was almost as if all the old geezers and shop owners were just trying to find an excuse to drink, or at least jumped on a better excuse than most. As he crossed the street past the more tourist focused bar with its stained colonial white walls, a gust of wind picked him up off his feet and tossed him on the cobblestone street, with every attempt to fight the gust and stand up just resulting in him being rolled another five feet down the street. This dance lasted for what felt like an eternity, until he crawled behind an old chocolate shop to get out of the wind.
“Sweet jesus…how the hell did Margo do in this?”
           Clinging hand over hand to the railings on the storefronts, Margo finally reached the trail that led to her home. All that it took was a run over a fairly wide patch of open ground to the start of the trail. Her mind wandered to the swaying of the trees in the violent wind, how small she felt as she watched a hundred trees move like dogs on a beach playing with a ball. Digging in her heels and thinking only of the sweet relief behind a mere hundred or so yards of woods. Thinking only of relief, of calm, of the comfort that awaited her so close in the present, her body moved like she was all tendon. Her desperation drove her arms and legs to precisely and intensely grip the trees and earth, when she stumbled, to nearly fling herself towards her front door. Her body slammed against the wood door like it was a queen sized bed with silk sheets. Before she could process anything else she was inside, and feet guiding her unconsciously to the drawer she kept her stash. Clean clean finally clean. Cold and clear and free free from fat hairy yellow toothed bastards.
           Sweet Christ. How did she ever go any longer than a day without this?
             Spencer wasn`t sure if she had made it home. The wind was getting worse and worse and there was no way
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no-ns-en-si-ca-l · 5 years
Text
If there’s a hell below • David Bell
I knew he was lying when he said I swear to god or I put that on my life. At any social event, the possibility of him running away at a seemingly inopportune time was highly likely. I was the one that would eventually have to search for him. Always on cue: "Do you think he's okay?" I'd slowly get up, walk out the door, and head toward the darkest place in the neighborhood. He’d be sitting in the glow somewhere, throwing rocks into a pond or carving shapes into the sand. I'd sit next to him and wait for him to tell me a story.
After most athletic competitions, both teams are made to walk in a line and shake hands with players from the opposing side. We had lost this game, and my friend walked directly in front of me, single file. Clap clap, nice game, good job, nice game, clap clap. When he reached one particular player, arguably the best on the team, he grabbed his arm and pulled him close—I'll slit your mother fuckin' throat, bitch—at the same time dragging his left thumb dramatically across his neck. A brawl broke out; he was so fucking believable, and there was nothing nice about the game after all.
"Ty…Ty…Tyrr…….David Bell...you are the winner!"
Fuck that shit, your mom either wrote my name wrong or that motherfucker was racist. I won that bike.
David
Yes? Coach Mike died… okay… You want to come home? …no no… …no
"Hey Mutt, I was thinking ‘cause you two are inseparable—and you're T-Mutt—that we call David D-Mutt. What d’ya think 'bout that?"
…no no… …no
He pointed to three people in the photograph with multiple fingers on one hand. Everyone kinda looked the same in the image. Shiny blue uniforms, proud, but not smiling. See these three guys? They were all witnesses, and each of 'em saw what I did, all threw in their badges the same time I did, and each and every one of them is dead now.
You dum! He'd call his mom in the room and while laughing say, Look at David, look how he eats his cereal, he doesn't put any milk in it! "Quiet Mijo, leave him alone," she'd respond to him, smiling at me, "David let me get you some milk."
We got in our first physical altercation when we went on a trip to Florida. I can’t recall what started it, and I’m not sure in that moment if I knew what it was about. At the end of it, we each searched the interiors in our mouths with our fingers to see where the blood was coming from: tongue, lips, cheeks, gums, holding out our hands to show each other. Look Look What What You You Did Did To To Me Me! He walked out the door fuming, said he was going home. I didn't know quite how he would do it, but I didn't see it as impossible…he was headed across the country on foot.
I want to work with underprivileged kids, he said. "That’s great." Yeah, I want to teach youth how not to behave when dealing with the police, how if they just listen and cooperate they won’t get hurt. Now that I've been a cop for a few years, I know that my father could have prevented his own death.
Yo David, did you get my card?
"What card?"
I want you to be in my wedding, my brother.
"Really?"
Really.
a choke hold.
an R S V In-ha-le ex-ha-l P
I never called him Coach Mike; I never called him anything. It added to my frustrated shyness. But I wanted to be his favorite; I knew he was paying attention. I got the nickname, no other people called me by it; maybe that’s what made it feel even more special. I had quit football the year before I met my friend, but after meeting his dad and knowing that he was coaching the team, I had to return.
He named me the M.V.P. after the first game we played—maybe the first (and last) thing I ever wanted and earned in competition. The next week in practice, after a drill in which there wasn't supposed to be much physical contact, I bumped into another player at a pace no more than a jog, and my right wrist snapped in half. I ran to the only person that I knew could fix it. "What’s up D.B?" he said without lifting his gaze from the rest of the team. “My arm is weird.” He looked down, “FUCK.” The next thing I know I'm sitting backwards in the back of an ambulance with my bone sticking out of my arm, watching him through the back window in his tiny Silver Prelude: his giant frame shrunken into a small silhouette behind the wheel, with hardly enough room for the sliver of a baseball cap to fit between his head and the roof.
It was the first time I had seen him since returning from Florida. We sat in my truck in silence for a while until he spoke. Everybody at the funeral was like, where the fuck is David?
At first I could never imagine him doing donuts in the parking lot of some shopping center, he always drove so stiff, looking in the rearview instead of turning his head. Yet as time went by, I encouraged the thought of it: a little smirk on his face with his cap low, something like a Curtis Mayfield “If There's a Hell Below, We’re All Going to Go” on the radio. Spinning, trying to dig a hole in the ground with his tires, flashy show off, painting the pavement with rubber. When they arrive, he's a faint shadow veiled by a thick cloud of smoke, arm out the window waving them in, here I am for you—blood fire! Red and blue club lights reflecting off his loose silver jacket, parked dead in the middle of a black infinity sign.
(Don't worry) How do you write a scream?
We used to say he lived in the projects, but perhaps because it was one of the only apartment complexes in the city at the time, or that one’s language simply doesn't change as fast as one’s environment. When I arrived on his street, it was blocked off to traffic—fire engines everywhere, and smoke billowing from the building across. From the top floor of his apartment, my friend stood out on his porch. "What happened?" I asked. Dude was running meth out of his apartment, saw him peace out on a motorcycle right before the entire building exploded. “How do you know?" You never fuckin' believe me, I saw it all, I swear to god my fuckin' hair caught on fire from one of the embers landing in it. I looked at his thin golden-brown afro. It looked as flawless as ever.
A few months later, I received a similar phone call only to arrive and find smoke coming from the back of his building. The door was already cracked open; he's standing there with a big smile on his face like it’s Christmas. We go to the back window and I see that the dried up river bed whose width spans the length of a football field has been scorched to black. Before any words are exchanged between us, there is knock on the door. Two firefighters, in full gear, helmets and all, are standing there. ''We heard from the neighbor that a kid was lighting off fireworks in their backyard, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Naw "Are your parents home?"
Maybe he got the job by calling one of those numbers where you pull the handwritten tab off the bottom of a sheet of paper stapled to a telephone pole. I didn't know exactly what he sold or did in general, but he had a briefcase with the gold spinning combo locks on each side that you popped open with both thumbs. It was a door-to-door-to-door sort of thing. The way the sweat poured off his brow when he walked in after a day’s work, you'd think he been hiking up to the top floor of the Rockefeller Center.
Fuck Football, the only reason I played was for my pops. I agreed, we had ditched school and practice and both decided to quit the next day. I knew there was nothing left to play for, and I had already stopped pointing at the sky. But my friend was too talented for the coaches to let him walk away, no matter what the circumstances, so only I was able to go.
We called it the bullet, shiny pockmarked, and rusty, glistening with labor, low to the ground, but ready to be a star. It was made in 1983, the same year I was born. It had been sanded down to silver as if it had gone through the motions of a new paint job, except it didn't make the final step, or didn't need it. I like it like this. The first time I saw it pulled over to the curb in front of me on my after school walk home, I panicked. My friend was sitting in the passenger seat, and his dad shouted softly across him "Hey D.B, you need a ride?" Of course I wanted a ride, but my words were not consistent with my desires, "Naw, Im good." I don't know if I turned it down because I was scared or if I didn't believe there was a back seat in such a tiny vehicle. He said alright and drove off. The next day I took the ride, and the next day and the next, until finally he asked, "Why don't I just pick you up at the school instead of you walking to this corner everyday acting like you don't want me to stop?"
BUK BUK!!
He slammed the guys head onto the concrete. Party's over.
[Fuck B.U.K] written on a cement wall, FLEXIN’
authority figure out. The picture tattooed, here, here and here then the dude came out the car with a bat, caught 'em by surprise gun talk role models jail time potential
I had noticed the sound for the first time while in the back seat driving up to Las Vegas. I was next to my friend, his aunt and grandmother in the middle seat of someone else’s borrowed van. He drove cozy with both hands on the bottom portion of the wheel. He was talking about something at a level we could all easily hear even way in the back. I noticed that at the end of his words, the faint sound could be heard. It was hard to tell if it was coming from his mouth or his nose, almost like a bit of trapped air being released through a valve, a muffled punctuation that always ended his sentences.kkuchh
For my friend’s brother’s wedding, I painted a portrait of their father. I chose to paint from the picture in the pamphlet from his funeral. The day he posed for that picture, he wore a suit with a dark red tie. Smiling with no teeth, somewhere between try me motha' fucker and I’m gonna take a real nice picture; you only got one shot, that’s it, how much do I owe ya. I think he posed for the picture knowing that it would be used at his own funeral, which is why to me, his face suggests, this is how you will remember me. I stared at this image for hours on end trying to get the expression right, simultaneously wondering if what I was doing was a good idea. While painting, I had to navigate the complexity of his skin. His forehead was darker than anywhere else on his body, at least anywhere else I had seen. For the rest of his face and head, I mixed reds and ochres, brown umbers, blues, and yellows. But his forehead, I had nothing to put into the black to make it seem more realistic, so it remained the color of his suit, straight out of the tube. After the wedding, his brother told me, “damn you got him, even his forehead.”
If you held a plastic bag into the air with the words EVIDENCE written on it in black sharpie, in it an object that—to my best guess—was an inhaler, and the question was posed, Did this belong to the deceased man that you refer to as—
"Speak up I can’t hear you!?"
I would have said, NO.
What type of man could catch another man who’s falling from the sky? They would have to be large, perhaps even two times the size of the person falling; muscle like a mother that grips to the bone preventing them from bursting out of the skin while absorbing the impact. The man who catches bodies from the sky would have to know himself well inside and out; when to bend at the knees, or drop to the ground, when to put his hands up and don't move! How to be still, shoot and at the same time brace for the worst. When one’s life is on the line, who wants to ask permission to reach in their pocket/survive? I just need my…I swear to…Freeze! He would have to trust, everything is going to be okay. I got you one by one, I fuckin’ love you, I put that on my life.
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