The fact that when isaac was talking to james about how he didnt actually like him he had loveless right behind him 🥹🥹🥹🖤🩶🤍💜

The Hadith of Gabriel

Umar ibn al-Khattab said: One day when we were with God's messenger, a man with very white clothing and very black hair came up to us. No mark of travel was visible on him, and none of us recognized him. Sitting down before the Prophet, leaning his knees against his, and placing his hands on his thighs, he said, "Tell me, Muhammad, about submission."

He replied, 'Submission means that you should bear witness that there is no god but God and that Muhammad is God's messenger, that you should perform the ritual prayer, pay the alms tax, fast during Ramadan, and make the pilgrimage to the House if you are able to go there."

The man said, "You have spoken the truth." We were surprised at his questioning him and then declaring that he had spoken the truth. He said "Now tell me about faith."

He replied, "Faith means that you have faith in God, His angels, His books, His messengers, and the Last Day, and that you have faith in the measuring out, both its good and its evil."

Remarking that he had spoken the truth, he then said, "Now tell me about doing what is beautiful."

He replied, "Doing what is beautiful means that you should worship God as if you see Him, for even if you do not see Him, He sees you."

Then the man said, "Tell me about the Hour"

The Prophet replied, "About that he who is questioned knows no more than the questioner."

The man said, "Then tell me about its marks."

He said, "The slave girl will give birth to her mistress, and you will see the barefoot, the naked, the destitute, and the shepherds vying with each other in building."

Then the man went away. After I had waited for a long time, the Prophet said to me, "Do you know who the questioner was, 'Umar?" I replied, "God and His messenger know best. "He said, "He was Gabriel. He came to teach you your religion. "

To begin explaining the meaning of this hadith let us flesh it out by adding some background information that would be obvious to the original listeners but not to a reader situated many centuries and miles away.

Try to imagine the situation. The Messenger of God, at the time the greatest human being on the face of the earth (as far as his companions were concerned - and the historical record bears them out), is sitting at the edge of an oasis in Medina with a group of his companions, that is, people who have accepted that he is the mouthpiece of God. Suddenly a man appears whom no one recognizes.

Medina, at the time, is a tiny community in the midst of the desert (with a population of several hundred or perhaps a few thousand). Everyone knows everyone. If a traveler arrives, it is no small event, given the difficulty of travel and the small population. Everyone learns about new arrivals within hours. The system of personal relationships established by familial, tribal, and other bonds ensures that news is spread around much more efficiently than can ever be accomplished by today's six o'clock news. A man appears whom no one knows, but no one has arrived in town for several days, except the uncle of so and so, whom several of them have already seen.

Not only do the companions fail to recognize the man, but he also shows no signs of travel, which is very strange. If they do not know him, then he must be a newly arrived traveler. Someone would not be able to freshen up that quickly after several days of travel in the desert, even if he had traveled only by night on the back of a camel. (You think you feel bad after six hours in a car-think of six days in the hottest and dustiest environment you can imagine, with no air conditioned rest stops for coffee or soda.)

As soon as the man arrives, everyone is all ears. Who can this person be, and how did he get here without our knowing about it? Next strange fact: The man is obviously on familiar terms with the Prophet of God. He comes right up to him and kneels down in front of him, his knees against the Prophet's knees. Notice that the Prophet himself is kneeling, not in prayer as modern Westerners might kneel, but simply because kneeling is, for most Orientals, the simplest and at the same time the most respectful way to sit. Remember that, even in houses, chairs were unheard of. People sat on the ground, as they still do in much of the world-and this includes some of the richest and most sophisticated parts of the world, such as Japan. For most of the ancient world, chairs were the prerogative of kings.

Excerpted from the book "The Vision of Islam" by Sachiko Murata and William C. Chttick

heyyyy, just wanteddd too seee ifff youu cooulddd writteee sommmeee karlll x time!travel readerrrrr, itt coouuullddd beee flufff orr anggssttt. whateeeveerrr youuu wantttt :] (morreeeee iiinnnffooo: reeaddderrr allsooo hasss the abillitttyyy to time travelll and karlll and themmm manageeedd tooo bump intoo each otherrr innn the innbetweeeennnn. bothhh offff themm telll storries aboutttt theiir adventuresss tooo one anotherrr and arreee having a gennuinely goooddd timme! tttheeeyyyy meeet agggainn in theeee lllooosssttt cittttyyyy offff mizzzuuuuu annnnddd youuu caannn dooo whatteeeveerrrr affftteerrr thhhatttt)

sorrryyy fooor myyyy tyyyypingggg ssstyyyleeeee (cccaaaannnn i beeeeeee "beeeee annnooonnnnn" bbbutttt wiithouttt theeee draggged outtt letttterrrssss? I ussseeeeeee beeeee/aviannnn/hiveeeee/boottttleeeesssss prrroooonnnnnouuunnsssss)

𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜

𝙺𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚡 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚛!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 (𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌)

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜: Karl(Isaac), Ranboo(Charles), Dream(Ranbob), BadBoyHalo(Benjamin), Quackity(Cletus)

𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜: they/them

𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: brief mention of suggestive content, death, murder, explosions, glass breaking, cursing, weapons, water

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎:

I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS HOLY CRAP!!! firstly, welcome "bee anon" (bee/avian/hive/bottles) to my account! its lovely to have you here and thank you so much for the request! i hope this adds up to what you imagined and i hope you stick around! :]]

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

The In-Between. Any entity that normally roamed around there knew the place well. If you visited there, you visited often. Karl regularly roamed around the in between. The only face he saw there was his. Karl’s from different timelines traveled to the In-Between as well, but ever since he had found those ominous books that told him to steer clear of the “alternate Karl’s”, that’s exactly what he did. So seeing a new face there while roaming the brick-white palace startled him.

The stranger didn’t even get the chance to introduce themselves when Karl briskly grabs them by the arm and starts running to the room under the tree. 

“Woah-! Wait are you-“

But before the mystery person can finish their sentence, Karl cuts them off as quickly as possible.

“SSHHHH! Please hold on a second, I’ll let you know when you can talk.”

The mystery person nods and stays silent as they make their way under the big tree.

Once they arrive, Karl flops to the ground exhausted from the running.

“It’s the safest down here, no one can see what we’re doing. But that’s besides the point! Who the heck are you and how did you get here?!”

The mystery person slides down against the wall and onto the floor besides him. They think for a second, trying to recall how they had arrived. 

“I’m Y/n, I’m a time traveler and somehow I got HERE instead of the place I was planning on going to. I was walking around and I saw a bunch of the alternate versions of you around the place but I figured that if one of them were to- yknow, drag me away and under the tree, that’d be the one I’d need to talk to that isn’t a fake.” 

Karl nods in understanding before he realizes. 

“Wait- how did you know about the safety room being under the tree? Or the ‘alternate’ me’s not actually being from other realities?”

Y/n looks at Karl with a deadpan expression and leans back into the wall. They swing their arms out in front of them for dramatic effect.

“Well duh, I have an in between! You aren’t the only one, yknow. Did you get a bunch of those creepy, contradicting books from all around the place? The one that told me the useful information was in all caps, and the other one was talking about how great the place is and constantly used smiles. Not the traditional one though, like, it used the brackets instead of the parenthesis.”

Karl shoots up in surprise, they had gotten those too?! He was never aware that there were other time travelers that existed, let alone were able to get into other peoples in between! He nods, eager to ask them questions.

“So, where were you planning on going? You said you didn’t mean to come here, right?”

Y/n nods, remembering where they were trying to go previously.

“Yeah! I forgot the name, but I know that it’s some place underwater. An abandoned city or something. Enough about me though, one of the main reasons we both time travel is to tell stories, right? So tell me about the places you’ve been! Also, what’s your name? You got mine but I never got yours.”

“Ah, right- I’m Karl-!”

Karl turned around and flipped up his hoodie to show his light gray initials embedded onto the white hoodie. Y/n had a long, white robe with vine-like accents on the hems. The ends of the sleeves had Y/n’s initials on them as well.

“Well… the first place I’ve ever visited was this place I like to call….’The Town That Went Mad’! Ever play the video game ‘Town Of Salem’? It was basically that and I was like the host of it, sorta.”

Karl proceeded to explain the different personas and people to Y/n, there were people like Cornelius the Wise, Helga, Miles Memeington, Mayor Jimmy- Helgas husband, Robin the Orphan, Bob (he’s a builder, yknow), Catboy (very deep voice, no one knows why but it’s a strange contrast to the ears and tail. Mutant or furry??), and Jack the Farmer. He explained from how the orphan had tricked the entire town that he was a murderer when he was instead the Jester, to explaining what the word “dunderhead” meant in Helgas context after explaining how she ruthlessly and openly got her husband executed and then soon proceeded to sleep with Bob. 

Both of them were crying tears of laughter, listening and recalling their own stories. By the time Karl had finished telling his story, Y/n was on the ground wheezing from how funny they thought the story was.

“And your telling me they all just, DIED?! That’s so anticlimactic, I love it!”

It’s been maybe 3 hours or so of them discussing stories and laughing. As much as these two travel across the fabrics of the universe, they would have never imagined being able to finally tell someone about their travels and experiences! 

Y/n then started talking about a Sky Dynasty that lived up in the clouds in a kingdom called The Kingdom Of Synnefa. When they had dropped in, they would have fallen straight through the clouds if a kind man by the name of Galen hadn’t found them hanging off a building ledge for their dear life! Galen let Y/n drop into his wagon and he took them to get Skywalkers, shoes specifically make for walking on clouds. 

Y/n had then explained how a very old looking man who looked to be a pig hybrid approached them, asking them if they were new. Apparently the old pig man was the guardian of the Grand Library, saying how he adored the Kingdoms Greek history and fables. The funny part is that his name is Icarus, a very unfortunate demise that Icarus had in the past but apparently that was a sensitive subject for Icarus and he would get very upset if anyone brought it up.

Another 3 hours went by of this time Y/n telling their stories of their travels to The Kingdom Of Synnefa! Both Karl and Y/n were having a wonderful time chatting with one another about both the confusing rivalries between the carnivores and herbivores of the kingdom, as well as how the kingdom was slowly dying due to the mass amounts of pollution damage the “ground dwellers” have been inflicting on The Kingdom Of Synnefa.

Soon though, Y/n had to jump into their next travels- as well as Karl. They said their goodbyes to each other, both obviously upset about having to stop the fun and interesting chat. 

“Look, when I leave I’ll figure out how I got in, okay? If I don’t figure it out, it’s been a real pleasure Karl Jacobs. Anyways, off to the abandoned water city I go!” 

Karl nods and waves his hands frantically at them, eager and hopeful for Y/n to visit him again. 

“See ya around Y/n!”

Y/n then proceeds to take out a small book and pen from inside their robe. They open it and quickly scribble something down before closing it and putting away. Y/n gives Karl a last friendly smile before disappearing in a snap. Before that, they manage to give him one last message.

“Hopefully!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Isaac wakes up in his bed by the sea docks. Meeting what seems to be his friends and roommates, Benjamin, Cletus, Charles and Monroe. Distant arguing can be heard from the docks. One of the voices sound oddly more familiar than the others to Isaac. Isaac walks over to the dock and finds two people arguing. 

“What’s going on here? Why are you guys arguing so early in the morning!”

The two people stand up and point at each other.

“MONROE DOESNT GIVE ME BACK THE F*CKING FISHING ROD!”

“BECAUSE THE LAST TIME YOU CAUGHT A FISH YOU KILLED IT, CLETUS!”

Monroe? Their voice sounds oddly similar to someone else’s, but Isaac can’t quite put his finger on it. He looks down ignoring the minor situation, when he sees a small leather book- then it clicks. Monroe is Y/n! But before Isaac confronts Monroe (Y/n), he picks up the small leather book. It isn’t the one that Y/n had when they left Karl’s In-Between, but it instead had what looked like the directions and coordinates for The Lost City Of Mizu!

“CHARLES! GET THE F*CK OVER HERE SO YOU CAN GUIDE US TO THESE COORDS!!”

Charles walks out of the shared dockside house alongside Benjamin, I hand him the book and start heading for the boats when Monroe stops me. They whisper loud enough so that I can only hear.

“Karl? Is that you?”

“Y/n?! You recognize me!”

We get on the same boat while the others get on theirs as well, and set off following Charles to The Lost City Of Mizu.

“Okay first, we call each other Isaac and Monroe, okay? Don’t break character.”

“I don’t even know HOW I remember! Usually I don’t until I leave!”

“Well that doesn’t matter right now, just try to act like Isaac and not Karl.”

And that’s what they did. Karl was Isaac and Y/n was Monroe. 

Once they found The Lost City Of Mizu, they met a man named Ranbob. Ranbob was the last resident of the city, and offered to show the group around. Rooms and rooms of full on history! It was like a huge museum filled with information of a place Ranbob called The Dream SMP, and Karl and Y/n were eating it up. Ranbob had suddenly disappeared, but the group didn’t pay much mind of it as they were trying to get into the Tree Dome. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Tree Dome room was as marvelous as it was big. The tree was absolutely beautiful, and was also the supply of oxygen for the now abandoned city- though the tree still looks to be thriving tremendously. The group spots a chest on the tree and nominates Cletus to go and retrieve it. Branch after branch and he’s finally up there! But soon after fallen and blown into oblivion because in suddenly appears Ranbob with loads and loads on TNT. Placing it all around the tree and the room, all he says is

“No one survives when they come here.”

And 

BOOM!

He sets off the TNT in the tree, Cletus. Before he died, Cletus luckily tossed the group the book he essentially died for so before reading it, the group ran out of the room and shut the iron doors.

The rest of the group had also found a book that had a key to a “Secret Room”, and very soon after they were making they’re way down a certain “Secret Room” only to be met with another book and a room to the side full of lava parkour. Apparently the last person to try and make it past the lava parkour failed, but they know the key or next clue HAS to be there, so Benjamin is nominated to do the lava parkour, failing and falling into the lava on the final step. Bravely after watching his friend die, Isaac (Karl) decides he’s gonna take a go at the parkour, and succeeds! He gets the key and directions to the final room before they can escape and heads to the final room with Monroe and Charles.

The final room is...strange, to say the least. Black brick walls and flooring, the walls lined with diamond armour and weapons. At the end of the small hallway rested what looked like a terrarium. One of the walls were made of glass so they could look in, and what they saw wasn’t what they were expecting. A normal flat biome with grass blocks, a mini cave in the corner that had a few gold ores in it if you looked hard enough, and the strangest of all was the statue of a looming, smiling, green figure in the very center. 

“Everyone had a person they idolized.”

Ranbob suddenly appears, interrupting the 3 taking in the room.

“Ranbob? Dude what the f*ck?!”

Y/n reaches for one of the diamond axes lining the wall, when suddenly Ranbob unsheathes a netherite sword. 

“Don’t touch anything.”

That’s enough to get Y/n to back up from both the weapons AND Ranbob. 

“How are you even here? We thought you DIED!”

But Ranbob didn’t seem to be bothered nor wanted to be bothered by such minuscule questions, and instead walked towards the glass of the terrarium. 

“This is my idol. His name is Dream.”

“Was he a good person..?”

Karl questioned hesitantly. He didn’t wanna anger or irritate Ranbob after seeing what he said to Y/n.

“Hmm, yes, he’s a good person. Depending on what you think.”

Karl walks up to the glass and shatters an opening with his elbow. He, Charles and Y/n step into the terrarium, observing the statue and its habitat more closely. But they didn’t get the chance to say much more. Ranbob unsheathes his sword for the last time, trapping everyone inside the terrarium. 

“No one makes it out alive.”

GASP!

“What the- where are we?”

…

“Y/n…? Y/n! Your back!”

Blue Dream IV

Pairing: Iris West x Barry Alen

Rating: E

Chapter Word Count:

Summary: A series of sporadic dates between Iris and Barry turn into something more, a story in its own making.

Chapter I: Primetime

Chapter II: It's Cool

Chapter III: Anything

Chapter IV: Comfortable; It feels like butterflies fluttering or sparks flying or whatever other cliche Iris could think of. It’s like slow-dancing all alone after dinner in a half-cleaned kitchen, easy and intimate. It feels like warm honey on her tongue, slow and sweet and overwhelming. It’s pillowtalk, baby; lay your head on my pillow, say, "oh-ooh"; way you're touchin' my body, say, "ooh-ooh"; i ain't lovin' nobody but you; you, you, you make me, the kind that starts as whispers in the dark and becomes deep, lazy sex with only the moon there to light the way. (Read below or on AO3 linked on the chapter title.)

Chapter V: The Way

Chapter VI: Can't Take My Eyes Off of You

Chapter VII: I'm in Love with You

Chapter VIII: Blue Dream

Comfortable

Set the tone, when it's just me

And you alone, never lonely

In the room, breathin' slowly

Oh, you know me, yeah

At a quarter to one on the next Sunday afternoon, Iris finds herself sitting in her living room, waiting for Barry. Her week has been a relatively good one. She thinks they might be over the hurdle of a new semester—learning the personalities of each other—and Dr. Jamison had been on top of her own game, which meant Iris had been able to as well. She’d spent her Friday night watching Bridgerton, well, as much as the hazy cloud of blue diesel had allowed her to, and on Saturday, she’d spent several hours at Jitters typing up a new story for What a Life You’ve Lived. This story had featured an older woman who, years before Loving v. Virginia had made her marriage legal, had lived in relative obscurity with her white husband, dating and laughing and loving in secret.

Yeah, she’d shaken her head at that too.

She doesn’t know where they’re going today, so she’s dressed in a casual emerald green wrap dress, with a deep v-neck and long sleeves, that hems just at her knees. She opts for flat sandals just in case. His number is still unused, though she’s taken the steps to lock it into her phone. She can’t tell why she doesn’t call him, can’t make out why she’s, apparently, too afraid to just reach out to the man. She doesn’t know what they’re doing, outside of this date, or what his goal is. Linda would definitely describe her as being too chickenshit to find out. She obviously doesn’t disagree.

She’s decided that it’s casual, because aren’t most situations these days casual? And it makes more sense than the thought that lives in her head; the alternative doesn’t fit as neatly in her mind. The alternative is, is a little chaotic because that would add layers to the way he grins at her, and to the way he oscillates between awkward and bold when he talks to her, and to the way that she can never completely get the feel and taste of him out of her mouth. The sensation makes her think of runny ice cream, sweet and sticky and dripping, so much so that before she knows it, her hands and her face and her heart are all covered in it.

The doorbell rings.

Iris jumps up to answer the door and he’s standing there, in black jeans and a gray t-shirt, and she’s always struck by how good he looks in such casual outfits. His hands are stuffed down into his pockets and a grin is etched onto his face. He leans into the door when it opens, shoulder on the frame.

“Hi, beautiful.”

The compliment is unexpected and she turns away to grab her bag, to hide the blush that warms her cheeks, even if he wouldn’t be able to see it on her skin.

“You ready?” he asks.

She nods. “Yeah, let’s go.”

They are about fifteen minutes away from Lake Lanier when Iris realizes that’s where they’re going. The ride is pleasant. They don’t talk much outside of a few sentences regarding how their weeks were. Instead, they listen to some rock music Iris has never heard before and Iris alternates between staring at the road and staring at the intricate flowers tattooed on his arm. She recognizes some of them, roses and chrysanthemums and sunflowers, but there are far more that she doesn’t, especially when she remembers that the bouquet goes all the way up and over his shoulder. She decides she’ll ask him about it later.

The trail for the lake comes into view and Barry turns his Jeep onto a barely paved road, his pale fingers caressing the wheel as he expertly maneuvers the vehicle. He drives past where Iris and Linda and their classmates spent countless summer afternoons, past the trail that leads to where her dad had taken her and Wally camping when, at 12, Wally had realized that he was the only of his friends who’d never been.

They come to a stop, moments after Iris wonders if this might be where bodies get hidden, next to a towering oak tree. They’d lost the trail about a mile back and Barry’s four-wheel-drive was a match for whatever grass and rock and mud they rolled over.

Iris steps out of the Jeep and looks around, momentarily in awe. Out this far, the lake looks serene in a way she’s never seen before. It’s quiet, but it isn’t. Even in a midsize city like Central City, there is always something happening; there is always lights and noise and music. Here, the sound of nature takes the stage: the clicking buzz of cicadas and the chirping songs of birds and the gentle wave of the lake. The look of it is surreal, the pale blue of the water and the vibrant dark green of the trees, those slowly giving way to the oranges and reds of fall.

“Wow,” Iris murmurs.

“It’s great, right?” Barry says.

She turns and finds him with his trunk open. She walks around back to see him gathering picnic supplies, a woven picnic basket, a thick red gingham picnic blanket, and a cooler. There’s also another blanket to stem the feel of the wind so close to the lake. She grabs the picnic basket as he handles everything else and she follows him as they set up a few feet away from the bank, on a soft patch of grass to cushion them.

“I wasn’t expecting a picnic,” Iris tells Barry as she settles on the blanket, taking off her shoes and setting them on the edge.

“No?” He grins over at her before resuming his task. He’s unpacking the basket, pulling out saran-wrapped sandwiches, containers of fruit and vegetables with dip, and ziplock bags full of popcorn. A look in the cooler shows her some waters, several beers, and an equal number of mini wine bottles.

“Where’d you think I was taking you?” he wonders.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Like a movie or something.”

He grins, this time slower; and it shouldn’t, but it makes Iris think of the last time she’d seen him, slow and heated on her living room couch.

“That can be our next date,” he says.

“Who says you’re getting another date?”

He looks up at her and it’s the same one he’d given her when he asked her why she didn’t call, the expression a touch calculating. His head is tilted and his eyes are darting all over her face. She wants to turn her head, turn away from his gaze, but she can’t. Because she thinks that she’s hoping he does find what he’s looking for her, that he can help her to find it too.

“You didn’t say that we were going on another date” he says, finally. “But I have fun when we're together, Iris, and I, I think that you do too."

He goes back to pulling items out of the basket, this time a container full of cookies, and Iris starts grappling with whether or not she can take what he says at face value. It’s a flaw, she knows, the doubt that seems to come far too automatically. She wishes that she could blame it on something tangible—on parents who hadn’t been there or boyfriends who’d lied or friends who didn’t have her best interests at heart. That isn’t the case, though. Her mom had been there as much as she could and she had never had enough boyfriends for it to really make a dent. Linda has never even thought about doing her wrong, and her family might be the very best part of her.

But everything in her body catches at the thought of this man being someone she likes, someone she adds to the rotation of people in her life, people who’ve only become occasional brunches and too quick phone calls. What would it feel like for this man—and his smile and his touch and the way that she feels like she knows him when she doesn’t—to become a part of that rotation, until the discomfort of the entire situation makes him taper off altogether?

“Iris?”

She blinks out of her daze at the sound of Barry’s voice, looking down to see him holding out two bottles in front of her, one a lager from a local brewery, the other a chilled bottle of Chardonnay.

“Hey, are you alright?”

“Yes,” she answers him quickly. “Just thinking.”

“About me?” he asks, his grin wide, cheeks faintly pink, and the look of him is so adorable that Iris shakes her head as she grabs the wine from him, failing to curb the smile that lifts the corner of her mouth, failing to keep the thoughts, the whenever i get around you, i lose it; lose it, from seeping in.

“Let’s play twenty questions.”

Iris is halfway into her mini-wine bottle when Barry voices the suggestion. For the time being, they’ve been merely sitting, drinking, basking in the day. The weather is gorgeous and Iris likes that the only thing to distract her is the constant tweeting of the birds, or the soft splashes of the fish in the lake, or the steady sound of Barry’s breathing.

“Okay,” Iris agrees, “but twenty is a lot.”

“Ten, then?” he hurries to say. “Five each?”

He shifts on the blanket so that he’s lying down on his side facing her, head propped in his hand. Her own back is propped against the tree, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.

“You first.”

“Alright.” He pauses, looks up towards the sky as if he’s thinking, and then asks, “What’s your favorite book?”

She is surprised by the question, though she isn’t sure what she thought he might ask.

“I’ve got a lot of favorites,” she says, because it’s true. Books, stories, became an escape early on, from a home that had been too fragile, that had felt like it’d come crumbling down with only a mere gust of wind. “But one that still sits with me is Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. I read it for the first time in high school.”

He smiles at her. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s about a woman named Janie, who was raised by her grandmother who’d been enslaved. Janie’s a romantic; she wants freedom and love. But her grandmother wants her to have security. She’s got a series of suitors: an old man who treats her like the help, essentially; a man who becomes mayor of this all-black town, who only props her up as this thing, this ornament that must look and act like he wants her to; and Tea Cake, a younger man who’s passionate and selfish and possessive. And in all of it, Janie is discovering herself, exploring what she does and doesn’t want. She steps up and she fights back and she learns to dismiss what others have to say about here.”

Barry hums. “She reminds me of you,” he says, “this Janie woman.”

He catches her gaze, holds it. Iris catches the way his eyes track the features of her face. She can never find it in her to shrink away, almost like she’s beholden to the force of him.

“Why?”

“She seems passionate; fanciful. Alluring.”

She’s never wanted to blush as much as she does around him and her face feels warm, tight. She swallows from her wine bottle, still looking at him.

“You are,” she starts, and then shakes her head.

“I am…?” he urges, mouth grinning, eyes wide with mirth. He reaches out and grabs at her ankle, fingers grazing her skin. Her skin tingles beneath his fingers, a slow rush of heat flooding through her. Apparently, Barry has discovered a new erogenous zone.

“Something else,” she answers, finally.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s what you meant.”

She looks out at the lake for a brief moment. “It’s not, but I haven’t figured out what I do mean yet.”

He’s silent for a beat. “Okay. Your turn,” he says and Iris is grateful for the reprieve.

“What’s a country you’ve never been to that you’d like to visit?”

A wistful smile curves his pretty mouth. “That’s easy. Ireland.”

“Yeah?” she asks softly.

“It’s where my mom's family is from,” he continues, touching at her ankle even as he looks away from her. She wonders if he realizes he’s even doing it, tracing along her ankle and then up the length of her calf and back down again.

“My mom was born here in Central City,” he explains, “but her parents were born and raised in Ireland, moving here when they were a couple of months pregnant with her.” She knows she doesn’t mistake the melancholy in his voice. “We’d been planning for a trip after I graduated high school. Since dad was gone, it wasn’t as easy to save up for a long summer trip like that, but we were working on it, before she was killed. I’m still working on it.”

He gives her another smile, this one tinged with hope, and the urge to comfort him is strong. But she knows that there is no real comfort for missing a mother, so instead, she moves from her spot against the tree. The movement confuses Barry, who has to move his hand away from her ankle, but his frown clears when she lies beside him, her head on his shoulder.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Italy,” she tells him. “My best friend Linda’s parents live in a large immigrant community. People from all over live there. It was like heaven for me when I really started getting into writing; so many stories. Obviously, not everyone wanted to tell their business to a 15-year-old, but Mrs. Bianco had no qualms about it.

“Mrs. Bianco has three sons, relatively the same age as me and Linda, one right after the other, but no daughters. So for much of high school, we were her surrogates. My dad worked a lot and so did Linda’s parents, getting their restaurant off the ground. So we’d go over to Mrs. Bianco’s after school to do homework and she’d feed us all these baked goods, cannolis and these things called bombolinis, which are like doughnuts but better. And she’d tell us all these stories about growing up in the Italian countryside and going to college and meeting her husband before they came here, the excitement of it all. She made it sound so beautiful.”

Barry reaches over and touches her, long fingers touching lightly at her arm before they wrap around her wrist. He rubs at the skin on the inside of her wrist. The move feels like a deliberate way for Barry to maintain contact, but also like more. Like the last time he’d come to her apartment, and she’d felt the touch to her ankles at the very core of her, she feels so now. It’s subtle, but it’s there, in the slight clench of her belly, in the low throb of her pussy. It’s been a long time since she’s been with anyone like this — cause I feel so comfortable with you; you make me comfortable with you—easily aroused and just as easily comforted. Her last relationship had been with a man named Eddie, a graduate student she had met early in her senior year of undergrad. He had been sweet, but they had both been so busy all the time that they had felt like work too. With Barry, there’s the newness that comes with a relationship, the giddiness at talking to him, being near him. But this seems like something else, something greater, something that tells of why she can’t stop thinking about this man.

“Why did you invite me over,” Barry asks, “that Friday night?”

She exhales shakily, a little unnerved by him. “Well, you asked me to dance?”

“You invited me over because I asked you to dance?” His tone is incredulous and she laughs.

“No, I mean. It’s the club. People just dance, right? And here you come, rocking those hips unlike any white boy I’ve seen, and then you walk up and ask me if you could dance with me. I thought it was polite.”

Barry rolls over so that he’s long against her side. He moves his hand from her wrist to press on her belly, rubbing his thumb lightly. He plants his mouth right next to her ear. “If you think I’m polite, I’m doing something wrong.”

She catches his eyes. “I don’t know,” she says, smirking at him. “Maybe you are. Maybe you need to work on that.”

She lets the taunt hang, for just a moment, and then she rolls over to kiss him. She licks at his mouth, turning the kiss more passionate in seconds. Their positions change, Barry rolling her onto her back.

“I think I can make you beg,” Barry whispers against her mouth. “I was always told that was impolite.”

Iris doesn’t get a chance to say much else because suddenly, Barry is between her legs, his head dipping down under her dress.

“Barry what?”

As is his annoying habit, he doesn’t respond to her right away. He pushes her dress higher, exposing her belly and the bright yellow lace of her panties. She inhales sharply at the feel of his breath on her belly before he plants a kiss there.

“Ask for it.”

She catches onto his game immediately and her eyes flash. “No.”

His answer is a grin and then, without much preamble, he dips his tongue into her belly button. The action makes her hips raise automatically, and he brings her back down by gripping her hips. He continues down, tongue laving at her skin, fingers running up her torso and down again until they hook in the top of her panties and he starts to pull them down.

Iris can’t describe what it is she’s feeling at the moment. He’s only just touched her, only just planted a few sloppy kisses on her stomach. But her skin is tight with anticipation, her breathing deeper as she waits to see what he’ll do. She wonders, rather absently, if they’re currently being watched by any of the animals she hears living out here by the lake; but then Barry widens her legs and opens her up with the tips of his index and middle finger and she stops thinking altogether.

He holds her open for a long moment, just looking, just breathing against her, and she tries to hold still until she can’t, wiggling her hips a little, hoping it makes a finger slip inside of her.

“Barry…”

“You’re ready to ask for it?”

He drags his gaze away from her sex in order to meet her eyes. They’re the glassy that lets her know that he isn’t as unaffected as he’s pretending to be. That momentarily strengthens her resolve, knowing that maybe he really does feel like this too, that she’s not the only one losing her head in this sexual haze that seems to be moving way too fast and way past normal.

She shakes her head at him.

“No?” he questions. “Not even if I do this?”

Fingers still holding her, he licks her, a long swipe of his tongue. She inhales again at the feel of his wet tongue, lets it go in a noisy exhale when he does it again. And then again and then again, and Iris starts to rock against him, trying to get more of his tongue or his fingers or something. She quivers above him, her thighs opening and closing, and she feels like a butterfly, fluttering and alight, hovering over a precipice.

“Shit, ” she moans.

And then, he stops. He fucking stops.

“Barry…”

“Or this?” he continues, and pushes his fingers in. It’s harder than she likes, more like a stab, and she jerks her hips.

“Softer,” she tells him, and he obliges, moving slower, caressing instead of fucking into her. “ Yes, like that.”

Barry hums around her. The vibration makes her hips rock up, and he circles her clit with the tip of his tongue, sucking on it. He looks up at her again. This is the face she wants to remember for the rest of her days: his dazed eyes, his flushed cheeks, his wet mouth.

“Ask me for what you want, Iris,” Barry licks his lips. “Beg me, baby, please.”

Her heart is pounding and she wonders how a game of question and answer got her here. But they are here, she’s here, quivering with the need to come, with the fact that Barry looking up at her like this, begging her like this, makes her feel more desirable than she’s ever known she could.

“Can you eat me, Barry? Please? ”

Iris has never seen a dirtier smile. “With pleasure.”

He really starts to eat her, then. He kisses at her lips, tongues her down in a sloppy, wet tongue kiss that makes her cream drip out of her, drip down her thighs. She rocks against him, closing her knees around his head when the touch of his tongue to her clit gets to be too much, opening herself wider when wants his tongue back in her, licking and tasting and fucking her. Needing something to do with her hands, she grabs at his hair, pulling at the strands, scratching at scalp, at the back of his neck. That is how she comes, she doesn’t know how much later. But it’s like that: with Barry holding on to her hips, face buried in her slick; with her knees opening and closing, with her hips bucking, with her begging him, “please, Barry, fuck, yes, please, Barry. ”

It takes her a while to come down and when she does, she says the first thing that she can think of. “God, you’re so goddamn annoying.”

Barry bursts out laughing into her stomach, arms wrapped around her.

“What is something that you want out of a relationship?”

They’re sitting up and eating now, Iris several feet away from him so she’s not tempted to wrap her thighs around his face again. She’s chosen the turkey sandwich on wheat bread and a handful of grapes. The sandwich is really good and Barry must think so of his own handiwork because he’s already done with one and unwrapping another. Although, Iris thinks, he likely did work up an appetite.

She can’t say what makes her throw out the question. The skepticism of starting something with him is still there, but laughing after sex like that, coming from sex like that, well. Iris can name that she might be a little whipped by this smooth-talking, world-class fucking white boy.

He chews a bite of his sandwich and swallows before he turns to her with an answer.

“I’m a simple guy, I think. I work a lot; crimes wait for no one so I would want someone who understands that. But in my time off, I like to do things like this, and festivals and running too, so someone who likes that too.” He wipes at his mouth with a crumpled napkin. “But out of a relationship in general, I guess I want companionship, laughing. Communication and patience. Fidelity.” He shoots her a grin. “Good sex.”

Iris rolls her eyes, but she returns the smile. “Did you have that in your last relationship?”

“Ah,” he interrupts, “it’s my turn for a question, Iris.”

She throws her own balled up napkin at him. “Fine. Shoot.”

“What do you look for in a relationship?”

She shoots him a glare.

“What?” he laughs. “It was a good question and I want to know.”

“Okay. Um,” she takes a swig from her newly opened wine. “Whew. I don’t know that I’ve thought about this in a while.” She bites at her bottom lip and lets out a long breath. “A lot of the same things you said, I think. I do love laughing, even if I can get lost in my own head angst sometimes and I’d like someone who realizes that. I’m pretty busy, between school and work and What a Life You’ve Lived, but I make time for the people I want to make time for and I would wish my partner would do the same. Fidelity is also important to me too; communication. I love music and dancing and movies so someone who’d want to do those things with me.”

Barry wriggles his eyebrows. “Good sex?”

“A plus, for sure,” she agrees.

That gets her to thinking about another question she has, one she’s more hesitant to voice. She could get an answer she likes, one that keeps the mood they’ve got going here. And the vibe right now is so good. She can’t remember a date like this, one so simple. Eddie had been courting careers in law and so much of their time together had been spent out at fancy dinners while he’d tried to smooze whoever he needed to that week. It’d been fun sometimes, to see what stories she could get out of the politicians and law officers, but that’s not a date, at least it wasn't to her. During undergrad, dates meant studying together in the corner of a library until one or both of them got the urge to make out behind a shelf of books. And high school shouldn’t even really count. But here, today, this feels like a date. It feels like butterflies fluttering or sparks flying or whatever other cliche Iris could think of. It’s like slow-dancing all alone after dinner in a half-cleaned kitchen, easy and intimate. It feels like warm honey on her tongue, slow and sweet and overwhelming. It’s pillow talk, baby; lay your head on my pillow, say, "oh-ooh"; way you're touchin' my body, say, "ooh-ooh"; i ain't lovin' nobody but you; you, you, you make me, the kind that starts as whispers in the dark and becomes deep, lazy sex with only the moon there to light the way.

But she steels herself and risks asking anyway. “Barry, do you, uh, have a lot of sex, then? A lot of one-night stands?”

Barry’s eyes are wide when he looks at her. He’d been cleaning up their trash, putting napkins and wrappers and empty bottles in a small grocery bag and the question makes him look up sharply. It makes her want to retreat, but she’s already put it out there and she’s extremely curious if she happens to just be one in a line of girls that this surprisingly suave man has beguiled with easy laughs and mind-blowing sex.

“I'm asking because you are, you’re good,” she mumbles, (but, understatement), “and of course, you don’t have to answer me but I just… I'm wondering if…”

She trails off when he stops what he’s doing and crawls over to her. He hovers, making her lean back a little in order to see all of his face. It’s a pretty face, the dark eyebrows over those eyes, the lips that she knows get even pinker when they’re dripping with her juices, the faint moles along his cheeks and jaw that doesn’t detract.

“There are no other girls, Iris,” he tells her, and he seems so sincere as he looks straight into her eyes, as he places a hand on the side of her so she’s clouded in the clean, citrusy smell of him. “I know that we’re just hanging out and obviously, you do what you want, but no, I… I’m a one woman kinda guy. Going home with you was an anomaly, one I certainly don’t regret. But it’s not a thing I do. I haven’t been with anyone else since my last relationship months ago.”

She stares at him, hoping that she can believe him. “Alright.”

“Okay?”

She nods again, this time with a little smile. “Yeah, okay.”

Neither of them asks their final two questions. Barry says that it’ll give them something to talk about when he sees her again. Iris just thinks that today’s been a whirlwind of a day and it’d be nice not to be on the spot anymore. The ride back to town is just as easy as the ride down. Easy listening plays from the radio—'cause I feel so comfortable with you; you make me comfortable with you; i feel so comfortable with you; you make me comfortable with you; you make me—and Iris settles into her seat for the half-hour drive, full and sated and comfortable. She must doze off because before she knows it, Barry is pulling into the parking space next to her Kia and he’s opening the door for her.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” he says, smiling down at her as he grabs her hand to pull her out of the seat.

“I’m sorry for falling asleep on you.” She stumbles a little as she follows him up the stairs and he grips her hand tighter.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells her. “I take pride in the fact that I’ve put you to sleep every night we’ve been together.”

She doesn’t even pause as she yanks her hand away and slides past him to her door. “You’re such a dick.”

Barry chuckles, sidling up behind her as she sticks her key into the lock. He gives her a soft kiss on the skin between her neck and shoulder.

“I thought you said I was polite,” he breathes, before nipping at her skin. She closes her eyes at the feel of his mouth on her, the light nips of his teeth, the slick glide of his tongue behind it. He pulls up all the way behind her and wraps both of his arms around her waist.

“You are,” she moans when one of his hands glides down and settles hard over her crotch. “Even when you’re telling me to beg, you say please.”

He licks a longer stripe across her skin, pulls a larger patch into his mouth, cups her pussy in the palm of his hand.

“Barry…”

“But you called me a dick, Iris. Am I polite or a dick?”

She arches into him. “You’re a polite dick.”

He stills against her and it takes a moment for Iris to realize that he’s laughing again. He’s got such a nice laugh, deep and bright. “Damn, Iris.” He turns her around, still with a wide grin on his face. He leans down and kisses her, pecks her lips once, and then twice, and then a longer one that curls her fingers around his neck. He doesn’t immediately let go when he pulls back.

“I want to ask one of my last questions.”

She licks her lips, chasing the taste of him. “Okay.”

“Am I in the running?” He asks the question clearly, though in a voice just above a whisper. “Am I someone that you could want to be..”

She doesn’t need him to finish the sentence to say what she’s feeling, even if she’s terrified of what it might eventually mean for her. “I really think that you might be.”

“It’s a might I’ll take.” He nods at her door. “Good night, beautiful.”

She turns to go into the apartment. “Good night, Barry.”

The door is almost closed when he calls back. “Hey, Iris?”

“Yeah?”

“Call me this time.”

You make me

Baby

You make me

You make me

I got Izetta on the test and the more I read the more I want to fight you bc how dare you call me out like this. like call me feral one more time and I may just have to buy two books when it comes out - one for reading and one for throwing bc whyyy am i getting invested in these charcters. that doesn’t just happen willy nilly for me and now I’m mad

lkdsajf;ladskjf;lskdjf !!!!! <33333 if you’re like Izetta than I love you x100000000000000000 also lol when I do end up publishing this (I’m hoping some time in 2021) it’ll probably be thru Kindle epub which means unfortunately I can’t sell the books for $0 but I can do $0.99 XD. Idk if I’ll print them, just cuz that costs a bit, but fuck I’d love to XD. 

Also I was gonna just dump a snippet here but I have no self control so here’s the first chapter. It’s Izetta’s POV because I love her. 

“Lazy, slovenly girl,” Patrice muttered viciously as Izetta tore her room apart trying to find her best broach. 

“Where is it!?” Izetta groaned, pulling out her dresser drawers and dumping the clothing on the floor as Patrice gritted her teeth and stood the table back up on its legs. 

“Use the one I laid out for you, I don’t see what your insistence is with this copper monstrosity,” Patrice spat, repositioning candles and a bowl of fruit on the table. 

“I’m going to see the queen Patrice!” Izetta said, moving on to her wardrobe. 

“You’re going to be late to see the queen Izetta,” Patrice snapped. 

Panic seized Izetta and she growled in frustration. “It’s going to go all wrong.”

“Stop your fretting, put these on and go,” Patrice said, shoving a pair of leather boots to Izetta’s chest. Izetta sighed, but slipped them on, when she straightened again Patrice smiled warmly. “You’ll do great, there’s no need to be nervous.” She held out her hand, with the broach on her wrinkled palm. 

Izetta’s eyes widened and she grinned, taking it and throwing her arms around Patrice. “Oh thank you!” she said, before bolting away. “I’ll clean this up later!” she called behind her as she pinned the broach to her lapel. 

“Sure,” Patrice said with a fond eyeroll. 

Izetta sprinted through the palace, dodging servants who yelped and then laughed when they recognized her. The palace was massive, with long winding corridors made of polished marble and mother-of-pearl. It all gleamed in the sunlight that streamed through the beautiful stained-glass windows decorated with scenes of Kantoga’s history. Everything was high, elegant archways and delicate statues adorned every doorway. Izetta didn’t have much time to appreciate it, but she already knew every feature of the palace by heart--growing up in it does that to a person.

Her leather boots slid across the smooth hallways until she was skating more than running, and she had to jump over a few servants busy polishing every surface diligently. Finally she turned the last corner, arriving at the largest room in the palace--and the more elegant. The queen’s throne room. 

The ceiling was so high you had to crane your neck to see the top of it, but it was adorned with a night sky filled with gleaming stars that looked like they were falling. There were huge windows made of perfectly clear glass and a throne carved out of an outrageously massive topaz. 

Izetta’s breath caught as she spotted the queen, in all her regal glory, standing by one of the windows with her hands clasped behind her back. She was wearing a long, flowing white dress with diamonds and little accents of gold detailing it. She had a train trailing almost ten feet behind her that was perfectly spread. Her brown hair was in a graceful braid wrapped around the crown of her head and decorated with pearls, her olive skin looked like it was glowing, and as she turned around she beamed at Izetta, her deep brown eyes gaining stunning wrinkles around them. 

Her etherealness made Izetta slightly self-conscious. She was wearing her nicest doublet--the light green one with slightly puffed sleeves and a high collar. Her nicest leather boots and white chemise tucked into a pair of black, fitted pants. Her blonde hair--cut short, above the ears--was freshly washed and Patrice had used some cream to make her usually dry pale skin “dewy.” Izetta didn’t know what that meant but Patrice had seemed pleased. She wasn’t nearly as extravagant or graceful as the queen, but she kept her chest out and shoulders back as the queen smiled at her. 

“Ileta!” The image was a little shattered as the queen seemed to forget Izetta’s name, but Izetta recovered quickly. 

“Izetta,” she corrected, with a low bow, “my queen.” 

“Right! So sorry, scatterbrained could probably be my middle name,” the queen laughed.

“No! Not at all!” Izetta said quickly, “Easy mistake to make, they sound so similar.

“Ah thank you,” the queen said, walking over and patting Izetta’s cheek briefly. “So nice to see a humble soul.” Izetta beamed. Then the queen cleared her throat, turning away and folding her hands in front of her. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you here--er…” she hesitated. 

“Izetta,” Izetta said happily. 

“Right--Izetta. Well, I’m told you are out top agent,” the queen said. 

“Assassin, my queen,” Izetta said. 

The queen waved her hand dismissively, “Oh but that sounds so guttural. It matters not however, because I need you, to do something very important for me,” the queen paced for a moment. 

“Anything my queen,” Izetta said without hesitating. 

The queen waved her dismissive hand again, “yes, yes I know--tell me, what do you know of the Cyron siblings?” she asked, not bothering to look at Izetta, who’s brow furrowed. 

“Everything my queen, they’re our only enemies children,” she said.

“Obviously, yes, but what else.”

Izetta thought for a moment, then recomposed herself. “Lazarus Ivory Cyron and Lazarus Monte Cyron are the children of Lazarus Cyron. He appointed them as co-supreme generals of his entire army, replacing Natalia Youngblood, and they are known for their domination in battle as well as aptitude for leadership. Lazarus Ivory is the elder sibling, more prone to handling Caelest’s water-based troops while Lazarus Monte operates on land. Between them they’ve won over fifty battles since becoming supreme generals and before that they both served in the Caelestian royal army as--”

“Yes, yes--but what do you know about their personal lives?” the queen interjected, still pacing. 

“Uh--” Izetta hesitated, “not… a lot? They seem to be only close to one another and have a hard time trusting others.”

“Hm,” the queen said again, pausing and finally looking at Izetta again. “Listen to me very carefully Iletta--” the queen started, coming and placing her hands on the sides of Izetta’s face and looking intensely into her eyes. 

“--Izetta,” Izetta corrected. 

“Right--Izetta--listen to me,” the queen said, “I need you to find out everything you need to about the siblings so that you can kill them.” 

“You… want me to assassinate Caelest’s co-supreme generals and heirs to the throne?” Izetta asked. 

The queen’s face scrunched up, “ugh, yes but not that word, I already said it was crude.”

Izetta felt breathless, she couldn’t help the mile-wide grin that split her face. “Yes my queen,” she said, excitement fizzing in her blood and making her fingers go numb. 

“You will do this, for me? For your kingdom?” the queen asked, still holding Izetta’s face and staring intensely. 

Izetta nodded enthusiastically. “Yes my queen,” she said. 

The queen’s hands dropped and she walked away. “Perfect, you start now, do not fail me,” she said in dismissal. Izetta bowed and hurried out of the throne room. 

As soon as she knew she was out of earshot Izetta whooped loudly, causing a group of polishing servants to glare at her. She ignored them and spun down the corridors back to her room, feeling light and dreamy as she started to form a plan.

She was so lost in thought that she almost bowled right over Patrice, who was refolding the clothes Izetta had dumped out of her dresser in search of her broach. She kissed it and giggled--it was extremely simple, just a little copper circle with a wolf on the inside, but she’d had it her whole life--through everything. 

“I take it the summons went well?” Patrice said, laughing a little at Izetta’s beaming face. 

Izetta just smiled wider and swept the older woman up into a waltz that Patrice rolled her eyes at. 

“Oh it went wonderfully Patrice, the queen herself gave me a new job--two actually,” Izetta said, and Patrice raised a brow. Her expression became a bit more pinched as she did, but Izetta didn’t notice. “You’ll never guess who,” Izetta said, eyes gleaming. 

“It wouldn’t happen to be the Cyron siblings would it?” Patrice sighed. 

“It’s the Cyron siblings Patrice!” Izetta said, whirling Patrice into a spin that she slipped out of, wiping her hands on her apron and pursing her lips. 

“Oh,” she said quietly. 

Izetta--still oblivious, threw herself down on her bed and stared at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. “Isn’t it wonderful Patrice? Her majesty finally recognizes my potential! She entrusted me with killing the heirs, the Cyron siblings.” 

“Izetta--” Patrice started, wringing her hands out. 

“I’ll start by contacting our spy, god knows I can’t stand Aether but he’s been on the inside for almost a decade, he’ll know everything I need and--”

“Izetta,” Patrice snapped, and Izetta stopped her planning to look at Patrice. She had a frustrated expression on her face, making her lip curl up a bit in a snarl. It wasn’t an unusual expression, in fact, it combined with Patrice’s greying hair tied in a tight braid and her wrinkled, round face was how Izetta always imagined Patrice--usually griping about something Izetta was doing wrong. Patrice had been friends with Izetta’s father, and when he died she took Izetta in. The younger girl didn’t exactly see her as a mother--Patrice insisted she didn’t--more of a very present grandmother, kind and loving but harsh and unyielding at the same time. 

“Are you sure…” Patrice paused, pursing her lips and sighing, “are you sure this is a good thing?” she asked, meeting Izetta’s eyes. 

Izetta frowned, “of course, this is what I’ve trained my whole life for! With the Cyron siblings out of the way Lazarus will be weakened and we can finally attack and relieve the Caelestian citizens of his cruel reign.”

“But--” Patrice started. 

“I will do this Patrice, I will kill them or I will die trying, this was the entire point of my life--my meaning,” Izetta said, standing up and walking towards Patrice. 

“I know child, that’s what I’m afraid of.” 

Izetta felt stung. “You think I will fail?” 

“I think if you do you will die, I think you will die making a stupid decision to please our useless queen,” Patrice snapped, and Izetta reeled back like she’d been struck. 

“Patrice you can’t--” 

“Do not tell me what to speak of child, she is manipulating you. If anyone can succeed it is you but she doesn’t know that Izetta. She is sending you in and she doesn’t care if you die.” Patrice took Izetta’s hand and cupped her cheek. “Please Izetta, please don’t die for her,” she pleaded. 

Izetta blinked, stunned. After a moment she closed her mouth and pressed her forehead to Patrice’s. “I have to do this Patrice, I won’t die.” she whispered. 

Patrice sucked in a breath that sounded heart-wrenchingly close to a sob and Izetta almost shattered, but then Patrice’s breathing evened again and she stepped back, completely composed and back straight. She wiped her hands on her apron and sniffed, looking at Izetta’s chin rather than her eyes. 

“If anyone can do this, it’s you,” Patrice said, “I just wish it wasn’t,” she added, stepping forward to kiss Izetta on the forehead. She had to stand on her toes for it, and Izetta felt hollowed out. 

Then Patrice sighed, gave Izetta a final once over, nodded, and left Izetta alone in her room.

listen to me — chapter 13

LISTEN TO ME  — 0013

listen to me masterlist;

WORDS: 1.8K

The next morning, Jisung was surprised to open his door. Although his two best friends lived on the same street, Han never liked people to wait for him. He preferred to go his own way, for he had no time to leave. There were times when he was too late and missed the first two classes, as well as times when he arrived too early to lose sleep and the patience to wait for the minutes to run on the clock with the speed of a turtle. Not even in the company of Chaerin, when still he shared the same roof with the girl, was acceptable. Jisung liked freedom. However, a small plague wanted to change the routine that day.

"Good morning, oppa!" Yoorim opened her smile. The excitement and excitement she carried could be seen eighty miles away.

"Good morning" on the other hand, Jisung's drowsiness could be seen more than a hundred miles away. His eyes met Hyunjin's 4x4 pickup truck across the street, its black body shining in the sunlight. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

"We're not being good friends lately" Yoorim's positive aura lost intensity as she assumed a sorry expression. "We barely talked last week and just met in college."

"It's okay" Jisung forced a sincere smile. "None of us are unoccupied to the point of being able to spend all day talking."

"I know, but it's different now, you have to feel loved."

"But I already feel loved" such words sounded strange in the boy's mouth, his throat seemed to twist painfully to expel them. "Don't worry about it, Yoorinnie, I'm fine."

Heo kept her little eyes fixed on his friend's face as she absorbed his blatant lie. At last, she sighed and nodded. She was already accustomed to Jisung's genius and knew that he'd rather die than admit that he needed someone.

"Anyway, Hyunjin and I want to do something at home tomorrow. It's a simple thing, just to distract our minds, Are you coming?"

"To be the third wheel?" the boy laughed. "I think not."

"Nah, you don't have to be the third wheel." Hyunjin had gotten out of the pickup truck sometime unnoticed by Han and was now approaching the pair. He was wearing light-blue jeans and a striped button-down shirt of white and dark blue; as always, looked like a model. Meanwhile, Jisung wore his sweats and his dead face. They were real opposites. "Woojin hyung is also coming and you can call your new friend."

"Jinah?" Jisung raised his eyebrows and almost refuted that the girl wasn't his friend, but realized that, since when he felt bad after being rude with her, denying her was no longer so easy. "Would she come?"

"Probably so" Yoorim shrugged. "Not only for you, but for Woojin as well. I bet they're friends or at least they get along, after all, Woojin oppa gets on well with everyone."

Jisung leaned against the doorframe and pondered. The last time he talked about Jinah to the couple was in the University cafeteria, when he said he'd push her away in his own way, that on days when he was still trying to win the clashes with the girl. Hyunjin and Yoorim were supposed to believe nothing of it, and they really didn't, so much so that they were now indirectly insisting on a rapprochement between the two. Jisung followed another line of thought and began to remember his few experiences with Jinah and the reasons that led him to fail to keep his word from sending her away, and he tried in many ways!

Ignoring was no good, being rude wasn't enough, forcing a friendship with the intention of making it bad enough until she gave up, either. What was Jinah's problem? He insisted on questioning himself.

"Aish," Jisung grunted and shook his head to keep the thoughts from stealing with unwanted perseverance. "I'll talk to her."

Hyunjin opened his snowy white smile. He believed in first impressions, and the one he had from Jinah had been great. He wasn't sure of anything, but something in his heart said that the girl would do well for Han's patched heart, so, he would make efforts to help.

                                                            ♡˖°

Jinah had a hell of a headache.

She really wanted to pay attention to Taeyeon's class — it was the best of them, dammit! — but her throbbing head was stealing all her concentration. She couldn't tell, but she was pretty sure the one responsible for that torment was the lasagna Chan had planned to make for the previous day's dinner. Jinah mentally noted that she should never again be a guinea pig for the culinary experiments of her friend whom wanted to change the eating habits of that apartment, but didn't accept the fact that he was almost graduating for a doctor, not a chef. When the nuisance of not being able to stare at the slides without feeling a twinge behind her eyes, Jinah gave up trying and gathered up her few materials, then quietly exiting the room.

The campus air rushed into her lungs as she pushed her body out of the building. She was torn between going home early — since there weren't many important things on that day — or just getting some rest until the next class. If she chose the first option, she could review the matter for the tests that would be applied at the end of her penultimate period at the institution or simply lie in bed and sleep until go to work. The indecision was dispelled when she felt her phone vibrate inside the pocket of her jeans, and the girl already imagined that the person who was sending the messages was Jade. No mistake, after all. After reassuring the american, saying that she only left the room because the headache was preventing her from understanding the luminous content of the projections, she decided that she'd stay at the University until the end of the five lessons. It was tempting to stay at home doing nothing, but she couldn't do it whenever she wanted and forgot her obligations.

Jinah sat down on one of the little tables on the campus and covered her eyes with her hands. It was about fifteen minutes to the next class, that is, fifteen minutes to try to repair the damage inside her head. Her whole body went into a perfect state of inertia.

On the other side, oblivious to the girl's presence, Jisung held up the face of someone who only wanted to die as he left the library. Han had taken advantage of his free time, since the professor hadn't gone in the day because of family problems, to look for a book that would help him to do a work required by the same teacher, last week, and having exhausted the minimum of encouragement he had to scour the dozens of shelves, completely lost the want to do anything that involved burning the remaining energy molecules in his cells. In short, he just wanted to procrastinate.

Jisung continued on his way to nowhere, but, when a wind hit his face and brought a scent of pear and peach, it was impossible not to look away and recognize the gray sweatshirt that should've been the girl's favorite. The fact that her head was down didn't stop him from recognizing Jinah's dark and silky hair. The doubt soon came.

"Hey" he touched the girl's hair, who jumped in fright and looked up at him. "Are you alright?"

Han Jisung worried?, Jinah thought. Or rather, worried about me?

"I am," she replied casually, hiding the surprise. "It's just a headache."

"Why don't you go home?"

"Just because of a headache?" the girl raised her eyebrows, trying to be indifferent, but this only served to worsen the discomfort and soon turned into a grimace.

Jisung sighed and felt his pockets. Besides being a forewarned person, he always suffered from migraine attacks, so carrying pills was almost as vital as charging his phone.

"Here." he tossed the silver card to the other.

"How will I know it's not poison?" Jinah made a joke.

"You won't know" Jisung sat on one of the empty benches and watched the girl pick out a capsule and swallow it with two sips of water from the half-bottle that was in the pocket of her backpack. "But just for now. Your body will let you know soon enough."

"Fool" Jinah rolled her eyes with a slight smile tracing her lips. "Why aren't you in your class?"

"My professor’s getting a divorce. It seems like he was going to solve something related to that" Jisung shrugged, the other's life really didn't interest him. "Remember my friends, Yoorim and Hyunjin?"

"Yeah, why?"

"They'll do something at their house tomorrow and asked if you want to go."

Jinah thought it odd, "But I only talked to both of them once."

"Yeah, but they think I'm not aware of the attempts to make me socialize with different people," was Jisung who rolled his eyes this time. "Anyway, you can go if you want. Woojin hyung will also be there."

"You don't mind?"

Jisung looked at Jinah's pretty face and for the first time, was sincere in replying: "No."

The girl smiled. She imagined she'd hear a whatever, but, apparently, things were really changing.

"Okay, then. What time will that be?"

"I don't know, I think at eight."

"Woojin knows where it is?" obviously Jinah would have Kim's moral support, for although she had no difficulty keeping in touch with people, getting to the home of two "strangers" alone was a little embarrassing to her.

"Woojin must know even the address of the President of the United States."

Jinah opened her mouth to respond, but stopped when she noticed someone else's presence. It was Lalisa Manoban, who passed by the table looking at them in a weird way, similar to what Yugyeom had looked at Jisung the other day. Jinah quickly despaired. She didn't want others to judge her relationship with Han in the wrong way, because she knew he didn't like it and didn't want to ruin things again. However, when she prepared to question the thai girl, Jisung intervened.

"Nevermind" he checked the notifications on his phone and wanted to die even more when he saw that the minutes had run too fast and that he couldn't be late at all for the next class, since the teacher was annoying. "I have to go." he stood up.

"Thank you for the medicine" Jinah handed the card back. "And the invitation."

"You're welcome. See you tomorrow."

The girl nodded and, as the boy walked away, she opened a satisfied smile. She only hoped that that more receptive phase of Jisung persisted and that he wouldn't be like he was before again. Jinah felt good to see him get good little by little.

The Hadith of Archangel Gabriel

New Post has been published on http://www.truth-seeker.info/does-god-exist/the-hadith-of-archangel-gabriel/

The Hadith of Archangel Gabriel

By Sachiko Murata, William C. Chittick

The Hadith of Archangel Gabriel

Umar ibn al-Khattab said: One day when we were with God’s messenger, a man with very white clothing and very black hair came up to us. No mark of travel was visible on him, and none of us recognized him. Sitting down before the Prophet, leaning his knees against his, and placing his hands on his thighs, he said, “Tell me, Muhammad, about submission.”

He replied, ‘Submission means that you should bear witness that there is no god but God and that Muhammad is God’s messenger, that you should perform the ritual prayer, pay the alms tax, fast during Ramadan, and make the pilgrimage to the House if you are able to go there.”

The man said, “You have spoken the truth.” We were surprised at his questioning him and then declaring that he had spoken the truth. He said “Now tell me about faith.”

He replied, “Faith means that you have faith in God, His angels, His books, His messengers, and the Last Day, and that you have faith in the measuring out, both its good and its evil.”

Remarking that he had spoken the truth, he then said, “Now tell me about doing what is beautiful.”

He replied, “Doing what is beautiful means that you should worship God as if you see Him, for even if you do not see Him, He sees you.”

Then the man said, “Tell me about the Hour”

The Prophet replied, “About that he who is questioned knows no more than the questioner.”

The man said, “Then tell me about its marks.”

He said, “The slave girl will give birth to her mistress, and you will see the barefoot, the naked, the destitute, and the shepherds vying with each other in building.”

Then the man went away. After I had waited for a long time, the Prophet said to me, “Do you know who the questioner was, ‘Umar?” I replied, “God and His messenger know best. “He said, “He was Gabriel. He came to teach you your religion. ”

To begin explaining the meaning of this hadith let us flesh it out by adding some background information that would be obvious to the original listeners but not to a reader situated many centuries and miles away.

Try to imagine the situation. The Messenger of God, at the time the greatest human being on the face of the earth (as far as his companions were concerned – and the historical record bears them out), is sitting at the edge of an oasis in Medina with a group of his companions, that is, people who have accepted that he is the mouthpiece of God. Suddenly a man appears whom no one recognizes.

Medina, at the time, is a tiny community in the midst of the desert (with a population of several hundred or perhaps a few thousand). Everyone knows everyone. If a traveler arrives, it is no small event, given the difficulty of travel and the small population. Everyone learns about new arrivals within hours. The system of personal relationships established by familial, tribal, and other bonds ensures that news is spread around much more efficiently than can ever be accomplished by today’s six o’clock news. A man appears whom no one knows, but no one has arrived in town for several days, except the uncle of so and so, whom several of them have already seen.

Not only do the companions fail to recognize the man, but he also shows no signs of travel, which is very strange. If they do not know him, then he must be a newly arrived traveler. Someone would not be able to freshen up that quickly after several days of travel in the desert, even if he had traveled only by night on the back of a camel. (You think you feel bad after six hours in a car-think of six days in the hottest and dustiest environment you can imagine, with no air-conditioned rest stops for coffee or soda.)

As soon as the man arrives, everyone is all ears. Who can this person be, and how did he get here without our knowing about it? Next strange fact: The man is obviously on familiar terms with the Prophet of God. He comes right up to him and kneels down in front of him, his knees against the Prophet’s knees. Notice that the Prophet himself is kneeling, not in prayer as modern Westerners might kneel, but simply because kneeling is, for most Orientals, the simplest and at the same time the most respectful way to sit. Remember that, even in houses, chairs were unheard of. People sat on the ground, as they still do in much of the world and this includes some of the richest and most sophisticated parts of the world, such as Japan. For most of the ancient world, chairs were the prerogative of kings.

You would not go right up to a person and kneel with your knees touching his unless he were, for example, your brother or a very close friend. The normal procedure, even if the person sitting there was just an ordinary person, would be to greet him from a respectful distance and keep the distance. But the stranger from the desert obviously knows Muhammad very well. He even places his hands upon Muhammad’s thighs, which would be an unheard of piece of effrontery if the man were a stranger. Then the man addresses Muhammad by his name, whereas people always address him by his title, Messenger of God. The man begins talking without introduction as if he had been part of the conversation all along.

Once Muhammad answers the man’s first question, the man says, “You have spoken the truth.” ‘Umar remarks, “We were surprised at his questioning him and then declaring that he had spoken the truth.” This is an enormous understatement. More likely, the companions were flabbergasted. What kind of insolence is this? To come up to God’s own messenger and begin to grill him, and then to pat him on the head as if he were a schoolboy! This is inconceivable. But then again, the companions took their clues from Muhammad. He was acting as if all this were perfectly normal and natural. What could they do but follow his example?

After the man leaves, Muhammad waits awhile, allowing his companions to think about this strange event. Finally, he tells them what had happened. They would not soon forget, and you can be sure that by that night, everyone in Medina had heard about Gabriel’s appearance. No one was supposed to forget about this visit, for the Prophet had just presented them with their religion in a nutshell. If they ever wanted to know what was essential in Islam, all they had to do was remember the strange events of this day.

———–

Excerpted from the book “The Vision of Islam” by Sachiko Murata and William C. Chttick.

Spring in Constanta--Ch. 18

Chapter 18

             Lisa leaned against the sink facing Chris, who was propped up against the center island. I was curled up on the sofa with Stella reading her a book. I suppose the two of them didn’t think I could hear as they talked in hushed voices, probably since they couldn’t see me from where they stood.

           “We’ve already started the immigration paperwork, Ma. Trust me, it’s the first thing we did,” Chris said. He sounded exasperated, as if he’d had this conversation a thousand times before.

           “I’m just worried about you, Chris,” Lisa returned. “It’s all so fast. And after the way she treated you.”

           Chris held up his hands to stop his mother from saying anything more. “We’ve gotten past it. And it isn’t entirely her fault.”

           “You don’t have to make excuses, Chris. Not when she acts like that.” Lisa sighed and reached for her son’s hands. “I’m not trying to get in between you. I saw you two together before all that mess. You both looked so happy. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

           Chris hugged his mother tightly and kissed the side of her head. “Don’t worry about it, Ma.”

           She laughed a little. “I’m always going to worry, Christopher. You’re my boy.”

           They disappeared through the back hallway and I lost sight of them. Stella had fallen asleep against my side, the book open across her belly. I closed it and put it out of the way, curling up with Chris’ niece and pillowing my head on the arm of the sofa. Dodger clambered up on the other end and collapsed on my feet. I wasn’t going to argue, he was warm.

             I woke up sometime later. I wasn’t on the sofa any longer. Instead, I was tucked in the blankets of Chris’ bed. Dodger slept at the end, his head on his paws. The room was shrouded in shadow. The clock on the bedside table said it was a quarter to eight. Sitting up, I stretched and tried to slip out of the bed without waking Dodger. He snuffled and grunted but didn’t wake.

           I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. Some nagging sense of off ran circles around the back of my mind. A glance in the mirror showed dark circles under my eyes and a pale tint to my skin. It wasn’t that I felt nauseated or dizzy, but more that I just felt an overwhelming sense of wrongness.

           Tying my hair up, I opened the bedroom door and was suddenly awash in light and sound. A faint glow lit up the bottom of the staircase. The sound of children laughing and glasses clinking wafted around my head. I came down the steps halfway and sat down, listening to the sound of Chris and his family enjoying their time together.

           “Are you sure you want to do this?” It sounded like Scott, but I couldn’t be sure.

           “If one more person asks me that, I’m going to punch ‘em in the fuckin’ teeth,” Chris groaned. His words were a little slurred. He must’ve had a few drinks.

           Silence for a long moment. “Only asking because we care. You know that.”

           I could imagine Chris running his palm down his face, smoothing out the hairs of his beard and mustache. He did that when he was exasperated. “One misunderstanding and the whole family thinks it’s the worst idea in the fucking world for us to get married.”

           “Chris…”

           The two of them murmured quietly for a while, their voices rising and falling in a way that I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I thought I heard Sebastian’s voice somewhere, but I didn’t want to think that he’d forgotten me too. My head started to ache and tears blurred my vision as I stood up and started back to Chris’ bedroom.

           The sound of a crash downstairs stopped me. I turned and dashed down the staircase two at a time, nearly toppling over when I made it to the bottom. Stella crashed into my legs, her eyes wide with fear. I saw Carly and Shanna ushering Miles out of the room. Stella shouted for her mother as I hefted her up onto my hip and surveyed the melee going on in the living room.

           Lisa was looking on in horror as Sebastian tried to get between Chris and Scott, who were a few seconds away from trading blows. A mess of broken glass on the floor was the only evidence of the crash I’d heard. I didn’t want to know what happened to send two brothers into a fist fight.

           My cousin looked around, his eyes going wide when he caught sight of me. He looked as if he wanted to shout at me to leave, but he didn’t have time. In the split second that he’d looked away, Scott slipped past Sebastian and tackled Chris to the floor. Stella screamed and started to cry. Lisa covered her mouth like the sight made her sick.

           Sebastian struggled to pull the two brothers apart.

           I curled Stella against my shoulder and backed away from the living room. When I hit a wall, I turned and dashed around the corner into the kitchen. Miles was sitting on the counter with his hands over his ears. Shanna and Carly hovered nearby, clearly not knowing what to do. When she saw her mother, Stella wriggled from my grasp and ran over to her.

           “What happened?” I asked quietly.

           The look Shanna gave me left no doubt what happened. She looked as if she would slap me if I came any closer. The disagreement obviously had something to do with me.

           Without a word, I turned and slipped down the hall toward the front door. I slipped on my shoes and pulled Chris’ sweater from its hook. Tugging it over my head, I pushed the door open and melted into the crisp spring night.

           The stars were a little easier to see in Sudbury than they were in Boston or Constanta. I looked up at the way they twinkled and sparkled as I meandered down the drive toward the street. The cold started to seep in beneath the fabric of Chris’ sweater as I hit the street and turned left. Sudbury was quaint in the way that all suburbs were. As I walked along the side of the road, I wondered what it had looked like when Chris was young. How much had it changed?

           Twenty minutes into my walk I realized I was lost. I’d taken a few turns along the way and the next thing I knew, I didn’t recognize anything. Panic settled into my bones. My heart hammered my ribs and the pavement tilted beneath my feet.

           I sat down on the edge of the asphalt. Bile clawed its way up my throat. I thought of Chris and Scott fighting at the house. I thought of the look of fear Sebastian had given me while he tried to break the two of them up. I thought of the way Shanna and Carly looked at me as if I was some alien thing that had invaded their home.

           Time passed slowly. It could have been a few minutes, or it could have been a few hours. All I knew was the sense of terror that hovered around me, the panic that cinched my lungs closed in my chest, the nausea that turned my stomach upside down. The cold turned my skin to gooseflesh. The darkness crept in around me, filled with the noises of animals crawling and skittering through underbrush.

           Bright light blinded me. A car slowed to a stop on the curb not far away. The door opened. The sound of heavy footfalls on the road. A shadow appearing in the haze.

           “Ma’am? Are you okay?” The voice was authoritative and careful. The Boston accent thick.

           Panic closed my throat. I wanted to back away, crawl through the grass and disappear into the forest where nothing could find me. I looked up at the figure standing over me with wide eyes.

           “Ma’am?” I caught sight of words along the side of the car. Sudbury Police Department. “You have some ID on you, ma’am?”

           Terror overwhelmed me. I knew what happened in Romania to foreigners who were arrested. The police weren’t to be trusted. They were violent, hateful, and corrupt. I backed away from the officer slowly, my hands up in front of my face.

           “I… I… just got lost… I’m staying with friends…” I couldn’t tell him the address, even if I had remembered it, not when Chris and Scott could very well still be fighting.

           It was too much. I broke down crying.

           The officer crouched in front of me. He was younger than I expected, probably barely out of high school. His face—what I could see for the glare of his headlights—were kind.

           “Let’s get you somewhere warm. Then we can call your friends, okay?”

Tag List

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A sample of my upcoming novel!

So, in a few months my first book will be coming out, in celebration I will be posting an early draft of the first chapter.  

My novel, ‘A Midnight Drive’ follows the story of four queer adults: A priest suddenly thrust out of his own time, a carpenter, a hairdresser, and a former special forces medic.  Together they hunt the supernatural forces that have suddenly made a presence in their lives.

Chapter One

            Okay, so it’s probably not the best idea to drive off in the middle of the night after a massive fight with your drunk ex-fiancée yet there I was, three hours from home and completely lost.  

            It had been an hour since I’d last seen a road sign and two since the radio had gone to static.  My piece of shit car didn’t even have a working CD drive so I ranted to no one, letting my rage out with the windows wide open, wind snatching the words from my mouth.

            ‘It’s over’ had been a long time coming but it still hurt when Nick broke it off, with a text message no less.  I wasn’t surprised of course; as a professor Nick was amazing but he was a pretty shitty human being.  Our engagement had been something of a sham anyways, a way for him to rebel against his homophobic parents.  I was happy to help, couldn’t leave a fellow bi guy hanging. Besides, we’d been good friends at the time and assumed it would work out.

            I was lonely, he was convenient, and it ended just as terribly as my sister said it would.

            I was pretty pissed at Emily’s sour attitude, and her dislike of Nick, but I knew I should have listened to her.  Years in the special forces gave her razor-sharp reflexes and unmatched intuition about people.  Still, I guess I could be pretty pigheaded when I wanted to.  

            Tonight, was supposed to have been the wedding rehearsal.  Emily had thrown a house party instead and Nick showed up with a couple mutual friends, shitfaced and cradling half a bottle of champagne.  I recognized the bottle as the one we’d planned to use for the wedding.

            God, I could still hear his accusations ringing in my ears.  I didn’t try hard enough, I was always at work, I was selfish.

            Nick never even talked to me about his problems, and I guess that was the biggest problem of all.  After years of therapy I’d learned not to internalize my problems.  I was happy and he seemed to hate that.  

            Of course, there were happy memories, the endless parties, the museums and the fancy dinners that Nick was obsessed with.  

            He loved keeping up appearances, loved it when he could name drop the nice restaurants we’d been to or the shows we’d seen.  I just wanted to sit quietly at home and read together.  Of course, that rarely happened.

            “God, get a grip Josh,” I yelled to the empty air, pretending I didn’t feel the tears stinging my dark eyes.  I didn’t bother looking at my reflection in the review mirror, I knew I looked like shit. I brushed the hair from my forehead and let out a loud sigh.  

            I didn’t feel like going home but I couldn’t keep on driving forever.  When the gas meter hit its little red line I finally pulled over by an empty lot.  The sun was setting, the sun’s dark amber glow blending with my hand as my calloused fingers tapped on the wheel.  I pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the car, letting the cool night air hit my face.

            I silently thanked got that Emily believed in being prepared.  I quickly rummaged around the trunk for my thick flannel and a bottle of water before walking back to the front of the car and jumping onto the trunk.  The sky was clear, stars twinkling brightly, a sight I rarely got to see in Savannah.

            There was something to say of being so far from civilization, with a long stretch of grass and trees on either side of me.  I thought I knew Georgia well, apparently not as well as I’d thought. It felt good, to be honest.  I didn’t often get a chance to be alone like this. I was surrounded by others at work, or friends and family at home.  Not that I minded too much of course, but this felt good too.

            After a while the chill of the night seeped into my bones and I let out a yawn.  Maybe it was a good idea to take a nap before tackling the gas station issue. I slid off the hood and stretched my arms above my head, relishing in the satisfying crack of my joints.

            “Excuse me sir, I do not mean to intrude, but are you in need of lodgings?”

            I jumped about a mile high when I heard that voice in the darkness.  The person had a soothing low voice and just the hint of an accent, but something about it gave me the willies.  

            “Um, I just need gas, I think I’ll be fine for the night man, thanks anyways.”    I made to open the car door but a bony hand grasped my wrist in a loose grip. The touch felt like a shock, but I could not pull away.  I could just barely make out his silhouette in the light of the moon.  He looked hungry, with hollow holes for cheekbones and worn clothes that dragged on the ground, a fact I learned when I tripped over trailing fabric As I took a step towards him.

            “Please, the night is cold, my parish house is close.

            “There aren’t any houses for miles-.”  The words died in my throat when a faint light suddenly shone in the distant, illuminating a stone house.  It looked to be three floors, with two windows on each floor as far as I could see.  My breathing quickened.  

            Something was definitely weird here, and despite the chills I felt my gut told me I wasn’t in danger, and a small voice in my head told me to follow this guy.

            “oh-okay, lead the way,” I stuttered, trying to cover my stutter of shock as quickly as I could.  

            The stranger was a man all right, and despite his emaciated appearance it was obvious he was very handsome, or perhaps beautiful was the right word.

            Dazed grey eyes lay sunken in their sockets and night-black hair framed his face. Pale lips were pulled into a small smile and an oversized black smock hung off his frame.  It took a moment to see the white collar at his thin neck.

            “Oh God you’re a priest,” I said out loud, then slapped a hand over my mouth. I couldn’t believe I just said that out loud.  

            “ Well yes, traditionally parish houses tend to be the dwellings of priests. Now, follow me please and I can give you a hot meal and lodgings.” he said with a dry little laugh.  He sounded lost in thought, as though he was a million miles away.  

            “You know what, some food actually sounds good right now,” I said, deciding that, despite the weirdness, a bite would probably do me good.

            I neglected to mention that the priest probably needed food more than I did at that moment.

            “Wonderful.  I am Father Finian by the way, I hope I did not give you too much of a fright.”

            “I’m Josh Martinez, nice to meet you man.  That’s an interesting name,” I said as we shook hands.  His grip was weak.  

            “Is it?  It is quite common back home in Ireland,” he replied, wincing over then name of the country, as though in pain.

            “Oh, well that explains the accent,” I said with a smile, pretending I hadn’t seen the wince and trying to keep it light.  

            As we walked the two of us lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence.  Finian walked with a bit of a limp, and every once in a while, he would look at me with stark clarity in his eyes.  In those moments he opened his mouth as though to speak, then closed it again.  

            We walked for only a few minutes before we came to a house in a clearing of trees.  The house looked so out of place in the Georgia countryside that I almost did a double-take.  The building was made entirely of stone, and so dilapidated I wondered how it was still standing on its foundations.  I could see threadbare grey curtains swinging behind cracked windows. The roof was slanted and I could see tiles missing.  

            Despite the disrepair on the house perfectly pruned rosebushes stood proudly on the lawn, their scent sickly sweet and almost overpowering.  We paused at the stone steps while father Finian fumbled in his pockets for a small key that hung off a rosary.

            “Welcome to my home Joshua, I hope it is to your liking.”

            Here goes nothin’.  If you get killed it’s your own fault for for following a stranger home I thought to myself and cross the threshold.  

            Whatever Father Finian said to me went unheard as I stared into the house, unable to believe what I was seeing.   It was impossible, I knew all too well, and yet the interior of the house was in perfect condition.  Light hardwood floor was solid under my feet, a beautiful staircase stood to my right and a dimly lit hall to my left.  On the wall beside Father Finian hug a silver crucifix unlike any I’d ever seen.   Instead of the usual peaceful expression the silver face of Jesus was twisted in agony, mouth open in a perpetual scream.  

            “- are you quite well Joshua,” Father Finian said as he placed a hand on my shoulder, forcing me out of my reverie.  

            “Sorry Father, can you repeat that, I was just a little shocked,” I admitted. The priest laughed, adams apple bobbing in that bony neck.

            “I am not surprised, it does not look so inviting from the outside. Please follow me, the dining room is through here,” he said and I followed him quietly.  The walls of the short hall were bare, made of the same paneled wood of the floors.  

            “You know, I could fix up the front of the house if you’d like.  I’m a carpenter, you could think of it as payment for letting me stay here.,” I said.  To be honest I just wanted to get my hands on those stones, they were obviously old and desperately needed repair.

            The priest stopped suddenly and turned to look at me, thin brows furrowed and mouth twisted into a little frown.  I wondered if I had offended him in some way, but soon the expression passed and he was smiling again.

            “It’s quite all right, thank you for the offer however.  Now, I was just about to have a spot of dinner, why don’t you join me.”  

            The dining room was more decorated than the hall and foyer, with a large tapestry hanging from the wall across from a large table like the one I’d seen in beer halls when Emily and I went on a family trip to Europe.  There were no windows here, which was a little weird but I’d seen it before.  

            The strangest thing, however, was the feast that rested on top of the large table.  

            There were roast birds of all kind, along with shepherd’s pie and mashed potatoes and two kinds of gravies.  There was a large crystal decanter of red wine and glasses, as well as two sets of silverware and plates.  The food smelled incredible, and steam wafted off the roast goose as though it had been recently cooked.  On either side of the table were two massive silver candelabras, which seemed to be the only source of light in the room.

            What the fuck?

            There was definitely something weird going on, but at this point I really had nothing to lose, other than my life of course.  

            “This stuff looks amazing, were you expecting company,” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, as I sat across from him, with my back to the tapestry.  

            “Oh, not at all it is my habit to leave an extra place out, from home.  Now let us say grace,” he said.

            As father Finian murmured a prayer in Latin I kept my eyes close and wondered what the probability of him lying was.  Pretty high, probably.  What was his angle though, treat him to dinner like this?  Unless the food was poisoned?  If he was a killer though why was he so thin, and his behavior didn’t add up.

            “Amen” Finian said, and I followed suit, then we dug into our food.

            The food was not poisoned, and neither was the wine.  Both were ridiculously good.  To top it all off Finian was an incredible conversationalist, something I found just a little surprising considering his peculiar behavior.

            “Well, you can’t believe everything the bible says,” I said heatedly as we fell deep into a discussion of the old testament.

            “Oh I agree, after all it is a very large book, and there are so many rules, but we must follow at least a few,” Finian shot back, and I sighed.

            “Okay, then why don’t we choose some better ones,” I replied.  Finian let out an involuntary chuckle I smiled.  

            Other than the world of religion Finian and I seemed to have remarkably similar taste.  He was a simple man, and he preached a simple life.  He wasn’t really into modern pleasures but knew a great deal about history.

            When I told Finian I couldn’t live without a smartphone he nodded, and said it was to be expected, and that spiraled into a debate about the benefits of technology.

            Suddenly a clock somewhere in the house chimed to announce it was one in the morning and the priest jumped a mile high.

            “Well look at the time, you should be getting to bed.  Let me show you to your room.”  Finian’s voice was polite as ever, but it now had that strain of fear which I had heard when I first met him outside.  I followed him, looking mournfully at my plate and the substantial number of leftovers.  

            In comparison to the dining room the upstairs hall was barren.  The wood floors and paneling were darker and showed more wear.  There were three sets of doors on either side of the wall.  Finian pointed to a door with a brass number three.  

            “Here is your room, it should have all the necessities inside to make you comfortable, as well as a set of sleepwear,” he said quickly, eyes downcast.

            “Wait a second,” I said as Finian turned away, grabbing a thin wrist before he could walk away.  The touch was like a shock, and I felt myself blush despite myself.

            “I- I never got to thank you,” I said haltingly.  Finian shook his head and gently pulled his wrist from my grip.

            “No thanks required, I am glad for your company Joshua.”

            “Please, call me Josh.”

            Finian nodded, then turned on his heel and all but ran back down the stairs, his footfalls heavy and fast.  I shrugged my shoulders and walked into my little room, closing the door behind me. I suppose it didn’t matter anyways. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again after today anyways.  

            The room had a small bed and a matching chest of drawers, along with an empty fireplace across the bed.  I didn’t bother with that since it was pretty warm in here but when I went to open the top drawer of the chest my eyes widened comically.  Rather than a shirt and pants there was a long cotton nightgown, like the men in the period drama’s Nick so loved used to wear.  I debated with myself for a moment before shrugging and taking my clothes on, there was no harm in wearing a nightgown for a night, besides pajamas are always gender neutral.

            I managed to get about an hour of sleep on the lumpy hard bed before I heard the first faint scream.  

            I shot up in bed, hair on my arms standing at attention and chest heaving. I pinched myself for a second, convinced I was having some sort of weird nightmare, until there was a second scream. I jumped out of bed, grabbing my phone, which was almost dead and didn’t bother to change before running into the hallway.  I winced as I felt the rotting wood under my bare feet.

            Wait, rotting wood?

            I looked down in trepidation.  In place of the floors I’d seen earlier there was just the rotted remnants of a foundation.  Fear blooming in my heart for the first time all night I ran down the stairs, which were in no better condition.  The screams continued unrelenting, and they were strongest in the dining room.  

            “holy shit,” I gasped when I saw the place I’d eaten in.  The food on the table was rotten, and one candelabra lay broken in a corner of the room.  Worst of all was the thick metallic scent of blood.  I turned around as another scream rang out.  

            The tapestry before me was nothing but tatters now, and behind it lay a door. Whoever was screaming, they were behind that door, and despite knowing I should run all my instincts told me to open that door.  I did so with a trembling hand, and saw a set of stares leading into what could only be a basement.

            As I tiptoed down the steps I could now hear that between the screams there was quiet sobbing, and right before the screams there was a sharp sound, like something hitting flesh.  I took a deep breath to steel myself as I walked down the last step, and walked into a scene I would never forget for the rest of my life.  

              Father Finian lay in the center of what could only be described as a torture chamber.  He was kneeling, completely naked, skin practically translucent, stretched over bones. His hair was long and mangled with blood and sweat.  It hung like a curtain over his face.  The contents of dinner were spilled between his hands and blood dripped off his back, which was lined with whip marks.  His chest rose and fell with his violent sobs, and he shivered just as violently.

            Flanked on either side of him were skeletons, at least that’s what they looked like, with bright yellow eyes and red cloaks.  In their hands they held long leather whips.  

            “You are not dreaming Joshua Martinez, are you daring enough to save his hide,” the skeleton closest to me said.  Its voice was high and grating, like nails on a chalkboard.  

            I’m not going to like, for a moment I thought of running, of leaving and never coming back and pretending it was all a dream, but in the end, I couldn’t.

            “You’re gonna be okay,” I said urgently and ran over to pick him up bridal style, trying to puke at the smell and sight of all that blood.

            “You do not know what you have just put into motion boy,” one of the skeleton’s screeched after me, voice high in delight.  

            I didn’t care, couldn’t care, about the weird creatures right now, I could only focus on one freaky thing at a time and considering Finian was almost dead my priorities were set.  I ran through the house, trying to get out of the place as soon as possible.  It did not escape my notice that the ceiling above me had begun to crumble, and by the time I stumbled onto my knees outside the house crumbled into dust, literal dust.  

            “What the hell,” I exclaimed at the same moment Finian’s eyes shot open.  In a burst of what I can only describe as superhuman strength considering his condition Finian sat up and grabbed my shirt in his bony hands, split fingernails raking against the fabric. His voice was no more than a whisper when he spoke.

            “I am free for the first time in seven hundred and eighty-two years.”

Chasing the Missing Paths Pt. 1

Alex and Emma keep crossing paths, yet the universe just won't allow them to be together

Sometimes we cross paths with somebody and take it for granted, only to regret not finding a method to stay in contact to keep paths aligned. It could be that cute guy you sat down next to on the bus or that charming girl who helped you pick up your books after you tripped in college. We’ve all had those mini crushes that we kept secret, only to forget. And so, you never see them again. You’ll remember them for a few days and then forget they ever existed, or they swarm your mind forever, making the agony worse. But what about the people that we bump into more than once at the most random of moments? They first seem like the stranger we’ll never talk to before, but then we see them again and again. Of course, eventually there will be communication along the lines of ‘hey, I saw you that one time at that one thing’ or maybe the flirty ‘are you stalking me?’, but what if the circumstances aren’t right? What if there’s always something holding one person back? This is a series of those events.

Part 1

The first encounter occurred in 2011. Emma’s friends had dragged her along to a bar on a Friday night, hoping to celebrate the weekend. She was twenty-one at that time and so legally allowed to drink. However, she wasn’t like her friends (or any other twenty-one year old for that matter), as in she didn’t drink until she was drunk. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy having the occasional drink in the company of other people, she just knew that it didn’t do her any good. That wasn’t to say she believed people were stupid for drinking, it wasn’t that at all. It was just a personal choice. This specific night, her friends had managed to get her to come along to a karaoke bar. It was often full of drunk people who believed they were the next Beyoncé. They’d belt their hearts out, often way more flat than not. There were the few diamonds in the rough, but they were quite rare to come across, but then again it was also rare to have multiple chance encounters with one person. That brings us to Emma’s co-star in this retelling of events: Alex Gaskarth. He happened to be at that same karaoke bar, occupying a table with many of his friends. With how much they were drinking and how far away they were sitting, he would have never noticed Emma. To him, she was just another piece of the larger crowd at the bar. Now, being the lead singer of a band, Alex didn’t mind getting up on that stage to sing no matter how drunk he was. He actually believed the drunker the better. It was all just good fun. He’d go up there solo, with friends who couldn’t sing if their lives depended on it, or with friends who were equally as talented. His favorites included the Backstreet Boys and any other cheesy songs he could get his hands on. The funnier the better. He quite loved the attention. Emma, on the other hand, was left by her friends. Or, well, she didn’t really mind. They all wanted to go clubbing, only coming to the karaoke bar to pregame. While Emma was happy to come with them to the bar, she drew the line at going to a club. She couldn’t stand having to scream over the loud music everybody either shuffled or jumped to. Although alone, she much preferred the atmosphere of a karaoke bar. Plus, she had signed herself up for a song and her friends wanted to leave before she got to go, so she wanted to wait until that. So, how did these individuals with vastly different lifestyles cross paths? It was all due to one song: Ain’t No Mountain High Enough by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Everybody knows the song and from how cheesy it is, it is more than easy to guess Alex was the one who had chosen it. His name was called out and he got up on stage. There was just one thing missing. The song was obviously a duet, that’s why most people chose it, yet Alex was all by himself. Nobody really thought much about it, including Emma who wasn’t paying all too much attention. Let’s be honest, most people didn’t even know which song was being sung until a well-known chorus came along. “Oh, come on, babe,” Alex said through the microphone, holding out a hand to gesture for his girlfriend to come up on stage with him, “it will be fun!” It wasn’t what he said that caught Emma’s attention, it was what happened right after. Alex’s girlfriend got up and picked up her bag. But she didn’t go up on stage with him. Oh, no, the opposite happened. She stormed out of the bar, not looking back. It was quite the scene. Some people voiced their sympathy, but nobody knew why she ran out in the first place. Maybe they had gotten into an argument before and this was just the cherry on top, or maybe she was embarrassed. Either way, it looked painful. Yet Alex just shrugged. “Guess I’ll be singing this duet alone then.” The backing track started playing and Emma couldn’t ignore the second-hand embarrassment. She stood up from her own chair and rushed to the stage as the stranger started singing. “Listen, baby Ain't no mountain high Ain't no valley low Ain't no river wide enough, baby” She made it just in time for the female part, missing out the first two words, catching the guy off guard at first. But he started smiling as she progressed through the verse. “If you need me, call me No matter where you are No matter how far (don't worry, baby) Just call my name I'll be there in a hurry You don't have to worry Cause baby there ” Alex completely disregarded that they were strangers and that she would have personal boundaries, and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Maybe it was because he was drunk, or maybe it was because he was happy there was somebody helping him out. Either way, he was having fun like he wanted. “Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough Ain't no river wide enough To keep me from getting to you, babe” To make it even cheesier, Alex let go of the girl and acted like he was dramatically serenading her for the male part’s verse, causing his entire table of friends to whoop and holler in amusement. “Remember the day I set you free I told you you could always count on me, darling From that day on, I made a vow I'll be there when you want me Some way, some how Cause baby there Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough Ain't no river wide enough To keep me from getting to you, babe Oh no, darling” Even Emma seemed to be having fun. While her clothes suggested a quiet shy conservative blonde girl, she was singing to her heart’s desire, and all without much effort. She had quite the stage presence herself. Alex felt quite lucky that this stranger decided to randomly join him. “No wind, no rain Nor winter storm Can't stop me baby No no baby Cause you are my goal If you're ever in trouble I'll be there on the double Just send for me Oh baby! My love is alive Way down in my heart Although we are miles apart If you ever need a helping hand I'll be there on the double Just as fast as I can Don't you know that there... Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough Ain't no river wide enough To keep me from getting to you Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough Ain't no river wide enough Ain't no mountain high enough Ain't no valley low enough.” The song came to an end and so did their encounter. After thanking the audience that mainly wasn’t paying attention, Alex’s microphone went back onto the stand, while Emma’s went back to the DJ. They got off the stage to give the next performer the space to get up after the name was announced. “I’m Alex,” he introduced as they were at the bottom of the three steps and held out his hand. “I’m--” Emma went to shake his hand, but she was interrupted by the DJ calling out her name to be the next performer. “Oh, shit, that’s me.” She scrambled back up on stage and stood in front of the microphone Alex had used just before. While she stood up there waiting for her song to start, she giggled and took hold of her skirt like she was about to curtsey only to drop the fabric again. She seemed so bubbly, forming a smile on Alex’s face as he walked back to his table without getting a formal introduction. “Dude, that girl’s hot.” Alex’s friend, Jack, slapped him on the chest in an attention-wanting manner. “Yeah, but I have a girlfriend,” Alex contradicted and leaned back in his chair, looking up at the stage and actually wanting to watch the entire performance for the first time that night. “A girlfriend who just walked out and embarrassed you in front of an entire bar,” Jack snorted, and also looked at the stage, but only because he was figuring out a game plan. “But still a girlfriend.” “Then I call dibs.” Emma’s song started, a simple piano playing in the background, telling Alex this song wasn’t as happy as the one they had done together. It went against the bubbly personality he got a brief glimpse of. Her arms were hanging down, her hand in front of her. She looked down at them shyly as the first verse started. Her voice sounded fairly quiet and shy, yet good nonetheless. “It's not simple to say Most days I don't recognize me That these shoes and this apron That place and its patrons Have taken more than I gave them It's not easy to know I'm not anything like I used to be Although it's true I was never attention's sweet center I still remember that girl” It confused Alex that the girl who went up to help a stranger and sang a song with him now seemed so timid. She started playing with the fabric of her skirt again, but not in the same perky way as before. “She's imperfect but she tries She is good but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help She is messy but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up And baked in a beautiful pie She is gone but she used to be mine” But then the other instruments started kicking in and she got a little more confident. Her hands were no longer by her side, she started making gestures and her voice became more powerful. “It's not what I asked for Sometimes life just slips in through a back door And carves out a person And makes you believe it's all true And now I've got you And you're not what I asked for” In the middle of the verse, the power started coming out more, yet she still stood behind the mic-stand as if for protection. It wasn’t what Alex had seen before. “If I'm honest I know I would give it all back For a chance to start over And rewrite an ending or two For the girl that I knew Who'll be reckless just enough Who'll get hurt But who learns how to toughen up when she's bruised And gets used by a man who can't love And then she'll get stuck” Her voice was now even better than Alex had heard during their duet. This song was obviously vocally a lot more challenging than the one they had done, yet she was doing it flawlessly. Her hands traveled to the microphone, and at the perfect moment, she took it off the stand like she had practiced it before and sounded the strongest she had that entire night. “And be scared of the life that's inside her Growing stronger each day 'Til it finally reminds her To fight just a little To bring back the fire in her eyes That's been gone but used to be mine Used to be mine” Although still holding the microphone, she resumed her initial self-conscious position and her voice became quiet again. “She is messy but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone but she used to be mine” And just like that, the song had ended. Alex had watched and observed the entire thing and didn’t want it to end just yet. He was completely mesmerized by the girl. Yet he knew he had a girlfriend. He was just amazed by the performance. She got back off stage, once again most of the audience not noticing what magnificence had happened right in front of them. Alex’s eyes followed her as she went back to her empty table and got her belongings. As she left the bar, she happened to walk fairly close to his table. He felt like he needed to say something, but he didn’t know what. So, he just let her walk away. Jack, however, had ‘called dibs’ and wasn’t going to let her go that easily. “Hey!” he yelled out, getting her attention and he beckoned her over. She walked the short distance and waited for him to say what he wanted. Jack cut to the chase and asked, “can I get your number?” “Umm…” Emma’s eyebrows furrowed and she licked her lips in thought. “I don’t know you?” “You know him.” Jack jerked a thumb in Alex’s direction. “I don’t know him.” She shook her head. “But isn’t that the whole point of giving your number. So you can get to know each other?” “I’m sorry, but not right now,” she excused before leaving. “Damn,” Jack muttered, grabbing his beer and taking a large gulp, “her loss.”

Do I Really Want To See                    What Is Down There?

Here is my first Creepy Writing Challenge Original Fiction. I tweaked the writing prompts @little-red-83 gave me, with her permission, of course.

Who : A Librarian   What : Creepy child, black eyed ghost (changed to amber eyed, tall mysterious figure)    Where : old trapper’s cabin (changed to old, run down house)    When : During a break in (changed to taking a break)             Why : Wrong place, wrong time (well maybe not, in my opinion. I’m ready anytime)                          

                     Do I Really Want To See What’s Down There?

They had spent the last fours driving. It was late, they were exhausted and the road was miserably long, dry and steady. And her leg was beginning to throb, cramping up.

“Hey, you awake?,” she asked, prodding her driving companion on the leg. That leg, the leg which was pushed and prodded, twitched slightly, and its’ attached body awoke. “Mmmm,” Lovey mumbled, “What’s the matter? Are we there yet?”

“No. I don’t know where we are, I think we’re lost,” Dexter said, slinging the map off to her. “Here. Look at the map. I need some help here.” Sitting up, groggily brushing her eyes and hair from her face, Lovey took the squished map, unfolded it. “It’s dark outside, you know,” she mentioned. Dexter lifted her arm from the wheel, “Then turn the light on.” She switched the little rectangle on the car ceiling. “I need to know where we are. Nothing about this area looks familiar from the map. You’re the librarian. Help me out.” Lovey in return rolled her eyes, sighed.

Unfolding the map, turning, folding half over, turning round again, “It’s gotta be somewhere up there,” mumbled Lovey. “This map is old. I thought you took the newer one. Doesn’t the library have tons of them?,” she mentioned, refolding it up, returning it to the glove compartment. “No. My library sucks, “complained Dexter. “That’s the one you gave me. Do you have any idea where we are?,” Dexter once again asked, eager to get somewhere, farther away from wherever they were. Hardly any lights were left on this forgotten stretch of land. It was getting very late.

“There! Up there!,” a smile creasing Lovey’s face, as she started to recognize small bits and pieces of landscape. Pointing ahead, “After this old gas station we should come to a fork in the road. Make a left, and my Aunt’s house should be bout a mile down.” Turning to Dexter, trying to make apologies, tapping her lightly on her arm, “See. We’re almost there. You did it. You did good with the driving. Good job. We’ll be there soon and then we can really get a good night’s sleep.” Giving a loud and wide yawn, stretching her back, with her arms raised as far as they could reach the car’s roof, hearing little crinkles from her joints “Oh, I’m so sick and tired of being in this car,” Lovey softly whined. “Yeah, well, I hope your Aunt is home,” was all Dexter could think of. 

Surprised no one was home, they had waited forever on the doorsteps, peeking through opened curtains lining sealed windows, “I don’t know. She said she was going be here.” Lovey tried shrugging that nagging feeling off. Thinking they should just announce themselves, “She left the door unlocked. Let’s just go in and unpack,” Dexter suggested warily. And lifting her brown and kaki duffle, “She’ll probably be here in the morning. No biggie.” “Maybe she’s already asleep?, Lovey asked. The two sighed, tiptoed in, sneaked and snooped round the old home, went upstairs, peek into unused rooms, then looked at each other. “I’m not sleeping up here,” Lovey suddenly proclaimed, eliciting a look of heart sinking alarm from Dexter. “Okay, well if you’re not, I’m not either.” And they withdrew themselves from the too tight confines of the one long hallway and half emptied rooms for a bigger, fresher looking double bedroom downstairs. The untouched rooms were left untouched.

Trying to settle in, looking round the old, semi dilapidated house, the sparse but manicured bedrooms upstairs, downstairs, the two young women, crept about, shyly peeping into full closets, opened doors, peered round dark corners. “Where’s your Aunt? Why isn’t she here?” Dexter was getting creeped out by the minute. The lighting was scant, shadows were flitting. Lovey’s emotional feelings of unease weren’t much better off. Where was her Aunt? It wasn’t like her not to be here at this hour. Yes it was very late, but still, where was she? 

Dumping their belongings on the floor and bed, “This is the newer part of the house.,” Lovey explained. “When my Aunt originally bought the place, the other owners said they had the kitchen and this room and the bathroom added on. They had one of their in-laws living with them. I don’t think she uses the upstairs much.,”  “Yeah. I guessed not.,” Dexter replied, obviously not too impressed. Dexter looked round the room’s corner to the bathroom. “Bath is big. You could fit an army in there.,” she mentioned, poking her head round the doorjamb, waiting for another of Lovely’s explanations. “Yeah.,” Lovey agreed. “It’s cedar. The shower. A jacuzi and shower.,” she smiled with a knowing thrill.

Walking back into the bedroom, Lovey went and closed the second bedroom door, which separated their room from the hallway. And older part of the house. And locked it. “Why are you locking the door?!,” Dexter asked, looking frightened for a moment. “No reason.,” Lovey gave her. “Just, I don’t know. It seemed the right thing to do.,” and she proceeded to empty her duffle in the hopes of finding some night clothes. “Want to take a shower first? Or in the morning?,” Lovey asked. Dexter opened her bag, found some clothes, grimaced at the thought of being alone all night. “No. Go ahead. I’m fine. I’ll wait till morning.”

Listening to the sounds of the water softly pounding down, coming from the bathroom next door, the everyday sound was comforting, normal even. Dexter began to forget the unusual noises from the house, the uncomfortable feelings nipping at her neck, the paranoid gazes she felt from empty, yet watchful corners. But as Dexter relaxed more and more, letting the sound of Lovey’s shower melt her dismay and unease, she began to let her feelings and guard settle down, think and remember.  Dexter had met Lovey a few times at the local library while on Lovey’s desk shift and the two became fast friends for these past eight months or so. Smiling to herself, reminiscing, Lovey was sweet, kind, intelligent, but just a bit stubborn. Like this, insisting they spend the weekend at Lovey’s Aunts’ place. In the middle of nowhere. Halfway to the other side east of the state. Dexter laughed at herself, pondering this, as the continual everyday sounds filtered next door. Right next door. Literally a footstep away from Dexter in bed. Was this where they would start, she wondered? Start their life together? Begin here, with telling Lovey’s Aunt, telling friends and family their relationship was more than just friendship? Dexter smiled, feeling finally at peace with their situation, finally finding someone she felt connected to, was relaxed around, felt loved and accepted for just being her. And mentally, emotionally settled down further, knowing Lovey’s feelings and hers were more than genuine for each other. 

Laying in the warm, soft double bed, drifting further from reality, she half lay, half sat. Trying to read one of her books, not truly concentrating on the paragraphs, as she gazed round the bigger downstairs bedroom in which they shared, Dexter’s thoughts continually came back to earlier in the evening. Newer part, she thought. It’s still creepy. This whole house is creepy. The sooner the morning comes, the sooner we can get out of here. Dexter mused and turned an unread page. The shower sounds lulled her a bit further, and she sank back more against the pillows, letting her heavy eyelids drift down, starting to doze, and her book finally settled against her chest. And the sounds of the shower continued. 

**************************************************

Where had the entire evening gone? The night was now darker than ever, and a tomblike quiet filled the eerie house. Dexter woke with a huge breath, stretch and a yawn. Had she fallen asleep? When did this happen? She rolled to the empty, chilled side of the bed, reached, and took a glance at the bedside clock. “Three a.m.?,” Dexter questioned the thickened air. She lay there in bafflement. Where was she? She stretched her mind. Where was she? “Oh, yeah,” she said aloud. “This house.” Trying to see through the darkness, “Lovey?,” she whispered sleepily. “Lovey?” That sound. What was that sound? That comforting, drip, drip, dripping sound she heard in the background. “Lovey?,” Dexter again whispered through the dark, as she woke more, becoming just a little concerned, a moment of fright actually beginning to root. 

Pulling back the comforter, stepping into the dim hall, she knocked on the door, pushing it ajar just slightly, peering inside. “Lovey?,” Dexter asked again. Why was she asking? It was three a.m. Did she seriously think her friend was still in the shower? After five hours of having been there in this house all night? “Lovey?,” again she asked, now becoming seriously frightened by the thought of aloneness setting in. The bathroom was empty. Devoid of life. No Lovey. The shower? The shower was on, fully on, steam having left the bath long ago. Dexter stepped close to the curtain, turned the knob, wiped her wet hands, fingers on the towel laying nearby. Not knowing what to think, where to look, Dexter left the bathroom light on, stepped back into their joint room. Flipping a switch near the bed, Dexter’s eyes clamped shut against the invading light. She looked round the room. The door opposite the bed was still shut and locked. Where was Lovey? Not wanting to go from this room, nor wishing to go exploring, the house was no longer just beginning to make Dexter uncomfortable, it made her upset.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

Dexter heard it. She heard it very painfully plain, clean. The stairs. She could visualize the set of stairs leading to the level above, and turned to listen. She herself had made those soft creaks as she and Lovey walked earlier. But unlike these footfalls, hers and Lovey’s were soft.

Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak.

Someone was on the stairs. Dexter sat on the bed, not moving, not breathing. Someone was in the house. Someone was on those stairs. Someone heavy. Their step was heavy. She fervently watched the bedroom door while sitting there, knowing on the other side was the older part of the house. She was in the newer part of the house. So, she assumed, she was … safe? The sound stopped. Dexter waited, listened, stared.

The knob turned. 

The knob of the bedroom door outside turned. And turned the opposite way. On the other side of the door, someone’s hand obviously was on the knob. The door was locked from this side. Dexter stared hard at the door. What was there? She wanted to call out, to ask, ‘Lovey?’, but she couldn’t find her voice. All Dexter could capably do was sit there, on the bed, in the newer part of the house, and stare at that blessed, wretched door. It rattled, rattled, rattled. And stopped. Silence. The air was thick with silence. Dead, drawn-out silence. Slowly crawling off the bed, still staring at the knob, the locked door, her fingers of their own volition reached out, stretched out to touch the knob, then quickly retracted back against her body. Dexter quickly backed away, retreating to the bed once again.  Knowing the opposite bedroom door near the bath was built on the new side of the house, she partly stuck her head out, mildly calling, “Lovey?!, Lovey?!”

The slow, cryptic creaking seductively whispered through the air again. 

Creak. Creak. Creak. 

The stairs began to strain against someone’s heavy footfalls, this time leading up to the second level. “Lovey?!!!,” screamed Dexter. She had enough. Rising, putting shoes on without socks, Dexter ran out the other side of the room, into the kitchen. The sky blue, newly designed kitchen. Flipping switches here and there, turning lights on. Newer parts, older parts of the house, she didn’t care anymore. “Lovey?!!!” Dexter needed to know. Running through all parts of the house now, Dexter came full circle back to the opposite side entrance of the locked door to their room. And looked up the stairs. Where there was not a thing, except darkness. Dexter was not going up there.

Returning her gaze back to the bedroom door, putting her hand tentatively on the knob, Dexter slowly turned it. And turned it the opposite way. Nothing. The knob didn’t budge. Dexter pulled, pushed, rattled it. Nothing. The blasted door on this side was solidly locked. Dexter was now in the older part of the house. Her comfortable bed was on the other side, in the new part of the house. “Shit,” aloud she exclaimed. Her comfort level dropped a few feet.

“Dexter,” whispered a voice. She heard it, causing her to come to a standstill, looking at nothing but flat air. “Dexter,” it spoke again. Not a menacing sound, not a thrilling one either. Just a sound. A thought borne on the air. A word on the breathless, darkened air. “Dexter.”

Coming to a stop, Dexter glanced round. Where to go? Where to look? More importantly, she decided, where to hide? Where was that voice coming from? “Hello?,” quietly Dexter asked the void. “Hello?,” then more forcefully, “What do you want?!!”

She ran back round toward the kitchen. The new kitchen. Feeling a little safer there than the older parts of the house, the foyer, the dining-living space, Dexter stilled, quieted her breathing. Looking round at the kitchen appliances, the walls, the sink, she could hear the plumbing seamlessly dripping away. Drip, drip, drip. She turned the sink knobs hard. The dripping continued. She sneered. Turning her head, Dexter willed herself to focus. That was when she heard it. Quiet, but soft, a deadly serious knocking against some small panel they hadn’t noticed before had begun. Whirling round the kitchen, this way, that way, as it knocked, knocked, knocked. 

Her heart skipped, her guts clenched, she wanted to vomit. Taking a polite, steady, frightened step toward the knock, Dexter looked down at the panel. Just a panel, no bigger than a two by three metal paneling bolted on a door. Another door, great. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Widening her eyes, taking a step back, her arms prickling up, “What’s there?,” Dexter whispered. “Dexter.,” came the whisper again. She couldn’t breath, yet her breath came and went in a thick, deep rattle. Approaching the panel with cautious trepidation, Dexter noticed the small panel was actually only a little rectangular shaped piece of metal, bolted onto the bottom of the door. Just a little cat trap she thought. Cute. A little whispering, scary, bolted down cat trap, somewhere in the back recesses of her mind, she thought reasonably. Looking up from the panel, Dexter noticed the doorknob, and almost yanked it open, wanting to yell. Yell at what she couldn’t fathom. However she wished to, she couldn’t. Starting to cry, to weep, not knowing what else to do or think, Dexter started to fastidiously scratch at her hands in nervousness. “What’s there?,” she whispered. “Dexter.,” it whispered back. Inside, she shrank.

Perhaps, “Lovey?,” she asked, half hoping to hear her friend’s familiar voice, convincing her this was just a stupid, messed up night. “Lovely, stop playing around. This isn’t fun anymore. Lovey? Hello?” Silence ensued. She couldn’t move.

                           ***********************************************

Lights suddenly went out! Darkness! 

A multitude of darkness came rifling through the house, startling, shaking Dexter in a panic. And with the dark, a sudden gush of cold, frigid air. Looking round, twirling, Dexter’s eyes couldn’t adjust fast enough. With some creaking, a loud shudder, the door with the silver, metal panel burst open, emitting a figure, an outstretched arm, hand, and pointed fingers. “Ahhhh!!,” Dexter screamed before it in abject horror, pity for her own life taking hold. She looked on in frozen terror at a darkened, foreboding figure. “Lovey!!,” Dexter screamed again. “Please! Where are you?!!” A look or horror glossed Dexter’s face, her pleadings came tripping over her words, thoughts. “No!!,” Dexter whimpered, a dawning realization coming from within her being, as the amber eyed, colossal figure slowly advanced toward her, a half maniacal look crossing her otherwise beautiful, soft, kindhearted features.

As it raised its’ arm, extending a slim, single finger behind itself, “She is waiting for you,” it suggested. It was more of a command. “Down there.” The female figure waited. It stared Dexter down, demanding a response, but giving no more words, only its’ perceived thoughts. Shaking her head rapidly, her hands, fingers folded over themselves, tucked up to her mouth, Dexter could not force herself to move, even if it was to look down into the depths of the opened doorway. A doorway which led to a never-ending, ebony abyss, with only a pin prick of light smoldering beneath the gloom above.

Holding Dexter’s terrorized gaze, the figure continued. “Down. There,” it again commanded. Lowering her eyes, lids shaded in obedience of sorts, Dexter managed to take three halting steps forward, peered down into the basement, sensing steps spiraling downward. “Do I want .. to see … what’s .. down there?,” she whispered, half looking, half cowering before the tall figure, shoulder up close to her ears.

The figure raised its’ chin, looked down severely, and stared while continuing to point in the direction of the dark. “Down. There,” it repeated. As Dexter heavily shifted her leaden feet forward, she peered down the stairs. When her eyes reached the bottom, when what she saw came slowly came into focus, Dexter began to see what appeared as a light colored, no a white colored hole. In that hole, something lush and green awaited. And on the lush greenness, lay Lovey. Dexter’s mouth opened. “ Lovey?,” she spoke, asked. Dexter called down that hole again asking more firmly, “Lovey!!” It was then the towering cloaked figure turned, and just as suddenly, gave a hefty shove to Dexter’s back and shoulders.

Clawing, kicking her way through the turbulent, thick ozone, Dexter finally descended down through a misty haze. Spilling through the haze, further falling, falling, hurtling towards the only tree within sight, Smacking against branch after exposed branch, tumbling, scratching against her limbs, Dexter thunked, thunked her way to the ground. Bruised but slightly, not so damaged, Dexter’s poor body rolled, abruptly coming to a stop and, she began to push herself off the dirt ground. As Lovey’s concerned face came into view. “Dexter?!,” she exclaimed. Then more firmly, “Dexter!” Falling quickly, “Aahhh!,” Dexter continued to scream, clawing at nothing but the thickened air.

Lovey clambered, rushing over, calmly at first then more forcefully, prodding her friend into alertness. “Dexter!,” she harshly whispered. “Dexter, what has happened to us?!”  “What didn’t happen?,” Dexter claimed herself, at first not realizing a thing, trying to sit, regain her breath, holding her head in hand, starting to stand. Her hands, limbs, beginning to shake terribly, from the fall as from the momentous turn of events. Now she truly noticed Lovey.

“Dexter,” Lovey hastily whispered. “We don’t have time to goof and talk. Come on, get up! Look around! We’re not at home anymore! Come on!,” and she helped her dazed beloved up. “What the … ,” Dexter exclaimed, grimacing, her limbs tired, sore, feeling out of whack. Her face turned to a grimace, pointing in the distance, “What the hell is that?”  Motioning Dexter away to some hopeful safety of a sudden nearby wooded glen, “Those look like Orcs Dexter,” Lovey soberly explained. “And those,” pointing in the opposite direction of riders with horns, arrows and golden armor, “Those look like elves.” Giving Dexter another good shove, and pull, “Come on. Let’s move. We’ve ended up someplace. And it’s not home anymore.” 

Looking up at the now empty, placid blue heaven above them, Dexter let Lovey drag her away from the upcoming skirmish, hiding themselves among lush, green and golden leaves and trees. “Seriously?,” Dexter considered, looking with perplexity upon Lovey’s calm but watchful gaze. “Yep. Home has been replaced by …. Middle Earth.” And they walked ever near some bewildering wooded, elven dwelling.  

They tell the tale of the old house just for fun these days, perhaps just to keep immature, locals from playing inside. Perhaps to keep kids from getting hurt on loose floor boards or whatnot. But still, the door with the little steel trap, had been barred, locked, nailed shut by someone. Or something.

Lovey’s Aunt? She was never found. And the two young women? Well, people say they ran off, eloped or something of that magnitude. Some say they were never there to begin with. Fact is, no one really knows. But every so often, someone goes into that house on a dare. Their friends wait outside for their return.

But no one has ever been known to come out. 

Ever. 

The Finale!

I have begun posting this to FictionPress. (It’s not caught up with all my postings here, yet)

Find the earlier bits here on my tumblr.

Part X - At the Apiary

Since last we saw Conrad and Ada, several important plot points in our film have happened. [Because this is a film—does anyone remember that at this point?]

Following their time together at Conrad’s Toronto townhouse, both he and Ada, as a result of their own independent soul-searching, have separately filed for full custody of their clinic-made child, in whom the extended adoptive family has no interest (other than the considerable inheritance due the child from the estate of the deceased adoptive mother—which those same people are trying to get back through any legal means possible).

In the interim, Ada runs into a specific (and seemingly rare) ailment among her flock of heritage sheep. The local vet runs out of solutions, and cannot assist her. It is her mum who eventually cracks it, having been reading through one of Conrad’s earlier books about agriculture and its place in folklore, and recalling having found within it a centuries-old cure, which, to Ada’s shock, soon puts her flock on the mend. Yet another distressing tick in the “pro” column for Conrad Bierkut.

Shortly thereafter, the court makes its final ruling on the current custody and eventual adoption of Conrad and Ada’s biological child. The infant’s name has been kept out of the papers (shockingly), but it is Leta.

The court, having considered the options, and being influenced heavily by the number of statements on record Ada has made about the child not being hers (made when she was trying to outline her original decision to become an egg donor), and an old-fashioned prejudice against what they saw as a woman not (originally) wanting her child--rather than a man not originally wanting his child--has ruled in full favor of Conrad’s petition. (Conrad is also seen to be financially and emotionally more stable than Ada, no matter that this may not be, in practice, true.) He is awarded sole physical custody and a clear path toward future adoption.

Ada is heartbroken at the loss, and feeling more than a little aggrieved with Conrad for battling her for custody.

To viewers, it looks for all intents and purposes like the Babymakers’ story together is over.

And then, Ada’s father dies (not entirely unexpectedly, he has been vaguely ailing throughout the film).

It is the day of his funeral, which was held early in the day, and the mourners have gathered at the farmhouse for a meal. Ada, exhausted, and, of course, sad, decides to step away for a short walk, to clear her head and regain her composure before returning to the wake.

*Mind you, this is not a Terribly Depressing wake. (This is a Romantic Comedy!) People are sad and no one’s dancing, but her father lived a good life, was loved and valued by his family, and they’re all handling it well within reasonable and functional mental health parameters.

Ada is passing nearby the apiary when she catches a glimpse of someone out walking among the hives. She thinks she hears them speaking, but no one else is about.

Startled, she recognizes it as Conrad. Though they had been in occasional contact through the court’s decision process, during which she and Conrad were each afforded visitation with baby Leta, any communication between them broke down seemingly irrevocably with the announcement of Conrad being awarded full custody.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her tone not one of anger (though she feels she would have a right to be so), but of curious surprise.

Conrad seems surprised, himself, though not startled. Clearly, he expected to have been found out at some point.

“I was just…telling the bees.”

“Telling. The bees?” Ada looked at Conrad Bierkut. He wasn’t even dressed like a man attending a wake. In fact, he looked uncharacteristically scruffy, like he hadn’t been getting good rest, or quite enough sunshine. He looked more than a little like the physical embodiment of his office room, if a man could show up looking cluttered and dusty, and somewhat forgotten. He didn’t look like the victor in a court battle. He didn’t look like the slickly perfect top-requested sperm donor in the city—in the province.

But he did look comfortable, and, she was surprised to note, familiar. She closed her mouth before she instinctively told him she was glad to see him.

“Yeah, it’s uh—you gotta tell the bees. When something like this happens. It’s all over European agrarian folklore. In the Pyrenees—“

She stared. What was he on about?

“Whittier,” he seemed to feel he’d hit on something, sealing the poet’s name with a finger snap. “in Home Ballads;” he said, as though she ought to know it.

And then he was quoting poetry, his hand to his head as though it helped in the recitation; “’Went, drearily singing, the chore-girl small,/Draping each hive with a shred of black./Trembling, I listened; the summer sun/Had the chill of snow;/For I knew she was telling the bees of one/Gone on the journey we all must go!’”

“You are telling the bees that my father has died?” Ada asked, dryly.

He seemed to think his mission supremely reasonable. “If you don’t, it’s said they’ll die themselves, or stop producing—and I thought maybe you all might have forgotten to tell them, and just to be safe, because I really enjoyed that jar of honey Gina gave me, and it would be a pity if—“ he was starting to fall a bit over his own words.

Ada stood still, not certain if she wanted him to go or stay; to stop speaking, or continue.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Conrad said. “I didn’t come here to upset you further. It’s just, I heard about your dad and—and I, my mother, well, my mother went on ahead of us awhile ago. You know that. And it’s…well, I miss her, every day. Every damn day. And you know, I was thinking it’s foolish, really, to, to keep someone that loves you at a distance.”

He wasn’t, Ada thought to herself, no, he absolutely wasn’t going to try and—not here, not now—not after everything--

“To let someone,” he rushed on, “like the courts, let’s say, decide who’s family and who’s not, and who we should love the most and who should love us. Leta’s already lost time she can never get back with your dad, her granddad. And if you love Leta, then, why would I agree to keep her from you? And we were thinking, you know, she and I, that it would be great to have you around for birthdays and first days of school and Christmas and graduations, and we were thinking we should just ask if you would consider, to, like, co-parent, or whatever they’re calling it, with me, and come over a few times a week for dinner with us…”

She felt her heart lurch when he finally got to saying it. But instead of waiting for her answer, he went on. His delivery got a little less rushed, as he continued.

“But then we said, ‘well, that seems a little inefficient, after all. If Ada’s gonna to come to dinner and be at all these occasions, well, why not have her around all the time? Love calls to love after all, doesn’t it? And the miles alone that you’d put on your car, well, we felt like you’d prefer not to do quite so much driving. Carbon footprint, whatnot. Then, why not invite Ada to be part of us forever?’”

She did not register that her mouth had fallen open. The offer of being added to Leta’s life was more than, at this point, she would have ever expected. ‘Love calls to love,’ he had said. And her heart felt that, like an unexpected rock formation deep in her core that he had only just now managed to name, to classify.

“That’s, what the two of you said?” she asked, slowly.

Conrad went on, as if to undercut his statement. “It was mostly my idea to ask you to marry me. Because I love you.” He did not pause for any response from her. “Because it kind of hurts a little not to be able to hold the thing you love, and cherish it, and depend on it being there tomorrow, and the next day.”

Ada nodded, and breathed in deeply through her nose to try and hold off tears from falling. “And because time goes too fast?”

Conrad shook his head to agree with her. “I should have spoken up weeks ago.”

She disagreed. “I wouldn’t have been able to give you the answer you wanted.”

“No?” his eyebrows twitched together, concern blooming there. “…And now?” It was his turn for a deep breath, as he waited for her answer.

“You shall have to speak to the bees again,” she shrugged. “If there’s to be a wedding.”

He put his hand out, in hopes of taking hers in it. The corner of his mouth cocked in a half-smile. “Maybe save that for tomorrow, don’t you think? Too much news at once, might be more than they can handle.”

She extended her hand toward his, realizing how seldom, if ever, they had in any way touched. She was not surprised, but she did notice as he accepted it from her, the lack of callus on his palm. Not like Garrett’s, or Roger’s, or even her father’s. It was something new, something to learn. She looked up to his face. That, she realized, would not be something she would need to learn or memorize. She was reminded quite strongly that it was this face she’d been seeing for some time now, during her days, and also during her nights. It was this face that had—she couldn’t have said when—started crashing all her best dreams. It was this face she realized she had started longing to run across unexpectedly. Those sideburns she had embarrassed herself by realizing how much she wanted to brush softly with her thumbs. “I’m in love with you,” she said, like a girl waking up and sleepily announcing it was morning.

“Ada, Ada,” he said, “Never change,” just before his mouth met hers.

Slowly cut away and flash to back porch of the farmhouse, where Roger is playing with what we realize is baby Leta on his knee, as Conrad has left her in Ada’s brother’s care (without Ada seeing) as he sought out the bees.

“I half hope he gets stung to the point of needing medical attention,” Roger tells the baby, whom he is obviously quite charmed by, “What do you say to that? No? You’d prefer not? Yeah. Guess I’ll have to learn to be okay with him. So long as you’re part of the bargain, yeah?”

Pull away shot from them on the back porch as Gina comes out to join them there, until we can also see Ada and Conrad over the distance, still kissing at the apiary, as well as the rest of the farm lay-out.

Credits roll. To the right of the names and disclaimers, a reel runs of the next bits of Ada and Conrad’s life: the engagement announcement, moments of caring for Leta, the wedding at the farm, Conrad packing up his townhouse to move out to the farm, Ada finishing her house there, her business continuing to flourish, Conrad teaching in classrooms at the university, and then later on holding seminars at the farm.

Conrad’s next book coming out on the same day as Ada’s farm launches an organic lifestyle website.

Success for everyone, the baby is gorgeous. The paparazzi have moved on to the next outrageous thing. Life is good for The Babymakers.

Final scene before credits end shows Ada back at the apiary, holding a stick in one hand, Leta’s hand in the other (she’s about 3). Conrad arrives, very excited by the stick in Ada’s hand, and it is clear they are telling the bees another baby—a naturally conceived one this time—is on the way.

This wild odyssey began on April 27th of 2017.

Please be sure to Look At @jammeke‘s beautiful end-of-story gifset. I could not do better.