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words-writ-in-starlight · 3 years

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@seirnarei replied to this post with:

This would make a great Jame/Tori AU

YEAH, IT ACTUALLY REALLY WOULD

I literally just said that I wasn't going to read this novel and you have severely damaged that resolve in one sentence. I should not read this novel purely to write a better Kencyrath AU. I am considering it intensely, though, because Torisen, twice-banished god of a long-dead culture, and Jame, Silver-Eyed Calamity who took over the ghost world almost by accident in her pursuit of having enough power to protect her brother, the only god worth her time, are now living rent-free in my frontal lobe.

Anyway, here are some loose Thoughts that are now clattering around my brain interrupting my workday.

Torisen ascends a third time entirely by accident, after eight hundred years of being a mercenary who's starving to death half the time because of his unfortunate tendency to give a shit. He's welcomed back to Heaven amidst a lot of chaos, a significant amount of mockery, and a general sense that he, dressed in worn black soldier's gear and stalked by bad luck, is only here for a matter of time before he gets banished again.

Torisen believes that his twin sister died as a child when she was cast out of his father's palace. Jame technically has a grave. Torisen is the only person who ever visited it. When he was bowing his head to Ganth and throwing himself into his duties as Crown Prince, Tori sometimes thought she got the better end of the deal. But even if he was trapped, at least he could do something for the common people. Like he couldn't for Jame.

The nameless ghost who fought at Tori's side and ultimately died for him was too old, too confident, too skilled, too everything, to be even under suspicion as being Tori's sister. He knows what happened to Jame, he knows what happens to little girls abandoned in the street, and he's just seeing things, in the long black hair this girl ties back into a braid, in the loud, easy way she laughs, in the way he can hear a smile under her mask when she calls him Your Highness. She tells him to call her Seeker, for the game children play with an eyeless mask, and he never sees her face, and then she's torn apart, Tori's last dedicate, his last worshipper, his last-- He seals up the grief in a corner of his heart next to Jame, next to his people, next to his failures, and keeps going.

The grey-eyed young thing who essentially moves into his life whether he wants her there or not, after he leaves Heaven to build his own temple (what else is he going to do, in this third and unwanted divinity--he's already wearing both punishments Heaven would normally dole out, and he hasn't been banished yet), tells him to call her B'tyrr, and he doesn't think anything of it. She answers his questions about Talisman, Jame, the Silver Calamity, with perfect ease; she repairs the temple door; she paints a portrait of His Highness Torisen, Crown Prince of Knorth; she--

She can't be Jame, because if she is, then Tori has been mourning her (or, rather, painstakingly not mourning her) for eight hundred years for nothing.

On Jame's side, she was tossed out of the palace and she doesn't want to talk about the next decade and change. The next thing she wants to talk about is her twin brother's ascension, about the knowledge that there was a god in Heaven who really, truly cared about people. She prayed at his temples and tried to find him in their kingdom and made offerings and defended his name and then--and then she found him. And he never spoke of his sister, never questioned their father when Ganth said he never had a daughter, and it hurt, it hurt, but Jame knows what Ganth's house was like and she doubts it's gotten better. So she starts looking for a way to be at Tori's side without being known, without being seen for what she is (princess, monster, killer, living curse--sometimes Jame can't keep straight the things her father called her and the things others have called her since). The war breaks out. She joins up as a nameless soldier. She puts on the mask. She dies for her brother, her soul, her god, without a moment of regret, and then--

Well, then she's dead, isn't she? But Torisen isn't, Tori is still alive and disgraced and she can't leave him, won't leave him, but she's too weak to be of any use to him--and, Jame thinks with the calm logic of a child who was chased out of her own home for being bad luck, of course she has to be able to be of use.

So Jame pours herself into the mold of a Ghost King, endures the trials and fights for the position and defeats all comers. Her bad luck died with her, it seems--now, when she puts her mind to something, the dice always fall in her favor. The world comes to be afraid of the youngest and most ruthless Supreme, with her silver eyes and white knife and tiny death-winged jeweljaws. The Talisman fights like a natural disaster and kills like an assassin and when she starts burning temples, even the gods are at a loss for what to do except damage control.

Jame builds first a library and an armory, and then a manor, something to replace the palace that was never a home, before Jame was tossed out and Tori survived inside. And then somehow it becomes a city, sprawling out around her like pooling blood and full of ghosts who need to be kept in line, and then she builds a temple because her brother is still out there somewhere, a god with one last worshipper, and gods need temples, and then when she turns around she's the lady of Ghost City, dressed in silver and black like a bad dream, armed with a cursed knife that holds a fragment of her soul, renowned among the gods for her ruthlessness and among the ghosts for her fairness and--and all she ever meant to do was to have somewhere to bring her brother, when she found him someday.

And then she gets word that His Highness, the Crown Prince of Knorth, the laughingstock of all the worlds, has ascended again, and Jame spins herself a new disguise, a skin close to her own but not nearly so identifiable, and goes to find him.

Finally and MOST IMPORTANTLY, I think Jame should be allowed to bully Torisen by calling him "gege." I just think she deserves that.

#kencyrath #chronicles of the kencyrath #tgcf au #I'M JUST SAYING THAT I'M ON SOME ABSOLUTELY GALAXY BRAIN SHIT HERE #AND I AM MILDLY CONSIDERING IMMEDIATELY GOING BACK ON MY WORD EXCLUSIVELY TO WRITE THIS FIC #i shouldn't do that. i found mdzs so genuinely frustrating. but like.#point is that this entire au is just jame going 'i'm a monotheist actually'#and tori going 'i have personally met multiple gods who say you kicked their ass for no apparent reason and then said they were unworthy of #jame (very stubbornly): 'they're not my god i didn't vote for them'#tori: 'YOU DIDN'T VOTE FOR ME EITHER'#anyway i think tori is oblivious enough and jame is devoted enough to make this a really tasty concept #i am...tempted...to make ardeth jun wu. just purely because i hate his guts. and jun wu has ardeth vibes.#how much of this au comes from me having a Vision of someone calling torisen by name and being rude #and terror of the heavens jame whipping around and saying in her most lethal voice 'that's his highness to you'?#most. most of it.#also i have compiled 'alive' and 'dead' disguised soldier stuff under one heading because idc about timelines #also because i think it would be a fun and flavorful kind of agonizing for tori to know that the masked woman stayed with him THROUGH HER O #tasty! awful! i want that for him!#a queue we will keep and our honor someday avenge

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thoseofgreatambition · 4 years

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Ascent || FTB 7

description: George loves you to bits and pieces. He tries to mold himself to fit into your world even as he sees how much it’s changed the people he loves. You, and a few others warn him away. George wonders how much worse could it be than a couple of bribes.

request by nonnie: how about a slightly jealous georgie 👀 nothing too extreme or threatening to your relationship, just him being a tad cautious. plenty of showing you how much he cares and that he fears losing you. maybe a little possessive? “you’re mine.” ugh i’m melting

for the birds

LIAR {PT 1} | 1.9 K

ROSE COLORED {PT 2} | 2.6K

LIAR LIAR {PT 3} | 3.3K

DUTY {PT 4} | 5.3K

FAMILY MATTERS {PT 5} 2.4K

TWO SIDED {PT 6} 3K

BONUS CHAPTER 1

BONUS CHAPTER 2

BONUS CHAPTER 3

taglist: @fainting-fancy @geeksareunique @insearchofnewdreams @notstandingstill-imlyinginwait @lumos-barnes @stillwater20-blog @thatfuckingliardavidtennant @slytherinqween @xinyourdreamsx @skiving-snackboxess @wildfire-whizbangs @dwarfwizard-from-panem @diary-of-an-onliner @answer-the-sirens @woakiees @black-widow-fangirl @theheirofnightandday @summerstardust @whysoseriouspadfoot @chocok22 @myhopesareanchoredinyou @siriusblackisme @illusivedaydreamer @zeeneee @writingwitchly @wolfpotter12 @obsessedwithrandomthings @carolinesbookworld @shadowsinger11 @pit-and-the-pen @summer-writes @peachesandpinks @ickle-ronniekins @gweaslvy @alpinewinchester

George kept looking at you like you hung the moon in the sky. Like you were the one who kissed the sun to keep it alight. It was puzzling really. It put a dizzying pace in your pulse to see how adored you were, even after he found out about what you’d been doing.

You sat cross legged on your bed, silk pajamas cool against your skin as you stared at him while he dozed on and off next to you. A lazy smile on his face. “You’re amazing, you know.”

He chuckles a bit. “That’s nice to hear. Buttering me up?”

There’s a tight shake of your head, and you feel the same threat of tears you’d felt when you’d first made love to him. That being so happy was so dangerous. Feeling your feelings too much always got you in trouble as a child. “Next time there’s an event why don’t you hang back? It’s a nasty crowd George.”

You can see the seeds of self doubt being spread across his face, as tight together as his freckles. His voice is quiet, and full of hurt. “Don’t think I’ll do well enough for you?”

Something hot and wet was falling down your face. “Not that. You’re perfect and lovely. I’m not proud of myself at those. I want you to be proud of me. I don’t want you to see me and stop being proud.”

His large hand gently reached for you, tugging on your lapel until you were tucked in next to him on the bed, his arms holding you close. He felt so warm.

“I’ll always be proud of you, Y/N. You’re my girl. Can’t do anything to make me less proud of you. This all ends in a month or two right? When it’s all over you’ll feel better. Just need to make it through for a few more weeks, yeah?”

Doing your best not to cry further, you nodded your head.

Though you were sure he meant what he said, you doubted that George would keep that opinion after he’d been there for a while.

___________________________________________

You felt a pair of curious eyes following you as you got ready for the day. As you put on makeup to get rid of your dark puffy eye circles. As you charmed your suit so it would be wrinkle free. As you worked on your hair to be perfectly done.

“What’s so interesting about me today, Georgie?” Your feelings still were a little tender from the crying bout earlier in the day.

“I didn’t know you did all this when you got ready for the day.”

There was a dubious look shot his way, “You’ve watched me get ready before.”

He did look rather amazing in his suit. It set your heart in a series of little flutters. “Not for work, darling. This looks like a lot of work, do you ever get tired of it?”

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment. “Not really. I take my time with it, get to drink my coffee. I like getting ready for casual days in England more, but this isn’t bad.” Holding George’s arm as you slipped into your heels, you gave him a bright smile. “Ready to go?”

There was a nervous smile on George’s face, he’d be meeting your Aunt Alexandra for the first time in many years. She wanted him to be there to see the ‘family business’. You told him that it was okay to sit out on this, that you would stay behind with him but he’d insisted. There was a bit of damaged pride from him as well, the same thing that made him try so hard when it came to making his shop succeed. He wanted to prove himself.

“Ready, darling.”

Like that you apparated the pair of you to Aunt Alexandra’s home. Immediately a pair of tiny dachshunds began barking and yapping at two of you. Just like that your aunt swooped in from the wings and gave you a tight hug, quickly moving on to George.

“Georgie! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! You’ve gotten so much more tall. How are you doing darling? I heard you and Freddie got hurt in the war. Are you both doing better now?”

Immediately he felt swept back to his childhood when she would breeze into the burrow and bring so much kindness into the home.

It was easy to forget for a little bit that she didn’t approve of him dating you.

“We’re doing a lot better. I lost my ear but Freddie got hit by a wall. He went through the worst of it, so I’m just glad he’s up and able to walk around.”

As more pleasantries were exchanged you walked over to your father in the living room and gave him a kiss on the cheek before sitting on the loveseat and beckoning George over. He made his way over slowly, taking in his surroundings.

Everything was so light and bright. With marble floors and gilded chandeliers. The loveseat you so casually sat on was clearly made from a dark blue dragonskin leather. He sat down next to you, and wondered how you were so easily able to relax in this setting.

The answer was clear enough, you’d grown up in it.

Your hand rested on his knee, and you ran your thumb back and forth across him. Immediately his pulse seemed to slow down.

He’d expected that you all would get into business, but your siblings Marie and Alexander ran the show chatting about this or that. George felt himself relaxing more and more as time went on. Sipping on the coffee that your aunt brewed for him.

He felt back in his element, making people laugh.

That was until you sighed and leant back into the loveseat and looked at Aunt Alexandra with a wry smile. “So what’s the business today?”

Your aunt immediately shot you a glowing smile. Her legs crossed as she leaned back in her armchair. George was reminded of an illustration he saw as a child of a king on a throne.

“Well, we’re doing wonderfully! The fundraiser went great because of you, Y/N. And thank you George, I heard you did wonderfully with all of your stories.” George felt immediately relieved though for some reason you looked less than impressed.

“The Graves want to bribe you.”

“And I won’t be accepting that.”

Ears around the room seemed to perk up. Still you seemed doubting. “You’ve had me blackmailing people throughout this. Other’s are finding out. Jack’s uncle was talking about what I said to Morris the other day.”

“I need you to be more discreet then sweetie.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek as the family meeting went on. Another rally. Another speech. Another fundraising gala for just your extended family this time. The tapestry of your family’s crest that hung on the wall seemed to weigh on your with its presence.

Your brother piped up next, “Who’s in charge of gathering the family?”

Aunt Alexandra smiled at him, “I’ll need you to do that Alex. Since you don’t want to head up the family, you’ll be perfect for this. It’ll seem more casual. We’ll have a cookout or something, a little bit less formal. Y/N, how about we borrow your cabin and call it a vacation home or say we rented it? Then no one will know you live there.”

“No.” you stood firm in your statement. “Absolutely not. There’s a reason I don’t let people over there. I want my privacy. And I think you’ll remember that you agreed to that after me needing to step back from working at the hospital.”

Your aunt’s smile faltered for a moment. You weren’t usually this combative about it all. Her eyes flickered to a bewildered George and reckoned he had something to do with it. Before she could say anything your father chimed in. “Alexandra, we’ll do it at my house. We have a big enough yard.”

A wave of relief came over you. You would forever be grateful for your father.

___________________________________________

It was after the meeting where you collapsed in on yourself a bit. You took George to a nice muggle restaurant, and gave a bland smile and nod when the hostess said the both of you look like CEO’s.

You hadn’t the foggiest of what that meant, but it didn’t matter at the moment.

He seemed just as tired as you did, though his curious eyes were on yours again. “Is it something I’m doing again?”

“What else is she having you do?”

“Huh?”

“Your aunt. You said you’ve been blackmailing people. What else are you doing?”

The cold feeling returned to your fingertips. You wondered if this was the part where he stopped being so proud of you.

Your heart, selfish as always willed you to lie. Your brain told you he was smart enough to puzzle together the truth even if you did lie.

“Morris is the man my aunt almost killed in the duel. She was the challenger, she is against anti-dueling now but he needs to be quiet about it all for her to win. I have a good amount of pull with the politicians.” you didn’t mention it was because you’d dated some of their children, “So I told him if he talked about it I’d see to it he lost his job.”

“Is he a bad man?”

A confused look was shot George’s way. Where would that idea come from? “No. He’s not great. He’s about as dirty as I am I suppose. So I can’t say much about him there.”

You could see George staring at you in a whole new light. Your hands began to go numb. “I’ve bribed a few people. Nothing terribly expensive. Some nice clothes, a broomstick or two, mentioning a promotion... I think I gave someone a car but I can’t remember who.”

George wondered in what world a car wasn’t ‘terribly expensive’.

“I just... Aunt Alexandra gave me a lot of fresh starts when I was younger. You remember my temper. I got into plenty of duels myself-- and I lost every one of them. I think if that weren’t the case I wouldn’t have a future, or a shot at being a healer.” Again, you chewed the side of your cheek. “I love her to bits. Dad’s family is alright, but I don’t see them much. She stepped in a lot after Mum died... I want to help her.”

“Helping her makes you feel bad though, doesn’t it?”

You shot an odd look George’s way. “Of course. I’ve never been politically minded. I’m not good with the speeches or anything. I would have sat it all out if Marie hadn’t needed the help. But there’s only about six weeks left I believe until the voting starts. After that I’ll head back to England and hide away again. I’m just trying to remember that.”

“You could go back to England now.”

“No, I have things to do here.”

George seemed to be saying quite a few silly things at the moment. You weren’t sure why.

Your food came, though your appetite had left you. Quietly, as your confidence seemed to have left you, you spoke to George. “It’s alright if you want to leave you know. I’ll keep you out of things, but I know this goes against a lot of what you stand for.”

“I missed you. And I’m staying. My flight back isn’t for another week.”

He seemed to have misinterpreted you. “No, I mean leave me. I get it.” George was far too innocent for you, and you were quite aware of it.

Now he looked at you like you were the foolish one. “I’m not leaving you. I love you.” His hands grasped your cold ones from across the table. “This will be over soon, you’ll come back to England, and I’ll hide you away with me. How does that sound? No more worrying about these things. You’ll get a job as a healer, do all the research you want, this will all be behind you.”

Once again your eyes began to water, he seemed to have a way of doing that to you. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this for me.”

He kissed the palm of your hand. Smiling into it. “Because I love you. And there’s not going to be a change in that. So stop your crying Y/N. Eat some food, you’ll feel a bit better.”

___________________________________________

George had always had a bit of a jealous streak in him. He had six siblings after all, and a twin to compete with to get any attention. Prior to dating you, he thought he’d outgrown that. Turned out he hadn’t.

Now he’d learned the ways to calm himself down. Remind himself that he was a good man in his own right. Of his own accomplishments and how people loved him for himself. It helped a good bit. Until he found himself in the midst of your crowd of old friends in a bar, and had met a couple of your old lovers.

You were very considerate really. The conversation was light, you held his hand and gave him kisses when no one was looking. It helped to soothe whatever ache he felt. Truly he’d expected that at least one of them would be a prat, based on what he’d read in those gossip magazines his mother loved so much, but all of them treated him rather kindly.

One, Taylor, the quadpot player was especially kind. “It’s nice to meet you. She always talked about you growing up.” he’d approached when you’d stepped away to grab another round of drinks for the group. “I don’t want to make it awkward, I know it might be. I just wanted to let you know I’m happy for you. And I know it can be strange reading so much about your personal life in the gossip rags, but if you keep your head down and enjoy what you can it’ll all turn out alright.”

It was like the wind had been taken out of his sails. He’d worked himself so much thinking that he’d need to prove himself he hadn’t thought about someone speaking to him with so much kindness. “Thank you, Taylor.”

There was a grin from the other man, “Of course! It’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? Anyways, the only bad thing you’ve got going for you is the whole ‘Quidditch is better than quadpot” thing. That won’t fly in America.” Your friends who’d been listening in burst out into laughter and you chuckled as you walked over with your bottles of whisky and scotch for the table.

“Be careful there Taylor, I think that’s one of the only fights he may pick with you about that. Quidditch is popular everywhere else but here.”

As Taylor sat back down and began to regale the table with another story about his games you wrapped your arms around George’s waist and squeezed him tight. “Feeling okay Georgie?”

His hand squeezed your hip tightly. For some reason, as kind as everyone else was he still felt the jealousy stir inside him. He let out a noncommittal hum. He placed a kiss on the shell of your ear. “As long as you’re mine.”

There was a giggle from you. What a silly thing for him to say. “As long as you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

#fic; for the birds #my writing #my imagines #george weasley x reader #george weasley imagine #george weasley smut #george weasley #george weasley headcanon #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley smut

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lilacmoon83 · 4 years

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Finding You Always

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 202: Walking on a Dream

Laughter echoed, as a young man and woman lovingly chased each other around the creek in a wooded area. The creek had an old wooden bridge in which they sat on, after the young couple was done with their playful romp. They were very young, teenagers, but so in love. Many said they were too young, but they were all wrong, for these two knew a love that did not happen for most. True love was but a myth or a thing of fairy tales, but they had found it. They were two of the very lucky in a world where no one believed in anything anymore; certainly not true love. Love was more than enough for them, but jealous people and evil threatened to try and separate them.

"What are we going to do? You know my father...he'll lock me away the moment he finds out and send me off somewhere until the baby is born. He'll never let me have her and he'll never let us be together," she fretted.

"Not here...but that's why we must leave. We can't be together here, because of your evil father. But out there...we can. We can escape this little backwater town and out there, we can get married, have our baby, and be together forever," he said.

"My father is powerful...what if he finds us?" she asked.

"I know someone...she's a friend and she says that she can get us new identities if I agree to work for her. I need a job anyway, so it's kind of perfect," he replied. She looked hopeful.

"That could work...we can escape and be together," he said, as he placed a hand on her still flat belly. She wasn't showing yet, but it wouldn't be long.

"You're all I need and want...you and our baby," he promised. She smiled and looked at the glistening ring on her finger. It was his mother's and all he had left of her and she wore it now with pride, having burst into happy tears when he proposed last night after they made love under the stars.

"When do we leave? Because I cannot wait to start my life with the man I love and the father of our baby," she said. He smiled and kissed her passionately.

"My truck is packed. We leave when you're ready," he said. She smiled and kissed him again.

"Then we leave now," she said, as he helped her to her feet and they hurried off to escape a trapped life in the small town her father controlled like a King for a life out there, together and free…

~*~

Her green eyes opened and she stretched her arms over her head, rolling away from the sun streaming through the blinds, burying her face in his shoulder and breathing in his scent. She could lay like this with him all day and never desire to get up, but their alarm had other ideas as it chose that moment to go off.

"No…" she whined and she heard him chuckle. He pressed a kiss to her head and she peered up at him with a sleepy smile.

"Good morning," he said.

"Morning," she muttered, as he kissed her tenderly.

"Waking up in your arms is always a good morning, but it could better," she mused playfully, as she gave him a sultry stare.

"I love the way you think," he agreed, as their lips met again, this time with more heat and passion. Hands began to roam and the bedclothes rustled, as he shifted her onto her back, before settling between her legs. He kissed her lips passionately and then began to trail kisses down her neck, while she arched against him.

"Mom...have you seen my cleats? I need them for soccer," she heard their son call through the door. She sighed.

"Did you check the basement?" she called, trying to bite back a moan as she did.

"Oh yeah…" he said, as they heard him pad away from the door. She mewled into his kiss and passion swallowed them in a bout of morning lovemaking.

She lay against him after, as they cuddled for a few moments, knowing they would have to get up soon to face the day.

"Dad...I need a ride to campus this morning," their daughter called through the door. They smiled at each other and shared another kiss.

"We'll be out soon, peanut and I'll drop you off on my way to work," he called, as they heard her footsteps retreating.

"Guess we'll have to pick this up tonight," he said in a husky tone.

"Mmm...promise?" she asked, as he kissed her again.

"Always," he replied, as they went to clean up for the day.

A bit later, they finally exited their bedroom, dressed and ready for the day and joined their two kids in the kitchen. To look at them, most would say that they were a pretty typical nuclear family, though seemed a tad young to have a college age daughter and even a fourteen-year-old son.

But that was them. David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard had once been two kids from a smallish town in Maine. She had been the daughter of the rich owner of their town's lucrative cannery company and he had owned most of the real estate in town like some sort of King. Even the Mayor hadn't had as much power as him and he had expected his daughter to follow in his footsteps.

Her father was not a fair man though and much of the town was impoverished due to his unfair rent and high prices on all his goods. Mary Margaret wanted no part of it and it made her sad, for her father had not always been that way. After her mother died though, he had become lost in his bitterness and greed. She suspected that she reminded him too much of her mother and he had wanted to thus mold her into his image instead. He had very specific ideas about who his daughter was to be and it clashed with every single idea of who Mary Margaret wanted to be.

David grew up on his mother's farm, very poor, and was home schooled until high school. David's father had been an alcoholic and left them when he was very young. But both their lives had changed on the first day of High School. After the first day was over, she had been sneaking through the woods, trying to ditch the handler her father had sent to pick her up when she accidentally hit him in the face with a rock, thinking he was the handler.

Instead of being upset, he had helped her evade her father's hired goon and they became friends. But it wasn't long until they fell in love and it was pretty quickly determined that this wasn't just some frivolous high school relationship or puppy love.

Her father, of course, loathed that his daughter was involved with a farm boy and forbid them to see each other. She ignored him and refused to stop seeing him.

By the time they were sixteen in their junior year, David's mother passed away and her father had capitalized on the opportunity, as he took the farm when David couldn't pay, leaving him homeless. He forbade anyone else in town to give him housing, thinking it would force him to leave. But his friend refused to turn him away. She was an older woman, former military, and revealed that she had once worked with his father.

David had been shocked to learn that Robert had actually gotten sober after he left them and was an undercover agent. Sadly, he was killed in the line of duty and Major Patricia Donovan vowed to see that his son was taken care of after his father had saved her life or so the story went.

So when Mary Margaret discovered she was pregnant, Pat suggested that they leave town and promised to help them if David worked for her once he finished high school. So they had and had never been happier since.

They got married right away in a small, private ceremony and they had finished High School online after their daughter was born. Then David went into a specialized training that Pat set up for him that included military and law enforcement training.

In the meantime, Pat returned to her former post in the Federal Bureau of Investigation at the Boston office and when he was ready, she bypassed all the red tape, making David a part of her special task force the Bureau had charged her with. Margaret, as she had started going by, had been worried at first, as this task force went after the worst criminals and serial killers, but her husband was really good at what he did and liked that he was really making a difference.

His job also provided for them well enough that it allowed for free federal daycare, which had allowed her to go to college for a teaching degree. By the time Summer was five, Margaret was pregnant with their son, whom they had named after David's father.

Now, Margaret taught high school science and social studies, they lived in a very nice Boston suburb, and were more in love than ever.

Summer was a freshman at Boston College and a member of one of their prestigious dance and cheer squads, while Bobby was a freshman at the same high school his mother taught at.

Margaret was actually new to the school too and had just begun teaching there at the beginning of the school year about a week ago. She was still getting her bearings and finding her stride, as she used to teach fifth grade. High School was new waters and she was still wading in the shallow end.

"Can I have pop-tarts for breakfast?" Bobby asked, as he rummaged through the pantry.

"Pop-tarts are not a healthy breakfast," Margaret said, as she took the eggs out of the fridge.

"And fortunately, we have time for some quick scrambled eggs. But you can help me make toast," she said, as she tossed the bread to him.

"Okay," he said, as he took the bread and grabbed the peanut butter. David chuckled, as he made coffee, while she made eggs and they ate a quick breakfast together, just as he heard his phone go off.

"Do you have a case?" Margaret asked.

"No...just a meeting. Looks like a boring office day," he said, as he pocketed his phone and kissed her tenderly.

"So you'll make it to my game?" Bobby asked.

"I should," David replied, as he kissed both his kids on the head, before kissing his wife again.

"See you tonight," she whispered.

"Love you," he whispered back.

"Love you too," she said fondly, as she kissed her daughter.

"Have a good day, sweetie," she said.

"Come on peanut, I'll drop you on my way," David said, as they left. Margaret put the dishes in the sink and gathered her stuff.

"Ready?" she asked her son. He nodded and they were off for the day too.

~*~

The United Realms

The United Realms was a peaceful place under the stern rule of the mighty Seth. Too peaceful. Most lived good lives and under the guise of their cursed lives, they knew nothing else. Or at least nothing else they could remember. If they could have, then things would surely be different and a rebellion would rise. And it soon would, or so Winter and Charming hoped.

They had played their part of loyal subordinates to Seth these last two years, as had the Evil Queen, running their own Kingdoms, while he ruled over all from the newly recreated Mount Olympus.

Adorning all the Kingdoms now though were golden statues, erected in Seth's likeness and his subjects woefully bowed to their God and his likeness in thankfulness for their good lives. Honestly, it made Winter and Charming want to retch on a daily basis, but they knew this was the way it had to be until it was time for everyone to wake and for the resistance to begin. No one questioned their God. Dissenters were dealt with in severity or so it appeared.

With this curse, everyone still had their Enchanted Forest identities, being that this was now the United Realms, but all the events of the past thirty years had almost all been erased.

Everyone only remembered Seth as their hero and ruler after he came many years ago and liberated them all from Zeus' tyrannical rule. Everyone in the United Realms lead happy lives and worshiped Seth as their God. Those who did not were shunned and harshly ridiculed by their peers, mostly to endear themselves to Seth and appease him.

Rulers of each Kingdom were expected to answer to Seth as well, all while keeping their Kingdoms in strict order. Misthaven, under the joint rule of Queen Winter, King Charming, and the Evil Queen had flourished. Arendelle had as well under Queen Elsa and King Leo, as they were closely knit with Misthaven.

Many of the other Kingdoms had fallen in line as well, including Andresia, Starcomb, Oz, and most others. Some Kingdoms had struggled and those were dealt with, which usually led to Seth appointing new leaders for those Kingdoms.

Thanks to their subterfuge and careful crafting of the curse, they still had the dome area at Bald Mountain, which was still perfectly and irrevocably sealed away from Seth. And, as Charming was summoned to Seth's Throne room that morning, he knew he would pull off yet another elaborate faux execution.

"I am done bowing to you in forced servitude! I did not build my Kingdom into the magnificence that it is only for the people to worship your golden statue instead of mine!" Midas ranted. Charming rolled his eyes. This one he was actually going to enjoy.

"You will conform to my rule, King Midas or the consequences will be severe," Seth warned.

"Father please…" Abigail pleaded, as she and Frederick stood by fearfully.

"I will do no such thing! And I'm not afraid of the pretty lapdog you have to do your dirty work!" the pompous King announced, as he held his hand up, intending to use it if he had to.

"If you're not afraid of my power, then you're a bigger fool than I thought," Charming said, as he made his entrance with Winter on his arm in a gorgeous, shimmering white gown. He was dressed in his familiar garb of all black leather and the chalice sword swinging at his hip.

"Oh it speaks," Midas hissed derisively.

"You are on my last nerve, Your Majesty. I suggest you leave here, bring order to your Kingdom as I have mandated to you, or the consequences of your refusal will be dealt to you," Seth said. Midas growled and made an enraged lunge toward Seth, intending to strike with his touch. He was foolhardy enough to believe he could get close enough to turn the God into a real life gold statue, but as usual, he would be proven to be a fool to think that.

Seth raised his hand and froze the King in place. He cried out in pain, as Seth used his signature mind meld to bring unspeakable agony upon him without even touching him.

"Please! "Abigail pleaded, as her husband held her back.

"My Lord...please allow me to add his soul to my collection," Mephisto requested.

"Why...so his loudmouth can keep annoying our Lord even in death?" Charming retorted, causing the demon King to sneer at him. He said nothing though, for he was Charming's subordinate; something he entirely loathed.

"Charming is right. Please deliver a swift execution, my right hand," Seth ordered.

"As you wish, my Lord," Charming answered, as he drew his sword and it lit with a white glow.

"Please Charming...please! You were once a man of honor that would never do something like this!" Abigail pleaded. But her cries fell on deaf ears, as he brought his blade down upon the King and he appeared to be incinerated into nothing upon contact with the chalice sword. Abigail cried out, as Frederick held her crying form.

"I suggest that you and your husband rule your Kingdom in a more orderly and strict fashion than your father did, Queen Abigail. If you do not please me, you shall be replaced as he was," Seth said harshly, as he sat back in his Throne.

"If there is nothing else, my Lord...my Queen and I will return to Misthaven," Charming said, as he bowed in respect before him.

"You have done well, as always, my charge. You may go until I am in need of your services again," Seth said. Winter bowed respectfully too, as they exited the palace arm in arm. Hearing Abigail's sobs was hard to take, even for them, but it would all be worth it in the end. Thanks to the nearly unending crop of beans they now had, they often used them for quick transport around the United Realms, so Charming threw one down and transported them back to their palace.

Winter kissed his cheek and went to their magic looking glass that they used to see around the realms and they made sure any of Seth's other lackeys, particularly Mephisto was still there and not trying to follow them as they had caught him trying to do a few times.

"We're clear," she said, as he tossed down another bean and created another spinning orange portal before them. She raised her part of the chalice, which was in the form of an apple pendant around her neck and it glowed, allowing them access to the secret and unknown realm they had been harboring during the curse.

They stepped through the portal and found themselves just outside Bald Mountain. The Mountain itself had been transformed from a once volcanic death trap to barracks to house those that now lived in them. The dead. Or at least those thought to be dead and dealt punishment from Seth at the hands of Charming.

"Unhand me you brute! What is happening? Where am I?" Midas demanded.

"Oh for the love of...shut up!" Winter snapped, as she and Charming arrived.

"You!" Midas growled.

"What is this?" he demanded to know.

"I take it your memories are back," Charming stated calmly.

"You were going to kill me…" he uttered.

"He saved your sorry skin, you ungrateful twit!" Winter growled, as she came face to face with him.

"He could have allowed Mephisto to rid us of your loud mouth...permanently," she reminded.

"I don't understand what any of this is," he said.

"Welcome to the resistance," Fandral said.

"The resistance?" he said, as he looked at them all in confusion.

"You mean...all this time you've been working against Seth?" Midas questioned.

"Yes...and you'll remain here until the time for the revolution is upon us," Fandral answered, as he nodded curtly to Charming and Winter.

"I must return to Rose," he said, as he opened a portal and stepped through.

"Grumpy...see that Midas gets settled," Charming said, as he and Winter turned to leave as well.

"Wait...you can't just expect me to stay here in limbo!" Midas protested.

"If you want to live and you want everyone else you love to live, then you will," Charming warned, as they left through a portal as well and back to their palace, just in time to see Emma coming in with their newest grand baby.

"Hi sweetheart," Winter cooed, as she kissed her daughter's cheek and then cooed to baby Hope, as she took her from Emma, cuddling her close.

"Hi Mom...hi Daddy," she said, as her father kissed her forehead.

"We were hoping you'd come join us for breakfast at Granny's?" she asked.

"Of course, princess. Just let us change into something a little more casual for Storybrooke and we'll go," Charming said, as they went to their room to change. They may have been supreme rulers to their Kingdom, among many other duties, but they never missed an opportunity to be with their family. They missed Summer and Bobby terribly and were saddened that their three eldest didn't even remember they existed right now, but they knew it would all be worth it in the end and everything they were doing would ensure the ultimate survival of their legacy.

~*~

The bell rang and her tenth graders started putting their stuff away.

"Okay...remember to read chapters fourteen and fifteen for tomorrow and be ready for discussion. There will be a quiz on Friday," she announced to them, as they left to move onto their next class. She had a free period now so she sat down to look over her lesson plan for her afternoon classes. Her phone chimed and she smiled, before texting her husband back. It wasn't unusual for them to text periodically during the day when time allotted.

"Slow day...I hate paperwork. How's your day, my darling?" She read, smiling as she did.

"Good...pretty normal. Better now though that I'm talking to you, my love," she texted back, just as there was a knock at her door.

I'm glad. Looks like Pat might have something though so I'll see you later at Bobby's game. I love you," she read, as she motioned for the person to come in.

"Come in," she called to the person at her classroom door, as she quickly texted her husband back.

"Love you too and please be careful out there," she texted quickly, before putting her phone down.

"Can I help you?" she asked the bespectacled gentleman. She vaguely recognized him as someone on staff here and had seen him in passing a couple times in her first week here.

"Yes...I am Dr. Ian Jenkins, head of the science department here at the High School," he said, introducing himself.

"Oh of course...it's nice to meet you, Doctor. I'm Margaret Nolan," she replied, as they shook hands and she missed the enthralled look on his face.

"Yes, I know...you have an impressive resume," he complimented.

"Oh, I don't know about that. Teaching High School is so much bigger than teaching fifth grade. I'll admit, it's been a little intimidating," she said.

"You seemed to have adjusted well and I think you're being modest. I heard you've ran the last two very successful science fairs and your fifth graders scores in mathematics and science were the highest in the district," he said.

"Well...I guess I enjoy teaching as much as they enjoyed learning," she replied, slightly uncomfortable with the praise.

"Yes...anyway, I wanted to discuss the possibility of you assisting me in running the High School's version. I'm afraid my science fair's have not been so successful and the other teachers in our department are loathe to help with it," he said.

"You want my help?" she asked in surprise.

"Yes of course...why does that surprise you?" he questioned.

"Well, it's just that I know that you used to teach at prestigious Universities and you have three PHD's. It just doesn't seem like I could be very helpful to someone with your pedigree. What I know about science is probably miniscule compared to you," she said.

"Oh, I think you know more than you give yourself credit for. Besides, there is more to running a science fair than knowledge of science. Organization and planning skills are not my strong suit," he replied.

"Oh, well I do enjoy that part of it. I'd be happy to help," she said. He smiled.

"Excellent. Perhaps we can meet in my lab after class hours to begin?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm afraid that won't work today. My son Bobby has a soccer game this afternoon," she replied.

"Oh...you have a son?" he inquired. She nodded.

"He's a freshman here, actually and then we have a daughter that just started her sophomore year at Boston University," she replied. He shook his head.

"You can't possibly have a college aged daughter," he said in amazement. She smiled.

"My husband and I were very young when she was born. We were so in love...still are, even more now, if it's possible," she mentioned.

"How wonderful," he said, though his voice was tight at that.

"Well, perhaps tomorrow during your free period?" he asked. She nodded.

"That should work. I'll come to your lab," she agreed.

"Excellent. Tell your son good luck in his game," he said, as he turned to leave.

"I will...thank you, doctor," she replied.

"Oh please, Margaret...call me Ian," he said, as he left and she went back to planning for her next class.

~*~

David got out of the car with his boss and he looked up at the roof of the building, clearly seeing the situation and they had put their FBI Kevlar vests on as was standard procedure for any situation. Boston P.D. was there, trying to diffuse the situation and he wasn't surprised that they had called his boss to assist.

Patricia was former military and FBI, formerly and presently. His father, though David barely remembered him, had worked with her in the Bureau. She had left the agency for a while and moved to his hometown when his mother died, having gotten word. She told him at the time that she had promised his father, knowing the demons he had struggled with, that she would step in to take care of him if something ever happened to him and David's mother.

Patricia had taken him under her wing and kept him off the streets when the Mayor of their town, also Margaret's father, had seen to it that the farm was taken. She had also helped them escape that small minded town and kept them out of poverty when they found out they were having a baby at sixteen. She had seen the potential in David for a career in law enforcement and put him through the Academy. Then she had fast tracked him through the Bureau.

When he got his badge and credentials, she had finally been awarded the special FBI task force she had long been vying for and they moved from Virginia to Boston when the kids were still little. Their task force usually went after the toughest cases. Serial killers, drug cartels, human trafficking, and even hostage situations. But they usually didn't get called in for jumpers.

"Agent Donovan. This is agent Nolan...what can you tell us?" she asked, as they flashed their credentials to the officer at the door.

"Not sure...the guy is clearly strung out on something. He's out of his mind," the uniformed officer explained, as they went in.

"They called us in for a suicide situation?" David asked.

"I got a call from one of my contacts at the DEA this morning. Word has it that someone is experimenting with a new drug and testing it out on willing and unwilling victims. Rumor has it that it causes wild hallucinations," she explained.

"And they think this guy is hopped on this new substance," David realized.

"We won't really know until he's drug tested, but if it is...we might have an epidemic on our hands," she said quietly, as they climbed the stairs.

"The drug is really this radical?" David asked.

"No survivors yet. Apparently...and this is just conjecture at this point, the drug is so powerful that it's driving people into madness. Total personality change," she replied.

"You think it's being smuggled in from other countries?" he asked.

"That's the scariest part. The DEA thinks it's being brewed right here in Boston," she answered, as they arrived on the roof.

"Stay back!" they heard the man shout. His eyes were purely bloodshot and he was holding his head like it was in agony. His bloodshot, glassy eyes kept darting around in paranoia; a very clear sign that he was on something. It was extreme though. David hadn't seen a lot of addicts, but enough to know that whatever this guy was on was definitely something very potent. David put his hands up, as he slowly approached.

"It's okay...we're not here to hurt you," David said.

"No...you're demons! They're all around me!" he cried, clearly hallucinating. David looked at Pat in concern. The man's eyes darkened, as he cried out in sheer terror.

"It's telling me to kill!" he cried in anguish.

"What is? What's telling you to kill?" David asked. He looked confused by his question though.

"The voice inside me...it's me…" he rambled.

"It's my bad side…" he cried, as he held his head again, creating more confusion from the officers and agents.

"Whatever this is...it's not like anything we've seen before," Pat said.

"I want to get you some help…" David said softly, but stopped when the guy pulled a knife out of his pocket.

"Stay back!" he said, as he lunged at him, causing all the officers and Pat to pull their guns.

"Wait…" David called, as he kept trying to reason with the guy.

"I know you're scared...but you need to put the knife down," he pleaded.

"I can't take it anymore…" he said, as he started backing away toward the ledge.

"No...don't do that. I can get you some help," David promised. But he shook his head and looked over the edge.

"I'm sorry...I just need it to stop. I don't want to be bad…" he cried.

"NO DON'T!" David cried, as the young man threw himself off the roof and David slammed his hands against the ledge and turned away from the gruesome scene below.

"You tried...he was obviously very troubled," Pat said, as she put a hand on his shoulder.

"Or maybe he could have been helped if he hadn't been so out of his mind. I mean, I've seen addicts out of their minds before...but this was different," David said.

"You're right...I'm not sure I've even seen anything like it and I've seen way more than you," she admitted.

"Do they have any idea what this is?" he asked. She shook her head.

"No...and we now have four bodies that we know of. Hopefully toxicology reports on all the victims will tell us more," she replied, as they filed down the stairs. He put up crime scene tape and allowed the medical examiner into the vicinity when the van arrived. There were plenty of spectators around outside the scene, trying to get a look and it wasn't long until news vans began to show up.

"Detective...can you tell us anything?" one of the reporters shouted.

"Agent Nolan and I have no comment at this time," Pat interjected.

"And you are?" the reporter asked.

"Supervising Special Agent Patricia Donovan. When we're ready, I'll make a statement on behalf of my task force," she replied.

"And just what kind of FBI task force do you run?" another reporter asked.

"One that is dedicated to solving this and any other crime that we're assigned," she answered simply, as they retreated away from them and back to the scene.

"I loathe reporters. They're going to be relentless when they learn we might have multiple victims connected to a new drug," he muttered to her.

"They will...but hopefully we can learn more when we compare all the autopsies. For now, there's not much more we can do. You can go," she said.

"Seriously? In the middle of a case?" he asked incredulously.

"I'll call you if we get an update or a break. But you standing around here waiting while missing Bobby's game doesn't make sense. Go," she urged. He smiled.

"Thanks," he said, as he headed off. He would be a little late, but it was better than missing it all. And honestly, after such a bad afternoon, he couldn't wait to be with his family.

~*~

Storybrooke

The bell on the shop door rang and Rumple looked up from his spell book. He rolled his eyes, seeing that it really wasn't a customer, but just the Evil Queen.

"You used the door...are you feeling ill?" he joked. She smirked.

"Cute...but sometimes I like the whimsy of doing things the way muggles do. Magic can get boring," she said.

"You and I have led different lives," he quipped in disagreement.

"Fine, fine...I'll dispense with the pleasantries. Do you have eyes on them?" she asked.

"I told you that I have even less power than you in this United Realms. And we both know why. If he could find the dagger...well, then I wouldn't be here," he hissed.

"And you're sure he won't find it?" she questioned.

"Expressly sure," he replied. She smirked.

"It's not even here in the United Realms anymore, is it?" she asked.

"I have no idea what you're blathering on about, Your Majesty. Are you going to buy something from my humble shop or not?" he asked. She smirked and walked around idly, pretending to browse the cases.

"Hmm...that is a nice bauble," she mentioned, referring to the ruby necklace in the case.

"As always, you have good taste," he replied, as he took it out and showed it to her.

"Exquisite…" she complimented.

"It is indeed and quite bold, but then a woman of your caliber can easily pull it off," he said, as she put it on.

"Do you have a mirror?" she asked. He nodded curtly and led her into the back. There were no cameras back there and no one would question it now if they were watching. After all, she was just trying on a necklace.

He pulled the tarp away from the mirror and she saw her nemesis in her classroom and then witnessed none other than Dr. Jekyll poke his head into the classroom and introduce himself.

"So...he's finally found his way to her," she mused.

"Yes...which means it won't be long now. He'll unravel their new life with all his crazy in no time," Rumple stated.

"Are you sure?" she asked. He scoffed.

"Of course I'm sure...I saw it," he replied.

"But we both know that you don't see everything," she countered.

"Well this...I did," he said, as he clenched his teeth and the mirror went transparent again, as he grabbed his tablet.

"Take a look at this," he said, as she read an article from Boston. It mentioned an Agent Nolan.

"What am I looking at?" she asked.

"Jekyll has already devolved and he's back to experimenting. This suicide that Agent Nolan is investigating isn't what it seems. And now that the unhinged doctor has met Margaret Nolan, he'll descend further into his madness. They're awakening is on the horizon at last," he assured.

"I hope you're right...I'm not sure how much more of Seth's United Realms I can take and if he finds out what the Charmings have been doing right under his nose and how we've helped, it could spell the end for all of us," she warned.

"The Charmings, whole and complete once again, will stand against him...I've seen it," he assured.

"Do they...do we win?" she asked. He scoffed.

"You know I don't know that part," he reminded.

"Well...I guess once again, we're putting all our cards on their true love," she said in disgust.

"It's won the day countless times before. We must hope it does again," he replied. She chuckled.

"Rumpelstiltskin has hope?" she poked at him, as she saw him look out back at the sound of a car door closing. It was Belle and he smiled.

"Even the Dark One can have hope, dearie," he mused.

"Well, I wouldn't know what that's like," she spat.

"You can again though...and you know how," he told her.

"Now...be on your way," he said shooing her out. She scoffed.

"Thanks for the ruby necklace," she called, as she walked out of the shop and disappeared in a puff of smoke. Hope...she hated that it always came down to hope.

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sleepylop · 5 years

Text

One Night on Floor Seven: A Hallway Opera

Well, well… welcome to the hallway carpet! Hope you can learn to put up with the smell of curdled soymilk and sour-fragranced aerosol. Personally, I’d like to believe that unrelenting decay is what gives floor seven its character. A delightfully all-consuming “decay,” which extends past just mold caked with chemical lavender. Here, you’ll find five residual units, installed as an afterthought for the sake of filling out surplus space. (A cluster of tumorous apartments, if you will.) That being said, I’d like to introduce our cast—or, better yet, I’ll open the stage and allow them to introduce themselves.

Enjoy the show!

1. Friday, April 19th, 9:42 PM:

Tonight, he’s sat near the top of the stairwell, broadcasting his thoughts on the status of neo-Pagan reptilians and their rapid encroachment on social values:

“I am warning you all so early on, with what we all know is coming, but are too chemically possessed to acknowledge! Our creator died long ago, but a God greater than him has stepped up to rule us; and, he is testing our integrity each and every day! Still, we’re—” He lets out a feral, yet impassioned belch, before continuing, “—we… we’re failing! We’re failing his tests, and we are willingly submitting to witchcraft, and the demonic reptiles who wield it against us! We must come together through a shared blood offering, and repent for our stupidity! Blood! We must give him our blood! Evil will drown in our blood!”

He’s preaching to what seems to be an empty hallway, relying only on the possibility that his voice will slip its way into the surrounding units. For him, walls with the thickness of battered cardboard are a fantastic asset for his ministry.

Each slurred syllable is coated with a residue of cheap cider, as is the inner thighs of his sweatpants. “His” legal name is unknown. His apartment door sits just three feet to his left, and the dilapidated “worship space” he now rents out can be found just two blocks up the street.

He’s also been asked, on a series of occasions, for clarification on exactly what higher power he’s touting as humankind’s omnipresent foster parent. He has yet to give an explanation more concise than simply, “Well, I invite you to join me, for this week’s Sunday evening worship! Together, one day, we will have the honour to bleed for our beautiful, beautiful king. Join us in the only true path to holy redemption! You will soon understand all, I promise you that.”

It’s been just short of two months, and the residents of floor seven have come to a silent consensus: Do not engage with the righteous-ass preacher in room 703, lest you be roped into joining his non-denominational suicide cult. Do not speak or further enable him. Just walk past, again and again. And, most importantly, keep an eye out for any bold-faced, blood-centric news headlines.

Surely enough, morbid curiosity has become the collective vice of floor seven.

2. Friday, April 19th, 11:08 PM:

At the edge of the staircase, right where the carpet is beginning to peel away from water-corroded wood, the preacher has fallen asleep. Oh shit, his snores sound fucked. Possibly, maybe, suggestive of sleep apnea… maybe?

At least, this assessment of symptoms is what twists its way into Evie’s thoughts, via what is beginning to feel like a paranoid reflex. Having just reached the peak of the seven-flight climb, especially, her attention is already shrouded by fog and gorging itself on any thought that’s not this is where I tumble to my death, I’ve lost all feeling in my calves and I’m forgetting how to climb stairs.

The lone elevator is out of service, just as it has been for the past four years or so.

Ahead of Evie, the wallpaper is beginning to distort, her tired eyes directing a show of yellowed roses rearranging and twisting into one-another. Her room, 705, lies directly ahead, the front door bulging in synch with the walls.

It has been a miserable day. Like, an exceptionally shitty day. Far too often, as much as she cares for her own future as a registered nurse, Evie finds herself considering the legitimacy of the suicide cult. Sometimes, school and a lifetime of anxious baggage don’t mesh remarkably well.

Just as she raises her foot to proceed onward toward freedom, Evie feels a cold hand latch onto her ankle. And, before she’s able to come to a conscious halt, she hurdles toward the off-green carpet. Evie’s fall forward is then ceremoniously punctuated by her right knee jabbing into floor, sending a shockwave of pain down her calf. Her backpack presses its weight down onto her, prompting Evie to lose her balance and roll off to the side, twisting her captive ankle in the process. Well, if only I had fallen backwards, to my sudden, wonderful death.

Evie jerks her head around to see, as she had expected, the liquified form of the preacher brandishing her leg, his pale hand squeezing at her ankle. Before Evie can determine the most effective explanatives for the situation, the preacher mumbles, “G’evening, miss. I almost didn’t see you passing by. Can I talk to you ‘bout something, while you’re here?”

Evie doesn’t respond. Instead, she yanks her ankle away from the preacher, making a deliberate effort to at least dislocate his wrist in the process. This effort seems to have failed, as while Evie scrambles to her feet, the preacher continues to slur, “I noticed that you’ve been living what looks like, um, a homosexual lifestyle. I’d like to discuss that with you, maybe, just a bit?”

Growing rapidly more jaded toward the absurd universe that is floor seven, Evie keeps her mouth shut—which, is truly a test of will. God fucking damn, is this guy even a real person? Or is this just the start of my inevitable breakdown?

As Evie makes the short dash to her front door, she hears the preacher continue to babble from the floor. “It’s just, I wanted to have a little discussion, y’know? Homosexuality isn’t, uh, innately bad, I guess, but sometimes it is the product of psychic population control, and I just wanted to let you know, so that our New World Order is never able to—”

The sound of Evie’s door creaking on its rusted hinges is directly followed by a thunderous slam. The preacher’s words catch in his throat, seeming to choke him in the process.

No, really, he’s suddenly gagging on air. He’s beginning to go blue in the face.

Neither he nor Evie notice: Her wallet is now buried in the carpet, just a foot from where the preacher’s head hovers barely over the ground.

Left with no opportunities for further harassment, he dozes back to sleep, cuddling his empty bottle of cider into his chest.

3. Saturday, April 20th, 12:31 AM:

A grey-haired man, dressed in loafers and a faded tie-dye shirt, is approaching room 702. He’s certainly not a resident of floor seven, but he has a very important appointment.

He notices the familiar shape of the preacher curled into a tight lump, snores echoing throughout the narrow hallway. Still, the sight is unsettling, even for a frequent visitor. Something about this strange situation will never, ever sit right with him.

In his peripheral vision, as the visitor raps softly onto the door of room 702, he notices a metallic glint, nestling against his foot. Is that… oh, a lost wallet? Jesus, it looks like the kind of wallet a little girl would strap to her matching purse. Do any kids even live on this floor?

Shrugging to himself, the visitor kneels down, scooping up the glitter-dusted wallet. It fits oh-so snuggly into the palm of his hand. Maybe Mistress Delia will know who this little thing belongs to.

After a moment more spent on standby, the door eases open.

Snores continue to cannibalize the airspace.

4. Saturday, April 20th, 2:06 AM:

A lopsided smile softening his face, the visitor steps back into the hallway of floor seven. He shuts the door softly behind himself. A half-formed bruise is visible on the meat of his bicep.

He swivels around on his heels, readjusting to the sound of snoring and the smell of asbestos and rot. And, before he can even will himself to take a step deeper into reality, the visitor is hit with a second resounding noise: A hollow tapping, rising from the nearby stairwell.

Then, within seconds of the visitor’s panicked acknowledgement, a new man reaches the crest of floor seven. A batlike man, dressed in an elaborate mixture of dark, free-flowing fabric and romantic embroidery. His face and hands are deeply wrinkled, and his platform boots only emphasize his height—which, towers well over the visitor. White roots are beginning to tease his otherwise purple-black hair, which has been tied back into a tight ponytail.

With a relaxed smile and a custard voice, he addresses the visitor. “Oh, hey, have I seen you around here before? I feel like I’ve seen you comin’ in and out, before.” He follows this up with a string of deep breaths, still recovering from his upward journey. Clearly, the fabric wings are entirely nonfunctional.

Feeling heat rise to the surface of his face, the visitor shrugs. “Yeah, you may have,” he says, staring over the other man’s shoulder, eyes losing focus. “I’ve been around here a few times, before.”

With a curt nod, the retirement-bound vampire begins to stretch his right arm across his chest, his silver jewelry chiming faintly. “Cool, cool. Anyway, don’t mean to hold you up. I’m Oscar, by the way; feel free to say hi, next time, alright?”

“I… I can remember that, okay,” the visitor replies, his voice barely audible over the violent snoring, which has practically become ambient noise. “Do you live here?” he asks, after a beat of hesitation.

Oscar hums. “Indeed, I do. I was just gettin’ back a bit later than usual. Had an interesting night,” he says, then hums again, softly.

“Where are you coming from?” the visitor asks, before any social phobias can drag him back down to hell. He’s still baking in his own endorphins, as he often is after some therapeutic-grade flogging. Mistress Delia may be a professional domme, but she places spectacular concentration on the emotional relief of her clients.

“Well, since you ask, I just got done with ‘goth night,’” Oscar says, air quotes included, paired with a dramatic eye roll. Which, is made exceptionally dramatic, thanks to his purple lenses. “The last goth club ‘round here closed years back, which continues to suck profound ass, but occasionally I hear about a ‘goth night’ happenin’, usually at some club downtown. This one had been… not brilliant. Mainly just played a grating loop of 2000s industrial. And, major points off for all the Marilyn Manson tracks. Do people still think the dude’s music is ‘goth’? Really?” Oscar yawns, as if the freshly branded memory is enough to further exhaust him.

Still, the visitor responds with a nervous smile. “That’s, um, interesting. I… didn’t know about any of that.” He pauses. Snoring takes over again, for a moment. “Anyway, I should be going, now. It was nice meeting you.”

With that, the visitor makes a beeline for the stairwell. As he weaves around Oscar, the elder goth offers a quick, “Nice meeting you too, man. Hope good ol’ Delia is treatin’ you right.”

And, finally, the visitor is no longer a visitor of floor seven. Or, of anywhere, currently.

Oscar retreats to room 701, boots tapping in rhythm with the preacher’s sour attempts at breathing.

5. Saturday, April 20th, 4:38 AM:

Later that morning, after a violently disoriented and hungover preacher returns to his own apartment, the door to room 704 opens for the first time.

Out comes Sal.

Sal’s a normal guy. He works in accounting. He’s gluten-free and recently took on a side gig in multilevel marketing. He calls his mom every night, just before 8 PM.

Sal just wants to catch the bus.

Sal’s been searching for a new apartment.

Wish Sal luck.

#writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #amwriting #oh no hayley is writing #here's a short story I wrote a few months ago! for a workshop #although I turned in the draft late (kind of due to a stupid misunderstanding on my part)#so it was never workshopped by the class. ;n;#anyway yeah here's a short story that semi-directly caused one of my only bad panic attacks last semester! yipee~#(btw I didn't fail the assignment or anything and I got an A- in the class jkdfgnsgnk)#(but that certainly didn't stop me from flipping my shit~)

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sidpah · 5 years

Text

Glory!

“Royal families, listen! Destitute soldiers! Listen! Listen to me, my sisters and brothers!” Demented cries bellow from the pulpit of what’s now Greene Street. In front of a boarded up ex-liquor store I’m transfixed by the sermonizing of a one-legged African-American-Sidpahan man known only by the locals as Jerry. He’s propped on a cane of some light-hued hardwood, the handle carved into a striking asp. Preaching to a crowd with his bastardized southern American drawl, inciting praise to his powerful transplanted gods.

I pause my running from nowhere to nowhere to listen, bag once more clutched protectively to my chest. Immensely glad and entirely astounded that no one plucked it from me while I slept. There are still some good people here, surely…

“Glory! Glory! Tell the root-high children to seek their fame! Tell them to swarm the hills with golden royal violence! The journey has been sanctified! It’s far but the effort is justified! They’re lewd as the brothels of Sodom to the Antigens.” With every punctuation mark he projects a crooked finger toward a different member of the crowd, impaling them on his accusation.

“The bomb in your chest will beep incessantly – clicking – ticking – a reminder of smokestacks and time-clocks you are avenging. Dark brown broth will splash the feet of the weary. But don’t be dismayed! Don’t be dismayed… Don’t be dissuaded from the path of your glory! Glory, ah, Righteous Glory – Ah! We sing under our inked cloaks, smoking Xeroxed doctrines of perpetual change. Our lungs may blister. Our teeth may fill our throats, gums raining radiation-poisoned bone, all the while the bomb is beeping…”

Superimposed across his face I see monochromatic images of nuclear weapons tests, two-dimensional facades swept away by shadows and dust clouds. Nuclear tornadoes shredding suburbia. A few grains of blowing sand get caught in my nose –

I sneeze.

Jerry doesn’t seem to notice.

Why would he? His eyes are raging to the heavens, his free hand shuddering upward.

“Don’t be distracted by sunlight, by bikinis, by cold intoxicating drink! Seasons change, my friends. Seasons always change! And you must not be caught off guard… Summer, summer, bringing its rumors of a fruitful future – Bare loins, wet lips… One child thought something radical and was lost! Blinded, his lot was hidden beneath the craterous clay. Feel that giddiness of adolescence, but focus its fire! Even if you can’t pinpoint exactly what that adolescent fire felt like… Remember possibility, hopefulness, the feeling that your efforts are all aimed at that fruitful boundless Future that promises you the fulfillment of every desperate wet dream – seventy virgins and all the booze your ghostly liver can handle. Remain diligent and grounded, yes, for you can beware, my friends and children, be aware that without any formal ceremony, all those delusions, twenty-some years of them, will crumble the day you find, with a cold detached bluntness only this godless realm can provide, that you’re there. You’ve arrived. And that the Future proves to be nothing at all like the brochure. Someone’s transformed it into the simple drudgery of an endlessly repetitious present with no time off for good behavior and no window from which to watch the Sun plunge herself hopelessly into the ocean. And those seventy virgins have likewise been melted down and congealed into one gargantuan craggy, flabby old housefrau with runny pendulous tits and uncontrollable flatulence who lords herself over you and crushes your nuts twice as hard every time you feel so bold as to ask her for a sip of her cheap screwtop port wine… Let that image ground your feet to the earth where they can be utilized for the good of humanity while they can still leap and run!”

“Age don’t mean shit!” a young man yells at him, a red plastic cup of frothy beer in his hand. “Guerillas got guns and capitalists got money and power. All’s you got is words!”

“Never underestimate the power of words! Words are the beginning and the end. Words are sound and sound began the universe like sound’ll destroy the universe! Don’t tell me you can’t make a difference! You’re one man, you’re one woman… You’re all god! Do you see? You are all god! Only you can make a difference! Don’t be fooled. The mugshots are overflowing with young men staying cool shot by hot gunpowder flashes while the bomb ticks. Tell me, how hard is it to fool a fool? Stay still. Eeeaaase into the insurgency. Don’t smile. Suck in your gut. Sneer a little. Pooch out your lips. Sniff in those nose hairs, (sniff!) no, no, on second thought, blow them out. Tangle that mop – let’s not continue the charade that you are civil… and human. You are a wild beast god! You are a warrior god! You are a vengeful god! And you can make all the difference! Differences are just a matter of opinion… Opinions are a matter of disparate states of ignorance… You’re a god whose awareness is clothed in the trendy garments of your generation. It’s hidden beneath oversized basketball jerseys with someone else’s name on the back. It’s hidden beneath Saris and batik dresses and overalls with a confederate flag on a red trucker’s cap. It’s there underneath tunics and black berets, balaclavas and vestments with satin crosses running vertical pillars beside the grey tufts of hair in your ears. You are what you wear and whose name you rent. So rent a good one for today! Rent a good one! Chernov, Bookchin, Gibran, Chavez, Crowley, Ashoka, King, Ghandi, Gautama, whichever one resonates your bones, whichever one will move you to action! For the name will be your armor! The name will be your will! You will conjoin the name and flesh as one and reconcile collapsed dynasties of promising risk to the present stifled by this potential-refracting smog!”

I applaud with the crowd and look to the slick old Rat Pack reject next to me who seems not to hear a word Jerry’s said. He’s a tourist in the worst way…

“It costs fifty goddamn cents to tune a note up a single half step these days; you know as well as I do someone’s getting rich on the deal,” he croons to the woman next to him… He’s an old crooner from the Vitalis school… He’s just sightseeing. His paradigm’s been rusted in place for decades… He grinds out his flower cigar in the hair of a tiny Mexican boy in front of him… The boy winces but makes not a peep… He knows how to earn his pay… And the hair may grow through the scar tissue someday, he consoles himself through the pain. And if not, he already has the head of a monk, so maybe it’s a sign from the dios…

“What’re you selling?” a pretty young girl with dirty hair chides Jerry. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with your revolution.”

“You have everything to do with it. For it is your revolution. Can’t you see it? Can’t you see it?”

“See what, that you’re a raving crackpot?”

“That smog filth creeping up blue windowpanes as if its fingers were pulling its body of decay face to face with little eyes contemplating Saturdays eternal,” Jerry continues to the mostly enraptured crowd. It doesn’t matter what he says when it’s projected with such vim and tenor. “Well those eyes will be lucky to see week’s end! Those thin grey gauzy straw fingers scale the slick glass. And we’re stuck! Trapped! What can we do? Bending slick rubber spines, conforming to the bulldozer force against our bodies, we dirty things, soft things, rubbery things bend in acceptance; what else can be done if we can’t first accept? The world must first be the world it is for it is with us as we are – It is as it is it just is! We are as we are as we always were! Oppression ferments our miserable weakness into fuuuel for expansion, fuuuel from the incineration of our carcasses, trees and fauna immolated to produce scores of glowing numbers on a screen – Something sick’s crawling mold up the outside wall – Don’t nobody open that window! Don’t nobody even think of opening it up and lettin’ that mean-hearted bastard in here! What trains pass by with ignore-angst and great pillars of concrete hum into the world is the mating song of that decrepit fiend...”

I’m now not so much listening as swaying, my body scooping and rising in waves with the loops of each phrase, and I’m fighting the heavy urge to run up and grab him by the arm. I must speak to him after his sermon is finished…

“Meanwhile, right here, the Mass’s Fragile Hope makes her pillow of unsheathed straw while smokestacks burn halos of oil and lead around all the bowed heads singing her praises while pissing on her gravestone – their cronies making their fortunes by burying her dead in these distant lands – Look up! Look all around you at these iron girders miles high, each one proclaiming itself a shiny monument to frame her beauty, while their mirrored glass reflects the steady demise of a glorious culture in angry spiteful children eyes… Can’t you see why this is your revolution? All around you this quaint village’s roofs are all in cinders. Never mind the culprits and heroes bound together by fear, all running chaos as cedar smoke recedes, buckets of water splashing the cobblestones so there’s none left by the time they try to throw it on the burnt-out hulls of their homes – Guarantees mean little in a village of burning houses... On veldt and stones, a bright sun turns… She sleeps among the weeds and moss… reeds are her tangled arms – And we all eye her sweetly yearning for those things she brings us, those things we had once back when we were living in the garden, back when we were inchoate and dust and dreamskin clad…”

Sometime in the meantime, I must’ve been mesmerized by the rhetorical arrows slung by his amped-up jaw bow streaking manic implications that made everyone watching him see a second good leg supporting his torso of angry beaming bricks of light. But damned if I didn’t get struck upside the head by one of those darts missed its target and I tumbled… Or maybe I got cold-cocked by some fratboy’s beer-leaden fist. Either way, down I went, listening to his warning admonitions singing a paranoid lullaby…

Fragrant holy spirals off her eyes rain down over my glistening melt tongue… A cloud rolls her tongue making roof glisten with tiny ice eyes… Melt on fragrant crystals in tiny spirals, holy and glistening…

Sprawled across sidewalk… a gaping hole above my ear… How far I’d slid since the demiurgic healing of that strange blond delicacy in Kalday’s mud-walled hovel… I’m so far distant smelling gin or urine, smelling roasted goat limbs over flaming spit, smelling the dead leather shoes of bright fashionistas complaining about meals three weeks since digested to bored mannequins in distant cities… I’m mindful of the patterns being woven by that nightmare-spirit casting my shadow on his own behalf... And as I sidle away from this decaying body already having lost the earth, water, heat and breath, wavering through currents of black chi, I’m pulled. Left shipwrecked on bed with a diseased stranger… Calling a number I wrote on palm to breathe heavy and cum in my pants… Curled under blankets soaked with dejection. I’ve already got what I need, I mumble in my twilight sleep…

#fiction #revolution #anarchism #dreams

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getsherhandsdirty · 7 years

Note

💋 + 1 through 15 ;)

The fifteen ten times Charles Vane has kissed Megan Santiago. Alternatively titled: Charles Vane is greedy and can’t keep his lips to himself (and Megan in no way minds.)

✧ On the nose. | teen verse

They’re in the middle of a conversation when he catches her off guard, warm lips pressing a soft, quick kiss to the end of her nose. The sweet gesture short circuits her brain long enough for a smile to surface–– one she’s unable to control. And that shy smile of his she gets in return makes her heart do that thing she never knows how to deal with. It skips.

“ Don’t, ” she warns, bumping his shoulder with her own before turning her attention back to the textbook laid out before them on the table. “ Study. ” The unspoken promise of bestowing kisses of her own settling into the silence between them.

✧ On the cheek. | king verse

The press of The Butcher’s lips to the K I N G’s cheek is nothing short of devout. Ebon lashes fan against the apples of her cheeks, a soft chuckle rising in her throat just as a hand swiftly follows suit to capture the monster by the jaw to prevent him from pulling away completely. Mere inches apart they share one breath, two, and on the third did HER MAJESTY open her eyes, a brow arching in silent invitation as the pad of her thumb found his bottom lip.

✧ On the forehead. | main verse

She’d been in a daze since her father called. How she had driven herself home she didn’t know, but the fact that she was still in her coveralls, hands covered in grime and grease, was proof that she had walked out of the shop the moment the call had ended. Despite being on autopliot she’d had enough common sense to park her ass on the floor and not the sofa and somehow, somewhere along the way, she had called Charles. He had been the first person her mind had spit out.

At the sound of the door opening she looked over to acknowledge his presence before glancing away, red-rimmed eyes searching the space before her as if it might offer an answer. “ My dad called, ” she began, the word squeezed out past the constriction of her throat, the too tight feeling of her chest a clear indication that her ribs had it out for her lungs. His footsteps sounded far away as he neared. “ My brother and his wife were in a car accident–– ” the warmth of his body as he settled in next to her unrecognizable. “ ––they didn’t make it. ”

Those last four words slipped past her lips too easily, heart giving a lurch as a hand absentmindedly rose to touch the center of her chest. She cleared her throat for what felt like the millionth time and looked over at him, eyes glossy with unshed tears. Her vision swam as he pulled her in close, nose in her hair, arm wrapped tight around her shoulders.

I’m sorry she felt him say through the press of his lips against her forehead and it was then that the dam broke.

✧ On the hand. | pirate verse

It’s with a grunt that she stiffens in her seat, jaw set tight against the sting of pain that is Charles pulling bits of glass from the palm of her hand. The skirmish had been quick but dirty and in situations like those one had to think on their toes and make use of what they had on hand. And make use she had.

“ Maldito hijo de puta, ” she bit out, fighting the urge to tear her hand from the man’s grasp. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate him playing doctor on the spot, but versed in gentility he was not. A leg bounces on the ball of foot in her impatience as he bent down low over her arm, the curvature of his spine a perfect arc.

She nearly loses her mind at the introduction of rum against the raw flesh, that one bouncing leg lashing out to kick at the leg of the table ( though she had been aiming to land him with the blow. ) “ Como te odio, ” she groans, shielding her eyes with her free hand as he huffs a laugh. The last thing she expects to feel is that of air being blown across her skin and as her hand falls away she realizes it’s because Charles has pursed his lips, heavy stare glittering with amusement. Without a word he turns her hand over in his carefully before pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“ Better? ”

“ Vete a la mierda. ”

✧ On the neck. | main verse

“ You’re playing dirty, ” the mechanic sighs, canting her head even as she gives him shit for it. The pen in her hand continues to travel across the paper despite her brain having already derailed from it’s original track and faithfully following after the train of thought his lips against her skin have started. ( Not that it took much. ) His mouth moves to the spot behind her ear and she finds herself sucking in a quick breath, the clipboard and pen clattering against the desk as she gives up the ghost of trying to be productive. “ Go lock the door, ” she murmurs before she’s laughing at the ridiculousness that is Charles Vane doing his best Speedy Gonzales impression.

✧ On the nape of the neck. | teen verse

It’s become a thing, this. Them sleeping together. Not fucking or having sex, but sleeping next to one another in the same bed. The first few times they had strictly adhered to her sleeping on one side of the mattress, Charles on the other, but over time the space between them grew smaller and with unspoken understanding they found themselves tucked in close. On the nights he tries to give the Santiago family space Megan leaves her window unlocked so that he can let himself in because he always finds his way back. He’s stealthily quiet in removing his shoes, getting as comfortable as he dares before climbing into bed, making a still slumbering Megan the little spoon by molding himself to her back. Some nights it’s just the reassuring squeeze of his arm around her middle that reaches through her subconscious, spurring her to press into his body while taking his arm and pulling it across her chest as she settles. Other nights it’s the whisper soft touch of his fingertips pulling her long hair out of the way so that lips can momentarily find home, lingering, a tether to the land of wakefulness–– and for a moment she buoys to the surface, a sleep-drunk ‘ hey ’ or ‘ hi ’ on her lips followed by the intertwining of their legs before she’s drifting off again.

✧ On the shoulder. | main verse

The rush of hot water against her skin takes with it all her thought processes. In her mind’s eye she imagines the day’s bullshit slipping down the drain as she slicks her hair back, letting the steam fill her lungs. The woman nearly jumps out of her skin at the cool press of Charles’ lips against her shoulder blade, his strong arms grounding her instantly.

“ Jesus fuck. Wear a bell! ”

His answer came in the form of a rumbling laugh against the shell of her ear.

✧ On the chest. | king verse

Yards and yards of fabric are bunched up around the K I N G’s hips, heavily decorated fingers rooted deeply in Charles’s hair, holding his mouth over her own as she sighed in the near dark of the alcove. Those same thick hips rock against the calloused hand buried deep between her thighs, keeping pace as he played her body as if it were an instrument he’d had all his life–– and not the last few weeks since his arrival. Never would she admit it, but she was nearly delirious with desire, panting heavily as the crescendo continued to build, fingers tightening their hold as his tongue, heavy and wet, slid across her bottom lip.

His command was carried on a growl–– Let go. –– and were it not for the fact that she craved her release much more than reminding him of who it was he was speaking to she swallowed down the venom that burned at the back of her throat. She could feel him against the top of her thigh, grinding himself into her as she found the small, delicious death she sought as often as possible. Boneless, she was pressed against the wall soundly, his lips traveling across her jaw, her throat, the tops of her breasts.

“ There’s something I need to attend to, ” she stated plainly, guiding his face away from her skin to look him in the eye. “ I expect you naked and waiting in my chambers within the next ten minutes. ”

✧ On the stomach. | dream verse

One always heard the pregnancy horror stories. The morning sickness, the nausea, the yoyo-ing hormones, the weird as shit cravings, the bloating… and while she had braved the first three and had emerged victorious (or so she tells herself), the last two were now kicking her ass. Hands rhythmically smoothed over the swell of her belly through the worn cotton of her shirt, murmuring soft things as the tv across the room went on without being watched. The moment she heard the door open she sat up and leaned back, craning her neck to see into the hall.

There he was, her hero. Her 3 am savior with the biggest salted caramel milkshake from her favorite diner and two orders of their steak fries. As if she could love him anymore.

“ Papi llego, ” she coos with one last heartfelt rub through the warmed fabric before reaching out for what the kid currently renting out space in her body had asked for. “ You are so fuckin’ good to me. ” And isn’t that one of the truest things ever said between them? “ Gotta warn you now though, ” she began around a mouthful of fries. “ He’s inherited my impatience. He’s been kickin’ up a storm since you left. ”

Megan knows she’ll never get over the way Charles sinks to his knees before her to talk to their son, hands, full of reverence, gently guiding whatever material she might be clad in out of the way so that lips can press to skin. She blames those fucking hormones for the way her chest constricts each end every time he does, committing to memory the words said; gentle admonishment that he take it easy on his mother, stories either from memory or one of her nieces’ books, a favorite song crooned under his breath. And without fail their son shifts in reply, a foot or a hand making an appearance and making them both laugh.

✧ On the knee. | teen verse

Rain is pouring. The power is out.

They’re sitting in the middle of her living room among the few candles she had found scattered around the house ( most are little tea lights she found in the kitchen’s junk drawer ). So much for the Die Hard marathon they originally had planned.

Charles took it upon himself to sprawl out across the floor, his head finding home against her thigh, one of Megan’s hands finding home in his hair. Absentmindedly, she spoke:

“ You ever feel lonely? ”

“ That’s a bit of personal question don’t you think? ” He quipped, turning over onto his stomach so that he could prop himself up on his elbows.

“ A question with a question? ”

“ Too unoriginal? ”

“ Really? ”

“ Maybe? ”

“ Forget it, ” she sighed, flicking him gently on the forehead. He dropped his head against her thigh, lips pressed against denim in thought before he looked back up at her.

“ Some days are worse than others. You? ”

“ Not so much anymore. ”

What felt like an eternity stretched on between them in the silence that followed, locked in a staring match neither wanted to lose.

#⦕ fire meet gasoline ⦖#damnbutcher #[my brain fizzled out after ten but i have the remaining five prompts saved so that i can properly finish them!]#[but for now have these glorious little morsels of charles and megan goodness fresh out of the oven. lmao]

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noiseartists · 5 years

Text

Orange Crate Art: Psychedelia and melodic noise from Sweden

Orange Crate Art is the musical project of Toby, from Malmö, Sweden. he has produced some quality ‘Hallucinatory music since 1995’.

He just released his new LP, Astral Lullabies on the Threshold, which he was very kind to us the Premiere. Thanks Toby.

And he was even kinder in giving us a glance in his music and himself in the following interview.

His music work to date is as follows:

2019: Astral Lullabies on the Threshold, LP; Song for Celluloid Babylon: The Visionary Photographs of William Mortensen in the Silent Film Era (Original Soundtrack), Single

2018: Microscopic Liquid Subway to Oblivion , LP; Inside Out: The Art of Susan Te Kahurangi King (Original Soundtrack), LP;

2017: Quantum Distortion in Empty Space, LP; The Exegesis of Matt Marello (Original Soundtrack), LP; Circular Rays of Infinity Cells, EP

2016: Extraordinary Gradations of Mauve, LP; In a Sea of Crystal Radiance, EP; The Tibetan Year of the Dead, EP

2015: oca EP, 2015; ehs EP #1; Italian futurism, LP; ehs EP #2; ehs EP #3; ehs EP #4; Exploding head syndrome, LP

What is your music about?

Nothing in particular. It's more a state of... being in between states. Like hypnagogia. Trance-like and somewhere else, but with a physical presence. Even though the songs might have choruses and verses and vocals etc. Not comparing OCA to painters like Heron or Rothko, but.

I see quite a similarity between what I do and abstract impressionism, or painters like the above. What I put into the music is usually very to the point but the actual output, the expression, tends to come out as kind of blurry, see-through, or geometrical shapes in layers with blurred outlines. So what's it all about, when you sort it out... Alfie?

Once something is released, I have no say, but hopefully, the music can draw the listeners into a rewarding musical experience that they can define for themselves.

What are your goals as an artist artistically/commercially?

I don't really have any commercial goals. It's not a career. It's not an intentional anti-approach, I just don't think like that. I would love if the income from OCA could pay the rent and food, but I don't see it coming. Once something is recorded, I'm already working on the next thing. It's always about the next record. I'm making soundtracks for my friend and director Brian Chidester in New York, and ultimately, I'd like to make a living out of making music for film and television, but... I don't dream about it.

Since everything I do is DIY and on a small budget, I have gone the digital release route, but the plan is still to release/reissue everything on vinyl. These days, I'm more open to releasing music on other labels. I'm going to give Somewhere Cold something, for example, and that will probably come out on CD too.

I have a huge backlog of unreleased albums and EP dating back to 1995s. Most of these recordings will come out one day, so one of the rules I try to follow is to finish old stuff before recording new material. On the other hand, I really love the immediacy of recording something today and releasing it tomorrow. The "OCA" and "Tibetan Year of the Dead" EPs were recorded and released within the space of a few weeks.

The album I'm finishing right now is fairly new, recorded right after the Matt Marello documentary soundtrack in August/September 2017. The idea was to make a more song-based version of the soundtrack. It evolved into a gentle folk-psych collection of songs. Mantras and cosmic lullabies. The vocals are always record last, and I didn't get around to record them until February/March this year. I'd say the record is a bit more accessible . Less noise, more focused.

Who would you want as a dream producer, and why?

I have never thought of anybody else producing my music, so not really sure. It'd would have been interesting to have worked with Gary Usher around the time of his first Sagitarrius album and The Byrds' "Notorious..." album. His productions are so experimental and crisp sounding.

On a similar but different sounding note, Curt Boettcher. He'd put his usual Ballroom cast of vocalists on my tracks, which would've been lovely. Have you heard the Bobby Jameson record Curt produced in 1967? Those background harmonies by him, Michelle O'Malley and others..! And his work with tape delay, reverse reverb, Chamberlin, oboe and tremolo guitar on a lot of his backing tracks... he's a huge influence on OCA. I have a song called "In the Direction of the Non-Believer" which is sonically sort of a mix of a 1997-era Kevin Shields-remix and the album Curt did with Tommy Roe. A bit of Arthur Lee in the middle-eight but the rest of the music was kind of like that Tommy Roe album, with Boettcher-ish backwards tambourine and more.

As for current producers, it'd be interesting to see what somebody like Tim Hecker would do with an OCA record. It would end up radically different to everything I've done so far.

But generally, I will more than likely continue to produce my own stuff, but in the future, I'll probably hand the mastering over to a professional mastering engineer. And I'm always open to collaborations with other artists or musicians.

What are you trying to avoid as a band?

I don't think I'm trying to avoid anything. I just do it, like Nike footwear. I might not have their swoosh, though. Generally, I think it's better to try something than to avoid it.

Explain your songwriting process.

It used to be fairly traditional. Writing songs on the guitar and, later, the keyboard. These days, the process is more like people in electronica and film scoring: the writing and recording process is the same. One method I use a lot is to just press record and begin writing the song as it is being recorded. That's one reason why many of my songs change key so often... the songs just take off in their own directions.

I tend to mix a song right from the start, for every track I add, so it's continually molded into the final product. I usually mix into the two-bus, ie. I let EQ, compression, tape saturation etc colour the recording from the get go, rather than adding everything to the final mix. That essentially comes from the dance or electronic music world. Traditional rock engineers would probably disapprove. Again, it's maybe a bit like painting. I work really fast. Apart from the vocals, 90% of any released record is what was recorded in the first hour or two.

Why do you make the music you make? Is it in you? Is it your environment?

I have no idea why I make it. I just do it, and have done since I was a kid. It's an inner experience, but we're all connected to the cosmos.

Describe your palette of sound.

This is like the moment when John Lennon wanted a track to sound like an orange and George Martin was like "ok... I'll try to make it sound like an orange" :-) My bandmates would probably agree that I'm not that good at explaining what I want. I can be very precise for myself, but that's just the input into the music. Explaining the output to others is very hard, because everybody has their own idea of what X or Y is. Essentially, like any other artist, it's not my job to define what I do. It's up to the listener.

But from a more technical point of view, or in terms of arrangements, I have an anything goes attitude. I'll use whatever I have around me. Generally speaking, I do tend to come back to the same sets of arrangements. Usually one or two guitar, two bass guitars (one fuzz, one clean), organ and drums. I usually go for Vox or Fender Tweed amp tones, maybe a Mellotron, maybe a tack piano, sometimes brass, a lot of flute actually... for the soundtracks, it all depends on what the director wants and I try to translate it into music.

The guitars I use the most: a J Mascis Jazzmaster, a Squire Jaguar with Curtis Novak vintage pickups, one of those really cheap Danelectro guitars and a Danelectro electric 12-string guitar. I also have different acoustic guitars, and about one hundred effect pedals. Mostly fuzz and overdrive, but also several envelope filters, delays, tremolos, etc. I used to collect Devi Ever pedals and I use them a lot. Lately, I've come back to Boss pedals. Their overdrive pedals are so warm and musical.

If you could guest on someone else’s album , who would it be and why? What would you play?

I would probably play the guitar, my J Mascis Jazzmaster, which sounds three times as good as it costs. Can't actually think of a specific artist, sorry... maybe one of the newer London free jazz groups, or somebody who makes pure abstract or electronic music. Tim Hecker, hello? :-) What musical skills would you like to acquire or get better at?

Playing in time :-)

Which other musician/artist would you date?

Yoko Ono.

Is there a band that if they didn’t exist you wouldn’t be making the music you make?

Sure. OCA would sound radically different without My Bloody Valentine, Stereolab, High Llamas, Mouse on Mars, and many others.

You’re from Sweden, what are the advantages and disavantages?

Of the country? Politically, I'm Old Labour, so I'm completely lost in today's landscape with morons on all sides of the political spectrum. The new left might have good intentions but the road leads directly to neo-liberalism. I guess living in this country has influenced me to check out of current times, musically. Being painfully aware of reality and choosing the inner, cosmic musical experience.

Musically, we've always been more international than local, attracting pockets of listeners all around the world. I love looking at the streaming statistics and see people from South America, Asia, the States, mainland Europe... it's like the Stereolab scene in the late '90s. Always international, with bands like Mouse on Mars in Germany, Tortoise in the States, Cornelius in Japan, and so on. I don't really see any particular advantages living here, as an artist. Being a 20 minute train ride away from Copenhagen makes a huge difference, though.

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endorsereviews · 7 years

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Dave Lindahl – Apartment House Riches [Real Estate]

Who Else Wants An Extra $10,000 A Month, Part Time, With No Tenant Hassles?”

Please Read This Letter Carefully To Find Out How You Too Can Make This Happen Month After Month!!

Dear Friend, Imagine having an extra $10,000 a month coming into your home month in and month out.

That’s ten thousand dollars dropping into your bank account whether or not you decide to get out of bed in the morning, whether or not you decide spend all day at the shopping mall or decide to play 36 holes of golf instead of 18!

Like clockwork, month in and month out, that money still comes in! This is ecstasy!

Now imagine what you would do with that money. Would you buy a bigger home, a better car, travel around the world…. or take care of a loved one who is struggling? That’s what the money has done from me!

$10,000 a Month in Less Than 14 Months

From buying and holding small apartment houses on a part time basis I developed a system that allowed me to create a $10,000 a month passive income in less than 14 months with out getting a single call from a tenant! And I’ll to teach you how to do it too! Does 14 months seem like along time? Well I made an additional $10,000 – $20,000 a month selling the apartment houses that I didn’t keep right from the start, and I’ll teach you how to do that too!

Why Would A Group Of People Get Together To Pay My Mortgage, My Maintenance And Give Me Money To Fatten My Bank Account Each Month?

They’re called residents or tenants. You see I’ve always been interested in apartment houses. I like the idea that a group of people will get together (the residents) and pay my mortgage, pay for all the maintenance to keep the property looking good and to give me extra money at the end of the month to either put in the bank or to go out and have a good time with!

Seven years ago I was a struggling landscaper. I wanted a better life but could not seem to get my act together. I tried all of the get rich quick schemes I saw on late night television.

I tried and tried to make them work but it just wasn’t happening. Then one day I saw a biography about a guy in New York city who started with nothing and made a fortune buying, selling and holding apartment houses.

Simple Man Makes Fortune Buying, Selling And Holding Apartment Houses

I decided that was what I was going to do. So I went to the bookstore and bought every book I could on buying apartments. Unfortunately, there weren’t too many. Oh, there were plenty on how to buy and sell single family houses and I learned how to do that along the way but I wanted the big bucks!

You see, I soon learned that buying and selling single family houses will make you money but buying, selling and holding apartment houses will make you filthy, stinking, rich!

I decided I wanted to be filthy, stinking rich so I started learning everything I could about real estate investing. As I started to apply what I learned, my life started to change…for the better.

I bought my first 3 unit apartment house with a positive cash flow of $972/month with no money down (I’ll tell you more about that later)! My yearly income zoomed from zero to $11,664, almost overnight!

I can’t tell you how scared I was to buy that first building! You see, my father always told me that real estate was a scam, that there was no way that little ole’ me could make any money and that if I even tried, my life was heading for serious trouble.

He filled my head with all kinds of “the sky is falling scenarios” each Monday night when I would go over to my Mom’s for supper.

So I finally got smart and stopped talking to my father about real estate and only talked to people who were actually doing it… and making gobs of money doing it!

I was lucky and found a mentor who had made his fortune in real estate, mostly by buying, selling and holding apartment houses. He took me by the hand and showed me the right way and the wrong ways to invest.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t make mistakes. Oh yeah! I made plenty of those, mostly because I didn’t follow the advice of my mentor. And after I made them, I was too embarrassed to tell him about the mistakes so he could tell me how to fix them!

In Three Months I Had Three Houses – Six Months, Nine Houses…

After I got over the fear of buying that first house, within the next three months I had three more. Within 6 months I had nine houses. And after that first twelve months I had eleven apartment houses and almost $10,000 a month in positive cash flow! I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my father at the end of that first year. Out of the blue he says to me “You aren’t still thinking about buying real estate are you?”

Well, my throat got dry and I swallowed hard and with one deep breath I blurted out, “as a matter of fact Dad, I did buy a house and that worked out so well that I bought 10 more and now I make almost $10,000 a month just owning those houses and nothing bad has happened. As a matter of fact my life is a lot better!…”

His eyes got wide, his face went white and I thought he was going to have the big one right then and there!

Today, my father asks ME for financial advice!

To Make The Big Dough, You’ve Got to be A Transaction Engineer

First of all, I don’t just buy apartment houses, I also buy and sell lots of single family houses, for a couple of reasons. The first is that when I started investing, I had no money. I actually used a cash advance on my credit cards for the down payment on my first apartment house. This wasn’t my idea, I had gone to a seminar and the guru told us to go out and get as many credit cards as you can, get the ones with out the recurring fees and use them for your down payments. That’s what I did!

How the “Chunker Method” Made Me Wealthy and Can Do the Same for You!

I did this for my first two houses and then I ran out of credit card money. So I decided to buy single family houses, flip them for a chunk of cash and use some of the money to live (pay my bills) and the other chunk to buy another apartment house (get wealthier). I call this my “Chunker Method”. Though I still needed money to buy the single family houses, I used other peoples money. I got it from partnering with people or using private money. We’ll talk more about that later.

The Hidden Advantages of Owning Apartment Houses Vs. Single Family Houses

Why did I decide to hold apartment houses instead of single family houses? There are many money making reasons! They are;

Cash Flow (loads of it!)

Can Do It Part Time

Eventually It Allows You To Quit Your Job And Live Better

Less Competition (only a few of us know about it!)

A Lot Less Risk – you don’t lose all of your rent if you lose a tenant as you would in a single family house

Tax Free Money – Through refinance or 1031 Tax Deferred Exchange

Economies Of Scale – owning 6 units in one building is better than owning 6 single family houses. The cost to maintain them is a lot cheaper.

Fast Price Rise In An Up Cycle

Slower Price Fall In A Down Cycle

Ground Floor Opportunity – no one else is teaching this!

Why Cash Flow Is King!…

Let’s take a look at a couple of these advantages. The first is Cash Flow. Simply put, cash flow equals freedom. The cash flow that you will get from owning apartment houses will allow you to live in the house that you want, drive the car that you want, travel to where ever you like or even take better care of a loved one or friend. Robert Kyosaki states in his “Rich Dad/Poor Dad” book series that everybody’s goal should be to create MASSIVE PASSIVE income… meaning that, no matter what you decide to do with your time each day, that passive income keeps coming in! Not surprisingly, Kyosaki, himself did this through investing in apartment houses.

Less Risk, More Cash Flow

The other advantage is less risk. If you own a single family house that has one tenant and a three family house that has three tenants, if you lose the tenant in your single family house, you’ve lost 100% of you income! You’re going to have to dig deep into your own pockets to pay that mortgage until you find another tenant! Then you’ve lost all of your profits for that entire year!

If you lose a tenant in your three family house then you’ve only lost one rent or 1/3rd of your income. You can still pay your mortgage and get a little cash flow from the other two renters. You keep your money and actually make more.

If you had a 6 family house, you would only lose 1/6th of your rent. You see how there is less risk in apartment houses? Doesn’t keeping your money and making even more money sound good to you?

The Six Key Steps To Creating Wealth

Through everything that I studied and through my relationship with my wealthy mentor, I discovered that there were six key steps to creating wealth. It is these six steps to wealth that I’ll focus on at the Boot Camp;

Finding The Deals

Pre- Screening The Deal

Writing Offers That Get Accepted

Raising Capital

Managing For Profits

Knowing Your Exit Strategies

During the three day Boot Camp, I’ll cover each one of these topics thoroughly. I’ll start by assuming that you know nothing. And with my proven techniques, by the time you finish with me on day number 3, I’ll have you molded into an expert!

Dave Lindahl – Apartment House Riches [Real Estate] posted first on premiumwarezstore.blogspot.com

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sublimedeal · 7 years