#where the town that's home to the highway above the clouds | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

christinepanas · 1 year

Text

Legacy

(A short fiction story)

“Do you want to take a spin in it?” Duncan asks Mallory as they stand in the parking lot of the high school, itself almost as newly minted as her driving license. Mallory doesn’t answer. She just stares at the shiny red sports car with the brown leather seats and chrome wheels. Her shoulders hunch forward, as if the added weight of her license makes her backpack too much to bear. She hesitates.

“I have to get home,” she says.

“But aren’t your parents away?” Duncan asks, opening the driver’s side door.

“Yes,” she says.

“What’s the hurry home?”

“I have chores.”

“I can drive you.”

“That’s okay. I always walk.”

“It might rain. I’ll drive you,” he presses.

He points with his eyes to a heavy grey cloud that has arisen in the distance. Mallory gives in and walks to the passenger door. The interior of the car is finished with wood. She runs her fingers along the elegant dashboard as he starts the engine. The aroma of the new leather seats reminds her of a pair of gloves her mother once had. They had been expensive. When she lost one of them, its mate lingered in her handbag, until one day it too disappeared.

“Waddya think?” Duncan asks.

She sits mute, watching as the sunroof silently opens to reveal the blue band of heaven high above them. A puffy, angelic cloud floats into the frame, and then disappears. She buckles her seat belt and folds her hands in her lap.

“Ready?” he asks, then puts the car in reverse and backs out of the parking spot.

Mallory knows that her parents wouldn’t approve of her taking a ride home alone with Duncan. They are strict, especially now that she attends public school. They can no longer afford private school tuition. Most of her parents’ money and time now goes to the Rhys Owens Foundation and the Living God in Christ Pentecostal Church. But it doesn’t matter. She likes public school. It is noisy and colorful and filled with smells and sounds and voices that she otherwise would never have experienced.

The town is small. Many people know Mallory’s father from when he coached Little League. Duncan played on one of the teams. Everyone knows Duncan’s father because he owns one of the two banks in town. He bought Duncan this car for graduation. Lots of kids get cars for graduation and then they go off to college. Both she and Duncan will be graduating next month. Duncan will attend the same university as his father and grandfather and will one day take over the bank. Mallory’s parents have been too busy to help her with college applications to the Christian colleges they have chosen for her. Summer is coming and this year she will be running the Bible Camp. She can’t think beyond that.

“So, have you driven on the highway yet, I mean, besides for driver’s ed?” Duncan asks.

“Not really,” she replies. “Just to church and back. Around town for shopping. Once out to Table Rock lake.”

She is not all that keen on driving but there is no other way to get around. Some kids ride bicycles to school. A horse. She would be happier with a horse, she thinks. Once, Jonelle Williams rode her horse to school. It was a big deal.

“Do you want me to put on the A/C?” Duncan asks. She shakes her head.

He’s not a bad person, she thinks. He is polite and well groomed. She has never heard him swear or raise his voice in anger. But she only sees him in class or at the football games on Friday nights. Sometimes, he sits with her and her parents, but not all the time. He has lots of friends.

Once, her mother told her to invite Duncan to church. She didn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to come to church. It was that she knew her parents would never condone her attending a Presbyterian service. It didn’t seem right that the invitation could never be reciprocated.

“So, where are your parents?” he asks.

“Dallas again,” she says. “Something for the Foundation.”

“You wanna listen to some music?” he asks.

“No,” she replies. “That’s okay.”

The drive home from the school is no more than five minutes, but they manage to pass by everyone in town who can and will report to her parents that they saw her in Duncan Wilson’s car after school.

As they pull into the driveway, a few drops of rain clink against the windshield. Duncan closes the sunroof. She sits watching as it shuts itself against the darkening sky.

“Do you wanna come in for a minute?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says. “As long as it is okay with your parents.”

She knows that it is not okay, but she tells him that it is. Old Mrs. Barnes from next door is no doubt watching them now, she thinks. She imagines walking over there and ringing the bell and giving Mrs. Barnes the name of the hotel where her parents are staying and then telling her to go ahead and call them. But she knows she won’t. She looks down at the ground as she counts the steps to the porch. Twelve today.

The house is large and is relatively new. Her parents built it when she and her sister were still attending the Christian Children’s Academy. Each time she opens the heavy front door, the first thing she sees is the memorial. The memorial honors her sister, Rhys. It occupies the wall that separates the foyer from the kitchen. In the center of that wall is a large photo of Rhys. In it, she looks over her shoulder at the camera, her smile bright and wide. Rhys smiled like a movie star. Everyone said it. The portrait is surrounded by seventeen smaller photos of Rhys, one for each year of her life. Below these photos is a table weighed down by ribbons and trophies and awards.

“Here’s the shrine,” she says. “The wall of memories.”

Duncan stares at the display for a few seconds and then gives her an uncomfortable smile.

Moving around the wall, she leads Duncan into the kitchen. He takes a seat on one of the four stools stowed under the kitchen counter.

“Do you want a glass of iced tea?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says.

“It’s sweet tea.”

“Okay.”

She pours him a glass and tells him she’ll be right back. Her intention is to go to her room and change into her cleaning clothes, but she finds herself moving down the hallway, counting the steps to Rhys’ room. It is spacious - almost as large as her parents’ bedroom. The carpet is pink. The canopy bed has twinkle lights. She turns them on and then looks around. This room, indeed, the whole house, seems to be waiting, as if Rhys will be back any moment. All her things are here, almost exactly as she left them. Her mother dusts and vacuums the room and washes the bed covers every week.

Mallory slips off her shoes and climbs onto the bed, staring up at the canopy. When she was ten, she was so jealous of this bed. It was like something for a princess, magical. Now, she feels nothing.

“Hey, where are you?” Duncan calls out.

“In here,” she replies.

Duncan follows her voice and finds her there, on the bed.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

“I’m not allowed to be in here,” she says. “But it’s not like I don’t miss her, too.”

She glances at a large photo that occupies a space where once there was a poster of a blonde Jesus praying, his blue eyes cast upwards towards heaven. Now, from under a tiara, Rhys the beauty pageant contestant smiles through the glass of a bejeweled frame.

“She was my parents’ pride and joy,” Mallory says.

Duncan is silent. She looks up at him. He is staring at the photo.

“My mother still cries every day,” she says.

It has been five years since Rhys died. And every day, Mallory’s parents grieve as if they have just received the news. She remembers that day, too. She was there, sitting on the sofa as two state troopers gave them the news. Her mother began to wail. Her father held his head in his hands. The troopers apologized as if they had been responsible.

“Our house is sad now,” she says.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“I better go,” he says.

She follows him outside to the car. As he opens the door, she stops him.

“I’d like to take you up on that drive,” she says.

“Okay,” he replies. “After supper?”

“Can you pick me up?”

“As long as it’s okay with your parents,” he says.

“I’ll call them.”

He agrees to pick her up at seven.

Inside, Mallory wanders the spotless house. She finds herself moving in numbered steps to Rhys’ room. Rhys’ baby shoes sit on the dresser. They are white leather with pink laces. She picks them up and sniffs at them, at the faint odor of leather and talcum. She opens the dresser drawers and stares at Rhys’ clothing. In one drawer are baby clothes, fancy little dresses and frilly little socks. In another drawer are pretty pajamas and little panties with the days of the week printed on them. In another are sets of shorts and t-shirts, and in another, socks and jeans. She takes out a pair of jeans and holds them next to her. They are too long. Rhys was tall and thin. She is not.

In the walk-in closet she finds Rhys’ Barbie doll house and the Barbies and their clothes. Dozens. They wear gowns, like the ones hanging in the closet. She feels strange and sits down. Everything sparkles. She picks up a Barbie, examines it, then pulls off its head. She does the same to the rest. Then the arms. Then the legs. She abandons their corpses in the bottom of the closet, leaving the door open and the lights on. She counts the steps as she moves down the hall to her parents’ room, her mind blank, her hands and feet numb.

The dressers in her parents’ bedroom sprout dozens of photos. Most are of Rhys. There are a few of Mallory. In one of them, she is ten, standing next to Rhys, who is fifteen and the recipient of a trophy. They are both smiling and holding hands. She feels an ache in her chest. She loved Rhys, too. They had been so close. The emptiness she feels has no words. Rhys was special. She was thoughtful and she loved Mallory and always knew how to make her feel special, too. Rhys never excluded her and always told her that she would grow up to be beautiful and talented. But that didn’t happen.

One by one, she relieves the frames of their photos. She rips the photos into strips as she goes, leaving them in the middle of her parents’ bed. She looks again at the photo of her and Rhys and slips it into her back pocket.

In the living room, more photos of Rhys with various family members smile into the emptiness of the house. These she has dusted every day for five years. A strange rage seizes her, and she begins hurling them into the fireplace, one by one, frame and all. All of the photos. All of the family. All of them, together in the fireplace. She stands there, holding the last one in her hands.

The last thing that Rhys had said to her was, “I’m sorry, honeydew, but you can’t come with me this time. I promise I’ll take you to the lake tomorrow. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.” But she didn’t come back.

Mallory wanders into her own room and digs with anger through her crafting supplies until she finds a Sharpie. She blacks out the eyes and mouths of all her photos, even the ones in her yearbooks. She dumps the contents of her memento boxes onto the bed and finds the necklace that Rhys gave her for her twelfth birthday - a silver chain with a delicate crystal cross. She puts it around her neck and resumes wandering the house, counting the steps as she tries to remember the sound of Rhys’ voice.

Now, standing before the memorial, she stares at Rhys’ forever blue eyes. Her arms hang at her sides. She stands there, frozen in place until the sound of the doorbell startles her. Duncan is back. She can’t believe it’s seven already. He has changed clothes.

“I’ll be right out,” she says, and closes the door, leaving him on the porch.

She takes off her blouse and replaces it with one of her sister’s t-shirts. It is dark purple. Fancy white letters spell out “Be the Light Matthew 5:14.” The words are surrounded by delicate flowers and vines. She brushes her hair with Rhys’ hairbrush and puts on a pair of Rhys’ earrings and applies some of Rhys’ lipstick. She leaves the house, not bothering to lock the door.

“Where do you want to go?” Duncan asks.

She has no ideas but manages to smile. They end up in the parking lot of the county electric cooperative, where a group of Duncan’s friends have gathered in their cars. They all admire his new red BMW and start asking him technical questions. Duncan is polite and introduces her, and they say hello, to be polite, she thinks. She says hello back.

“The sound system is great,” Duncan is telling everyone, and turns up the radio.

She gets out of the car and wanders the parking lot while Duncan shows everyone something in the trunk. The sun will be setting soon. She is supposed to call her parents at eight. They want to know that she is not doing something she shouldn’t. She never does. She is a good, dutiful daughter. She does all her chores and never complains. She tends to their daily needs. But they don’t see her. She is not their beloved Rhys, to whom they always devoted their lives. Even now. Rhys is still their entire life, even though she’s gone. What they have left is Mallory, the one who isn’t their golden girl or shining light. Mallory knows that she is just ordinary. She will never be Rhys. And no one will ever love her like Rhys loved her. She aches for that love.

Overhead, the sky is bright. There is a slight breeze. Duncan and his friends have moved on and are now looking at the engine of someone’s giant pickup truck. She doesn’t know most of these boys. She doesn’t want to.

She picks a few flowers that are growing alongside the road. They are purple, Rhys’ favorite color. She remembers being in awe of Rhys, tagging along after her and intruding on her and her friends. Rhys never complained and would pick her up and hug her and kiss her. Rhys would hug her to sleep when she was sad. Now the sad never leaves.

Mallory admires the flowers, then drops them on the ground next to Duncan’s car. The boys are now revving up the truck’s motor and laughing and whoo-hooing. It is noisy. She takes the opportunity to slip into the driver’s seat of Duncan’s car. The music is so loud it almost hurts. And then, she watches herself start the car and put it in gear, as if she is someone else, someone now tearing out of the parking lot in Duncan’s red car.

Her hands feel strange, gripping the wheel. Her heart pumps. She speeds towards Eagle Ridge, to that bend in the twisting road, where the cross stands, decorated with silk flowers. Rhys had been with her friends that day. She had been driving the brand-new car that her parents gave her for graduation. A shiny red convertible. Five years ago, almost to the day. She was late. Speeding to get home. She lost control. Too fast, the state troopers said. She had been going too fast and lost control. The car hit the rock wall. She died instantly, they said. Her friends survived. The rock wall saved them from plunging over the cliff.

The tragedy had brought the whole town together, everyone said. They had all loved Rhys. Hundreds and hundreds of people came to the funeral. They cried and hugged her parents as Mallory stood there off to the side and invisible, listening to all the condolences. Everyone kept saying, “what a tragedy. Such a beautiful young girl.”

Such a beautiful girl. Our princess. The light of our lives. Such a treasure. A real talent. How lucky you were to have those years with her. She’s with her father in heaven now. Jesus had called her home, they all said. And Mallory stood there alone, watching her mother’s lips move as she thanked everyone. And then later, after the kitchen had been piled high with baked goods and casseroles and platters of fried chicken, her parents wept and held each other as she watched, uninvited, her grief silenced as she went about her chores.

Behind her, Mallory hears police sirens. More than one. She imagines three or four police cars are following her. She imagines that in one of the cars are the same troopers who stood in the living room and told them that Rhys was dead.

She hits the gas. The curve is coming up. She knows it well. They drive up here every Sunday after church to tend the cross and honor her sister’s memory. Now, she can see it, the rock wall, and next to it the opening in the ridge that leads to the valley below. She veers toward the opening, looking up through the sunroof at the blue band of heaven above, ready to join Rhys there.

#fiction #short story

2 notes · View notes

cbjustmusic · 1 year

Text

youtube

Janis Ian with Tommy Emmanuel performing "At Seventeen”, a song that Ian wrote and for which she won the 1976 Grammy Award for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance. The performance ends with “Over the Rainbow”. _____________________ At Seventeen Songwriter: Janis Ian

I learned the truth at 17 That love was meant for beauty queens And high school girls with clear skinned smiles Who married young and then retired

The valentines I never knew The Friday night charades of youth Were spent on one more beautiful At 17 I learned the truth

And those of us with ravaged faces Lacking in the social graces Desperately remained at home Inventing lovers on the phone

Who called to say, "Come dance with me" And murmured vague obscenities It isn't all it seems At 17

A brown eyed girl in hand-me-downs Whose name I never could pronounce Said, "Pity please the ones who serve They only get what they deserve"

And the rich relationed hometown queen Marries into what she needs With a guarantee of company And haven for the elderly

Remember those who win the game Lose the love they sought to gain In debentures of quality And dubious integrity

Their small-town eyes will gape at you In dull surprise when payment due Exceeds accounts received At 17

To those of us who knew the pain Of valentines that never came And those whose names were never called When choosing sides for basketball

It was long ago and far away The world was younger than today And dreams were all they gave for free To ugly duckling girls like me

We all play the game, and when we dare To cheat ourselves at solitaire Inventing lovers on the phone Repenting other lives unknown

That call and say, "Come dance with me" And murmur vague obscenities At ugly girls like me At 17

_________________________ Over the Rainbow Music by Harold Arlen; Lyrics by Yip Harburg

When all the world is a hopeless jumble And the raindrops tumble all around Heaven opens a magic lane

When all the clouds darken up the skyway There's a rainbow highway to be found Leading from your windowpane

To a place behind the sun Just a step beyond the rain

Somewhere, over the rainbow Way up high There's a land that I dreamed of Once in a lullaby

Somewhere, over the rainbow Skies are blue And the dreams that you dare to dream Really do come true

Some day I'll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me Where laughter falls like lemon drops away above the chimney tops That's where you'll find me

Somewhere, over the rainbow Skies are blue And the dreams that you dare to dream Really do come true

If happy little bluebirds fly Beyond the rainbow Why, oh, why can't I?

#janis ian #tommy emmanuel #harold arlen #yip harburg

2 notes · View notes

anonsally · 2 years

Text

Days 2-3 of Portland vacation

In which we eat yummy things and hike and see exciting birds!

On Day 2, Friend needed a day to recover her spoons, so Wife and I took the bus to Mt Tabor, a smallish park not too far from where we’re staying, and did a short but pleasant walk, with some steep inclines. We enjoyed the smells of the trees--I especially love the scent of Douglas fir, but we also got to smell some elderflowers. When we were ready to head home for lunch, we checked the transit app and saw that we had about 15 minutes before the next bus, so Wife sat and faffed around on her phone while I spent a few minutes birdwatching. I got a good look at a Northern Flicker, and also saw a smallish brown bird that may have been a fledgling calling for food, but I didn’t see the parent and couldn’t identify it. (I wasn’t close enough for Merlin’s sound app to identify it either.)

We took the bus home and ate. Wife wanted to go swimming in the afternoon [though in the end that didn’t work out], so I took the bus into town to visit Powell’s City of Books. I enjoyed browsing around but in the end only bought one book: a pretty Word Cloud Classics edition of Persuasion. I don’t entirely agree with the selection of quotes they included in the embossed cover design (how did they leave out “You pierce my soul” and “I am half agony, half hope”?!), but I still couldn’t resist it.

Then Wife and I met for dinner at a Latin American fusion restaurant/bar called Mestizo and drank cocktails with a delicious meal, including fried banana-flower tacos in tortillas made from 3 different colors of corn (white, yellow, and blue).

In the evening, we watched Fire Island. That was enjoyable, and I thought they did a really good job of adapting the story of P&P to the new setting.

Today, Friend picked us up around 11:20 or so and we went to buy doughnuts--first, to Mikiko for gluten-free mochi doughnuts, and then we tried to go to Coco but they had sold out of the raised doughnuts (and I don’t like cake doughnuts), so we went to Doe Doughnuts instead. I ate a sort of doughnut sandwich--a traditional (though actually vegan) “raised” doughnut sliced in half, with whipped cream and sliced peaches inside. It was exquisite. Though I’ve just realised that I have no idea what the whipped “cream” was made out of, since that was a vegan doughnut shop!

Then we drove out of the city to the Columbia river gorge, where we took a 2.5-hour, 6-mile hike on the Historic Highway Trail in eastern Hood River County. It’s a paved path, so we saw some cyclists, but it wasn’t too busy. It was a spectacularly beautiful day. We ate our lunch before starting, and then hiked along the trail above the river. There were beautiful views, both on the drive there and once we were hiking, plus nice trees (including more Douglas firs), interesting rock formations, and some excellent birds! The first bird I spotted was a black-headed grosbeak, which is new to my life list. There were lots of robins and juncos, but we also saw 2 ospreys circling. And I heard a bird that Merlin sound app identified as an orange-crowned warbler. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to locate it visually, but the song was a long trill, descending at the end. @lies, should I report it? And finally, near the end of the hike I spotted a raptor at the top of a tree above a nest. I looked in the binoculars and discovered it was a bald eagle! and another one was soaring around the nest too, and then we saw another just as we were getting back to the parking lot. That was exciting (new to my eBird life list and possibly my life list at all), and even Wife (with her lack of patience for birdwatching) was thrilled to have seen them. I’m not sure if I should report the nest as it’s not 100% clear if it was in use. The other thing is, this was not primarily a birdwatching walk. Should I report the list as “Incidental”?

We rested for a little while at the shady picnic table where we’d parked and ate another doughnut (mine was a salted vanilla glazed raised doughnut. It was tasty, but I don’t understand the current vogue for salting one’s sweet treats.). refilled our bottles, and then drove back home by way of the grocery store.

From the freeway, I spotted a raptor sitting in a nest at the top of a tree, but of course I couldn’t identify it as we drove past. I also couldn’t tell if it was a parent incubating eggs or a nestling waiting to be fed.

#personal #travel #birdwatching #food

7 notes · View notes

roberttweed1 · 5 months

Text

Exploring the Enchanting Beauty: The Top 3 Scenic Areas in Central California Coas

Nestled between the rugged cliffs of the Pacific Ocean and the rolling hills adorned with vineyards, the Central California Coast is a haven of natural beauty that captivates the hearts of all who venture to explore it. From pristine beaches to lush landscapes, the region offers diverse scenic wonders. In this article, we will embark on a journey through the three most breathtaking areas that define the picturesque charm of the Central California Coast.

Big Sur - Where Cliffs Meet Clouds

As you drive along the iconic Highway 1, a mesmerizing world unfolds before your eyes – welcome to Big Sur, a stretch of coastline that has enchanted travelers for generations. Big Sur is a symphony of cliffs, forests, and the vastness of the Pacific Ocean, creating a timeless landscape that feels almost otherworldly.

The dramatic cliffs of Big Sur tower above the ocean offer panoramic views that will leave you breathless. McWay Falls, a waterfall cascading onto a secluded beach, is a hidden gem that adds to the enchantment. As the waves crash against the rugged rocks and the mist from the ocean kisses your face, you'll understand why Big Sur has been a muse for artists, writers, and dreamers alike.

Venture into Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, where towering redwoods stand sentinel over the landscape. Hike through lush trails that lead to expansive vistas, providing a sense of solitude and connection with nature. Whether perched on the cliffs or exploring the mystical forests, Big Sur's allure lies in its ability to transport you to a realm where cliffs meet clouds and time stands still.

Morro Bay - A Tapestry of Nature and Harmony

Morro Bay, with its iconic Morro Rock rising majestically from the water, is a harmonious blend of coastal charm and natural beauty. This quaint seaside town is a picturesque getaway that invites visitors to unwind and bask in the serenity of its surroundings.

Morro Rock, a volcanic plug, stands sentinel at the entrance of the bay, creating a breathtaking silhouette against the changing hues of the sky during sunrise and sunset. The bay is a haven for birdwatchers, with flocks of seabirds and majestic herons making it their home. The Morro Bay State Park offers kayaking, hiking, and birding opportunities, allowing you to immerse yourself in the diverse ecosystem that defines this coastal paradise.

Stroll along the Embarcadero, where fishing boats sway gently in the harbor and seafood restaurants beckon with fresh catches. Morro Bay's charm lies in its natural beauty and the sense of tranquility that envelops the town. It's a place where time slows down, and the rhythmic sounds of the waves create a soothing melody, inviting you to revel in the tapestry of nature and harmony.

Carmel-by-the-Sea - Whimsical Elegance on the Coast

Carmel-by-the-Sea, a gem along the central coast, is a fairytale-like destination that seamlessly blends whimsical elegance with coastal allure. Known for its charming architecture, artistic spirit, and pristine beaches, Carmel is a haven for those seeking a blend of sophistication and natural beauty.

The town's unique character is evident in its cobblestone streets, storybook-style cottages, and quaint courtyards. Nestled between the Pacific Ocean and the Carmel Valley, the city offers stunning views of the rugged coastline. Carmel Beach, with its powdery white sand and cypress-dotted bluffs, is a serene escape where you can watch the sunset paint the sky in hues of pink and gold.

Explore the scenic 17-mile Drive, a winding route that hugs the coastline and offers panoramic views of the Pacific. The Lone Cypress, a windswept tree clinging to a rocky outcrop, has become an iconic symbol of resilience in the face of nature's forces. As you wander through art galleries and boutiques and enjoy the culinary delights of Carmel, you'll find that the town's whimsical elegance is not just a backdrop but an integral part of the coastal experience.

Central California Coast, with its diverse landscapes and enchanting beauty, is a destination that beckons explorers, artists, and nature enthusiasts alike. Whether you find yourself perched on the cliffs of Big Sur, embracing the tranquility of Morro Bay, or wandering through the whimsical streets of Carmel-by-the-Sea, each scenic area offers a unique tapestry of experiences that define the allure of this coastal paradise. As you venture along the winding roads and hidden trails, you'll discover that the central coast is not just a destination; it's a journey into the heart of nature's grandeur.

0 notes

rhonddaandallaneuro · 1 year

Text

We only had one full day in Cape Town so used a local provider to get us around. Did not start well as he was late and then talked for half an hour about how good we would enjoy our experience. I just kept tapping my left wrist reminding him he was using our time. He ended being very good however so the day ended up late but well.

First stop was the Cape of Good Hope, the southern most part of Africa. Very barren, wind blown agriculture but beautiful within itself. There was a huge cliff one could climb to get the best view but we declined it.

Driving on we visited Cape Point where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet. The location has a lighthouse high above the oceans with a kilometre or more walk, all uphill, with stairs. Guide said take about 15 minutes but he meant by the the escalator which is out of use due to the power sharing they have over here. Eventually got there but legs aching.

Continuing on we drove up to Boulder Point which is home to a colony of penguins. Amazing how they share the beach with humans. Nests on the beach along with the scrub separating the sands to houses. Very relaxing.

Here we also had lunch overlooking the harbour where we had a seafood platter, that was huge. Cost for a few beers and large local seafood tray, so large that we could not eat it all was A$60. Best value ever.

Finally we headed home via the western coastal highway which has to be one of the most beautiful drives one can do. Winding along a cliff face with stunning beaches below, not a bad way to end the day.

We did not get to the top of “Table Top” mountain due to the clouds coming through. Almost made it but decided not worth the R$400 each to take a photo of the top of a cloud.

Finally back at the motel a few drinks with our fellow travellers and then sat around while Rhondda did some late paperwork in preparation of the cruise tomorrow.

This will be our last communication for probably thirty days as we cruise through to the Suez Canal so expect a flood of stories as we hope to create as we spend time aboard.

A few comments about South Africa I must mention being that the people here are generally one of the happiest I have ever met. On the down side the fact that a country this size has power load sharing I find disgusting. There is even talk about moving to a twelve hours on twelve hours off system. This from a country that has not even contemplated solar nor wind energy and has an abundance of both suggest total lack of vision by the government of the day.

Anyways enough, South Africa, is a place you should visit but allow a lot of time in each province to really understand and value the visit.

Stay safe and talk in 30 days.

1 note · View note

sunnysviolin · 3 years

Note

Oh god that. That shattered AU broke me. Kel angst is my new horrible addiction and I swear I. I need to know... wtf happens with him and Hero. I can see so vividly Hero trying to keep the last semblance of his old brother back but it just fails every time, literally the only reason Hero is trying to continue on is because he doesn't want to leave Kel behind, that he made a promise and he was going to stick to it. So I must ask... does Kel kill himself as well? Or even accidentally? My heart h u r t s pardner..... sad yeehaw

Welllll we know the answer to the last part of that ask, but I do want to continue this series, so I’m gonna use the one ask that I have about it. Before anything I will say like I always do with Shattered AU that this is a dark AU. There is no happy endings, and pay attention to the TWs.

TW: Suicide, TW: Depression, TW: Major Character Death, TW: Rage, TW: Grief

Dear Hero,

No one else wrote a letter, but I couldn’t do that to you. I know that you spent so much time wondering if you could have done anything different for everyone else. I want you to know you couldn’t have done anything different for me

Hero had begged his parents to be allowed to stay. He had begged and pleaded to take the semester off. It was just one semester, he was still going to graduate early at this rate, why couldn’t he just stay? Hero knew Kel needed him. Kel might not be opening up, but being with Hero seemed to be comforting for his little brother at the very least. Hero knew that if he had more time, he could crack through Kel’s shell and try to start healing what was inside.

I remember when Mari died. You were so tired and upset. I didn’t get it then, but I do now. I know that when you get tired like this it’s hard to do anything. It’s hard to breathe, it’s hard to think, it’s just all so hard. I probably didn’t make it any easier by pretending everything was fine. I understand why you snapped at me.

Hero’s parents had practically thrown him onto the train. They reassured him over and over that they could take care of Kel. They would keep an eye on him, they would make sure he took his meds, and ate, and got to school on time. They said this all while rolling their eyes and giving him good natured sighs. They both acted like this was something they were used to, but Hero knew this was different. When this had happened to him, they had left him to find his own way back. He wouldn’t let that happen to Kel, mostly because Hero wasn’t sure Kel would find his way back.

Right before you left for school you told me you always felt guilty for not coming back that night. I want you to know that even if you had, I would still be doing this.

They had forced Hero back to school, but it didn’t matter. Hero couldn’t think about school at all. All he could think about was how to help Kel. He ignored his classes in favor of reading about recovering after loss, he didn’t bother to study anything except what might help him get through to his brother. There wasn’t anything more important than Kel right now, and if he was being completely honest, there was a part of Hero that was spitefully going to fail the semester just to prove to his parents how wrong they were. Above all, Hero called Kel every single night. Their phone calls last year had been frequent, but short. Usually just a quick fifteen minute chat updating each other on their days. Now their phone calls lasted hours and hours, and mostly consisted of Hero rambling on while Kel hummed and made one word answers. It wasn’t perfect, but it was important.

You were why I didn’t do this yet, even though it’s been on my mind for years. First Mari, then Basil, then Sunny. How could I ever do that to you, when I knew what it felt like to be in your shoes? You were trying so hard to help me, you’re still trying so hard. You call and you call and you always want to listen. I’m sorry I don’t want to talk.

For the first time, Kel didn’t pick up the phone. His parents said Kel was sleeping, and they could talk tomorrow. Hero’s stomach dropped, and his mind went fuzzy. He needed to be there, he needed to see Kel. If he couldn’t hear Kel’s voice, then he needed to see his little brother to know he was still alive. He must’ve said the last part out loud, because his mother was adamant that he stay at school. She was so sure that both of her sons needed to get back to their normal routines, that the way to get things to normal was to force them to be that way. Hero knew better. He knew Kel needed him. He hung up on his parents, pacing back and forth with shaking hands. He didn’t know what to do. It was too late for a train, and he didn’t have a car. Hero just didn’t know what to do.

I know you’re trying, and I hope you know I was trying too. I really was, I promise. It’s just...it’s too much. It’s all too much I’m just done. I’m done trying, and I’m done waiting for things to get better when I know they won’t. I don’t see the point anymore. I’m going to die regardless, so why should I go through fifty more years of feeling like this, only to get to the same end?

Hero grabbed his shoes, running out of the dorm room and across campus to his friend’s midnight study group. They had started doing this for their organic chemistry class in their first year and then kept it up because midnight was the only time that the library truly was quiet enough to get work done. He hadn’t joined them in weeks, and he wasn’t sure they would even consider him a friend anymore, but Hero needed their help. One look at his wild desperate eyes and his pleas, and Tristan was grabbing his keys and handing them to Hero. It was an eight hour car ride, nine and a half because he hit traffic. It was nine in the morning when Hero got home and found the letter on his bed. When they found Kel, the police told him and his parents that Kel had most likely died early that morning, around 7:30 or 8:00. Hero was sure if he had just been an hour faster in making his decision to come home, then Kel might still be here.

I know it’s going to hurt you, I know that I’m being selfish, but like I said. It’s just too much now. I don’t know if I believe in God or anything. I don’t know what kind of God makes everything that happened to us happen, but if there is a God out there, I hope he lets us all be together when this is all over. We can go for a picnic by the pond like we used to. That’s where I’m going now. That seems like a good place.

He waited until the police left to speak to his parents. He didn’t even mean to start fighting with them, but there was no way he couldn’t. He had started off just talking, trying to ask them why they hadn’t listened to him when he had known. They refused to hold themselves accountable. That’s why he had ended up in a screaming match with his mother. That had to be why rage was boiling in his veins and clouding his thoughts. Hero had begged them to let him stay. Hero had told them Kel needed him. They hadn’t listened, and now his brother was dead. His brother, the love of his life, his friends, all of them gone. Kel was all he had left, and they had taken him away.

I did love you. I did. I promise I did. This doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.

Hero took the letter and the keys to Tristan’s car. He didn’t need to stay, and he didn’t want to. He didn’t care that his mother was wailing about losing her boy, he didn’t care that his father was trying to get him to come sit and be with them. He just didn’t care. The only person he had left to care about was gone, because Hero hadn’t been there. He wasn’t going to go to another funeral, he wasn’t going to see them lower his little brother into the ground. He wasn’t going to continue the endless loop of torture that his life seemed to have on repeat.

I’m sorry, Hero. I hope you can forgive me. Maybe this is for the best. Now you don’t have to worry about me anymore.

Hero walked down his driveway to his borrowed car, ignoring his parent’s calling behind him. There, right where the pavement met the road, was Aubrey. Her hair was messy all around her, her eyes bloodshot. The police had told him she was there when they arrived. They had questioned her, but after reading Kel’s note, they were sure she hadn’t been involved. Hero could have told them that himself, but it seemed no one believed that he knew anything. Maybe they were right. She asked him if he was leaving. She asked if he was coming back. His silence was response enough. She walked away before he could say anything, and that was good. Hero didn’t have anything to say anymore.

Maybe I’ll see you again.

There was really only one road out of Faraway these days. The construction around town left all the exits blocked off. Hero had memoized the route to and from his college almost a year ago, just to be safe. He had to take the third right to get on the highway. Hero drove past the third right. If he missed the third right, he could take the next left and turn around. He ignored the left. Hero drove straight until he couldn’t drive straight anymore, and then on a whim he took the right turn. He wasn’t sure where he was going exactly, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore.

188 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Little Bones 1

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series); harassment, general creepiness

This is dark! (biker) Thor x chubby!reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: You’re a city girl stuck in a small town, but Birch isn’t as sleepy as it seems.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown and When the Weight Comes Down

Note: So, I’ve made some positive changes in my life. I am working away at original work, I’m drinking more water, I’m taking my dog on big walks and being more active, and I’m doing my best. So, I was struck with an old yearning to return to Birch. I’ll be updating here and there as I feel and won’t be pushing myself like I did before because I realise how unhealthy and stressful it was on me.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 1: It gets so sticky down here

A city girl in a small town. What could be sadder than that?

In the city, life went fast. In a place like Birch, the days dragged by as if to remind you of how helpless you were beneath the unyielding and inevitable tick of the clock. The hand wound around and around as you waited for what would never happen. The dreams of your childhood eroded beneath the rolling years leaving trail of crumbs you could not follow back to the beginning.

A woman just beyond her prime trapped in an antiquated career. The empty aisles between the shelves full of books bespoke of a bygone era. The forgotten library at the far end of the main street rarely saw a new face and those familiar were fewer by the day. The staff had thinned to three of you; Melissa was older than you with a daughter nearly your age and Colin was close to retirement if not well past.

You got on well enough, as well as you could given Colin’s faulty hearing aid, and Melissa’s wandering mind. They meant well but they shared the lethargy of the old small town.

You weren’t nostalgic for the smog or the flashing lights of the city, but there was no life to this place. Only the impending reach of death rattling closer in the roar of the motorcycles and the rumble of the old railroad that ran through the middle of town.

The air nipped at your cheeks as you approached the library. A morning of yawning had you craving a latte from the bakery and the quiet girl behind the counter cheerfully steamed the foam before handing it over. Everyone in this town was familiar, everyone knew everyone else, and yet, you still felt like an outsider.

You felt the heat of the cup through your glove and you looked up as you sensed two figures by one of the thick columns of the library façade. Melissa stood chatting with her daughter, hugging her sweater around her as she’d left her coat inside. You peeked up at the grey sky as snow threatened at any moment with the mid-November bite.

As you thought to pass them and leave their conversation uninterrupted, your name drew you back.

“I was just telling my daughter,” Mel began as she waved you over with a chatter of her teeth. “About that podcast you mentioned. She loves those old Hollywood stars.”

“Oh,” you blew the steam away from the lid of your drink as you neared, “It’s alright. The stories are worth the narrator’s schtick.”

“Yeah? I’ve been closing at the bar and I like to listen to something once it clears out.” Mel’s daughter said. “You wouldn’t mind giving me the name?”

You told her the title of the podcast and helped her find it on Spotify to follow for later. Mel shivered and stood closer to her daughter who was bundled up against the onslaught of Birch’s blustering winter. You knew about her too.

She was friendly but you saw in her a cynicism more common to city folk. You got along but you were weary of her associations. The local club of crass bikers were neither subtle nor savoury. In the city, it was easy enough to ignore the patch and all that came along with it. The seedy figures were distilled by the broader population but not in Birch. There, the club was the town.

“Mom, you can’t stay out here.” She poked her mother’s arm. “It’s too cold.”

“Little better in the library.” You grumbled and sipped your latte. “The radiator’s broken again.”

“You mean Colin broke it trying to fix what wasn’t broken,” Melissa shook her head, “and I’m fine, dear. I’ve spent more than fifty winters in Birch and been through worse than this.”

“Yes, but you were younger then--” Her voice dwindled as she turned her head to listen to the distant roar of exhaust.

You followed her gaze and noted the way her forehead creased at the noise. She swallowed and turned to watch as a dark rider turned onto the main road from the highway. It was the man who kept her entwined with the club, the one who marked her latent authority over all others. The only one who outranked her.

She swore and looked over her shoulder at her mother. Her mother touched her arm. It was a telling and surprising moment. Her expression read of all the disgust you felt for the bikers.

At least a dozen bikes followed the first and Bucky raised his glove hand to signal the others to slow as he pulled up to the curb just before the library steps. You backed away as his breath clouded around him and he waved Mel’s daughter closer. He craned to kiss her as she bent, her fingers picking at her jeans as she did, then he nodded his greeting to Mel.

“What are you doing?” He asked tersely.

“Can’t I see my mother?” The daughter challenged and the biker scoffed.

“Of course,” he killed his engine and the others mimicked him in fine order. “I wouldn’t keep ya from her but you didn’t tell me you were going downtown.”

“You were gone.”

You listened to the conversation as you stayed close to the column, thinking of sneaking up the steps into the library before you heard too much. Your curiosity had you searching the crowd of leather jackets as their wearers tried to conceal their impatience with their boss’ impromptu halt.

Among them, a large man sat casually in his seat, his feet planted on the cold pavement as he rolled slightly back and forth. Strands of his thick blond hair were drawn back beneath his helmet into a thick braid as the rest hung around his shoulders. His patch was different from the rest, an old Norse symbol you didn’t know the meaning of. There were several others who wore the same cut, including a dark-haired woman who chatted with another golden-haired rider.

You tasted your latte again, it cooled quickly as the cold air battered the cardboard. As you sipped and sidled around the column, your eyes were caught by another pair. The very man you’d just been watching was now focused on you. You stopped, hoping like some frightened animal that your stillness would ward off his attention.

“Barnes,” the broad blonde man spoke as he finally looked away. “You’ve not even introduced me to your woman. I assume that’s why we’ve stopped.”

Bucky shifted on his bike and sighed. You hadn’t expected the man to have an accent. His voice was deep but the subtle lilt defined his tone as unforgettable. The dark-haired biker of Birch rolled his eyes before he pointed to his girl and gave her name, then to Melissa as he explained their relation.

You sidestepped around the column to the stairs of the library and turned away. You were stopped again by the same voice.

“And that one? The quiet one?”

You spun back slowly and looked at each biker, many unconcerned with conversation, as a few stared back at you or at the viking-like rider. Bucky shook his head and furrowed his brow at Melissa’s daughter. She hesitated before she gave your name coolly referred to you as just another librarian. She was trying to deflect the focus and you were thankful for it. You wondered at her own blatant spite for that breed of man.

“No one important,” Bucky grabbed his keys. “Come on, honey. I’ll give you a ride back.”

“I can walk.”

“Get on.” He said gruffly and turned the keys.

The motorcycles thrummed back to life in a cacophony. You flinched and turned back to the library doors. Your lunch was almost over as it was and the cold was starting to make your head hurt. You heard the bikes tear off as you reached the door and you turned back to watch as Melissa ran up after you.

You held the door for her and paused as you watched riders tear away. The blonde remained and watched you with a smirk. He winked as he slowly rolled after the others and pushed off. You followed Melissa inside and pulled the door shut tightly behind you.

“I’ll finish the returns,” you slipped past her, “you should try to warm up.”

“Thanks, dear,” she rubbed her hands together as she neared the curve desk you all shared, “God, that man makes my skin crawl.”

“But your daughter--”

“She handles him as well as she can,” Melissa sat and logged onto her boxy PC, “she’s stronger than me, that’s for sure.”

You sat and chewed on the thought. You just assumed her daughter leaped at the opportunity to date the most powerful man in town. What else could a girl from Birch hope for?

“She doesn’t…”

“He keeps her safe, I guess,” Melissa muttered, “I don’t say nothing against it. I won’t, for her sake as much as mine.”

You lowered your lashes and turned to the stack of unscanned books. You took the first and opened the cover.

“I didn’t mean to-- I don’t really know anything about the… bikers.”

“Hope you never do, dear,” she said listlessly. “Those men, if you can call them that, are the lowest form of humanity.”

💀

You always took the same route home. It wasn’t very far. You lived in the studio apartment above Tammy’s, the clothes shop where all the local seniors got their outdated outfits. The store itself smelled like a retirement home but you were not often disturbed by the activity below. Like everything in Birch, it wasn’t very exciting.

Your walk took you past the diner and along the stretch across the street from the town’s sentinel, The Asp. The bar was the only place in town which always seemed to be bursting with life. You had an old Chevrolet parked behind the building but you never drove to work, only on your odd trip to the city to get away from the suffocation malaise of main street.

That day as you fumbled to get your earbud back in, you heard a whistle. You got a few comments now and again about your habit of blocking out the townsfolk and the town itself with your music. In the city, you didn’t just say hi to every person you walked by and you had little inclination to change that habit.

You kept going and the whistle came louder. You heard boots hammer across the street and you stopped as the earbud once more fell out of your ear.

“Eh, kitten,” you turned to the long-haired biker. A golden hammer hung from a chain and peaked out from the open collar of his jacket. He tucked his hands in his pockets as you faced him with blatant irritation. “We didn’t get to meet properly, did we?”

You stared at him and let out a foggy breath. You leaned on your left heel and shook your head with a scoff.

“No.” You said and turned back along your path.

“No?” He repeated and his footsteps followed closely. “I’m only being friendly, kitten. I’m not from around here and I’m just tryn’ ta make a few friends.”

“I’m not interested,” you march onward and stop short.

You realised if you went any further, you’d lead him straight to your door. You didn’t need him knowing where you lived. You veered off and crossed the street, he stayed close just like your shadow. You’d stop by the liquor store and wait him out there.

“Where are you going, kitten?”

“Can’t you take a hint?” You nearly tangled your own legs as you pivoted sharply. “I’m sorry for your luck that you’ve ended up in Birch but I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you.” You grasped the handle of the liquor store door. “Oh, and my name isn’t kitten.”

“I know your name. I remember it.” He grinned and you swung open the door. He caught it behind you and you let out a frustrated sigh as he trailed you inside. “It’s almost as gorgeous as you.”

“Do those work on the women where you’re from?”

You stared at the shelf of fruit wines and tried to ignore him. You were starting to build a real thirst for the bottles.

“I don’t meet a lot of women like you, kitten.”

“Would you stop it--” You blinked and stomped further down the aisle.

“Thor. My name’s Thor.” He offered gallantly. “But you can call me whatever you wish.”

“I could think of a few things.” You bent down to read the label of a wine from the Maritimes.

“Mmm, my thoughts run wild, kitten.” He purred and you looked up at him in confusion.

You swiped the bottle from the shelf and stood straight. His eyes clung to your ass and as you turned, they swiftly found your chest. Neither were well-hidden by your jacket, even as thick as it was. Your weight often deterred the whistles and the leers, but not this time.

“How many ways can I tell you to go away?” You hissed and move to step around him. He turned and watched you pass. He shivered as you brushed against him unwillingly in the narrow aisle.

“So, you got a man?” He questioned as again he tailed you to the counter. You grabbed a small bottle of Vodka from the rack beside it and dug out your wallet.

“Does it matter?”

He bent and leaned on the counter beside you and you ignored his attempt to look you in the face. You paid and took your change as the clerk bagged your purchase.

“To me, everything about you matters, kitten.”

You shot him a sharp look and took your paper bag. You hugged it close and glared at him as he straightened. “Stop calling me that.”

“Here,” he gripped the top of the bag, “I’ll help.”

“I’ll smash this bottle over your head,” you threatened. “Now I’ve told you to leave me alone.”

He chuckled and dipped his head. His hair slid down the leather and he scratched his thick beard.

“Don’t worry, kitten, I like to play.”

He looked at you again, his blue eyes twinkling. You were startled as suddenly he ‘woofed’’ at you. You backed away and he kept close as is to chase you, ready to salivate like the dog he mimicked.

“Get away!” You shouted and raced for the door.

His barks turned to laughter and the bell announced your stagger out onto the street. You didn’t look back as you charged across the street and narrowly missed being mowed down by Linda Karling. You reached the other side as you heard the liquor store door clatter a second time. You sensed his shadow as you turned down a side street.

You walked until you were certain he wasn’t following. The cold blew up your jacket as you mapped out your way back. You could sneak around the back of the clothes shop and sneak up the metal escape. You peered back and forth, the old house just at the town limits nearly faded into the dimming sky and main street shrouded by brick walls.

“Hey,” a small voice surprised you as a woman neared, walking the same route as you. “Whatcha doing all the way up here?”

You stared at her dumbly. It was the woman who worked at the bakery. She hung out with the club too.

“Nothing, I…” You grabbed your earbuds and put them back in your ears. “I was listening to my music and got carried away.”

“Oh?” she chittered like a mouse. “No one comes this way. Only me to see my ma.”

You nodded at her and gave an awkward smile. “Mmhmm. Well, thanks. I probably would’ve wandered right out of town.”

“I wouldn’t blame you,” she said forlornly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“For your latte. And you always get the banana loaf when it’s on special and tomorrow’s Tuesday.”

You sniffed and rubbed your neck. You hated that. You hated that everyone knew you, that everyone knew what you did, and that they assumed they knew everything else. But she was sweet and you couldn’t hate her for never being freed from the prison of Birch.

“Oh yeah,” you squeezed the paper bag so it crinkled and pulled out your phone with your free hand, “tomorrow.”

759 notes · View notes

det-loki · 3 years

Text

poison & wine pt. eight

You give me love, give me love Until it breaks my back

warnings: angst, blood mention

pairing: detective loki x fem reader

word count: 2,162

A/N: close to the end! sorry for the delay

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ⌽

The car ride over to Bob Taylor’s house was uncomfortably silent. David’s hands gripped the steering wheel till his knuckles were white, jaw clenched as he stared ahead.

“When are we going to talk about everything? We can’t keep running on autopilot.” You broke the silence as Loki’s jaw ticked, his hands tightening around the wheel.

“Let’s just focus on this case, okay?” You hated when he did this. He silenced himself, avoiding everything until it simmered over, emotions exploding out of control. You remained silent, deciding it was better to not add more fuel to the fire.

You arrived at the house which was covered with various cars and forensic teams. You got out of the car quickly, tugging your coat tighter as the wind chilled through you, following David as he talked to Rich, who was a part of the forensics team and running point on the scene.

The brown dying grass crunched under your boot clad feet as you walked up to a marked off area in the yard, two analysts working to uncover two kid sized department store mannequins that had been buried with their heads caved in from the frozen ground.

Rich looked at Loki as he spoke, “I just talked to our lab guys, and they told me that all the blood that we sampled from the plastic containers- pig’s blood.”

You moved from the yard to inside in the kitchen, mazes still littered across the walls. Multiple people were inside the home, taking pictures of evidence and booking it. Listening to Rich continue to speak, “It’s like he’s play-acting. I mean, case in point. Except for the few items I.D.’d by the Dovers and the Birches, all the kids’ clothes that we found still had the tags on them. And that maze book that we found, he made it. Photocopies, pictures from this book that we found in the attic. Ex-F.B.I. agent wrote that.” You wondered who would go through the trouble of doing all that, but you had to remind yourself of the case you were dealing with. Nothing was ‘textbook.’

You looked down at the red and black book in the evidence bag as Loki read the title out loud, fingers grazing over the cover through the plastic of the bag, eyebrows furrowed, ‘Finding The Invisible Man.’

“Yeah, it’s about a theoretical suspect that he believed was responsible for a bunch of child abductions. It’s totally discredited, I guess, but I read some of it.” Rich explained to both you and Loki as you rocked on the balls of your feet.

Loki cut Rich off, “Taylor- Taylor was abducted when he was a kid. He ran away after three weeks. And the capture drugged him on some sort of LSD/ketamine cocktail.” When you and Loki learned of the use of the ketamine cocktail, your eyes darted to each other, a silent understanding between the two of you. Broken, forever; everything connected in this shit town you called home. Loki continued speaking, “He never remembered. They never caught the guy.”

“Okay, so...he read the book and decided he was taken by the invisible man. Now he’s doing his best imitation, right?”

Rich stared at Loki, waiting for a response, “Yeah, he was doing his best imitation. He killed himself last night.” Loki turned away, walking away from you and Rich, stopping in the doorway to study the mazes on the wall as Rich turned to him, “How did he do that? I thought he was in custody.”

“It’s a long story.” Your response was short, voice cracking with exhaustion, details weren’t needed. Your hands were still stained with red, you constantly felt the need to scrub them raw under hot water until they bled. The urge hit you again last night at home in the shower, sending you into a crying mess on the shower floor, scaring David when he heard your sobs through the door. He was worried about you. And himself, you two were getting bad again, the feeling was familiar, similar to how you felt after the funeral. Indescribable pain.

Loki turned to you, asking for the map Taylor drew as he stepped closer in your direction. You take it out of your coat pocket with a gloved hand, handing it to David who snatches it out of your hand. He pointed to it aggressively as he spoke to Rich, “Hey, Taylor drew this. It’s a map to the bodies. It’s a map to the bodies and we found the same design on a pendant that we pulled off that corpse the other day. There’s a connection, okay?” Loki spoke with growing intensity as Rich looked at him dumbfounded, obviously lost with Loki’s explanation.

“The connection is that it’s the last maze in the book.” Loki scoffed at Rich, upset with him for not understanding the point he was trying to make. Rich continued, “I did it. It’s unsolvable. There’s no way out. Your corpse is another wannabe who read the book.” Loki had spent hours trying to find a way out of the maze, each failure feeling more and more doomed.

Loki stormed away from him, “What are you saying to me, Rich? What are you saying to me? What are you saying? That-that this guy is a fake? You’re saying the girls are still out there somewhere?” Here was the one big difference between you and Loki. You had hope the girls were still alive, maybe you were ignorant, but you weren’t ready to accept the fact that two little girls were dead. Loki was coming to terms with the fact that they might be dead, his hope was dying out. Loki’s voice rose, your fingers digging into your palm as he spoke, “How did Bob Taylor get those clothes? How did-how did the parents positively I.D those clothes?!” At this point, Loki was yelling at Rich, looking at him expectantly.

“That I can’t reconcile.” He walked past you and then Loki as Loki snaps at him, “You can’t reconcile that?”

“Just keep knockin’ on doors, lookin’ in windows.” At that, Rich disappeared through the doorway.

Loki stood across from you, hand trailing through his hair, head snapping in your direction as you spoke, “Loki, maybe he’s right. The girls might be out there somewhere, we-” You stopped talking as Loki pulled out his notepad, flipping through pages quickly, obviously looking for something in particular. He flips to a page and stops, “The window.” That’s all you needed to hear before running to the car.

The car stopped abruptly in front of the Dovers, sending you lurching forward against the dashboard, Loki’s door already open, feet on the ground and running. You followed him quickly, approaching the back of the house, staring up at the second story window that Grace Dover had said that had been opened the other night. Loki looked around before jumping the chain-link fence, crouching down under the window, looking for footprints or anything disturbed. He takes a pen out of his front coat pocket, balancing it in his fingers as he reaches into the bushes, pulling out a pink sock teetering on the pen. The same sock Keller positively I.D.’d as Anna’s.

You were out of breath as you ran to the car for an evidence bag, your body too tired for the physical exertion. As you reach inside the glove compartment, your phone buzzes in your pocket. Answering it, your stomach dropped as Detective Chemelinski’s voice spoke in your ear. Joy Birch had been found.

The hospital was cold as you entered, a chill running through your body, but not from the chill of the air. You hated hospitals. The elevator dings as you and Loki arrived the pediatric ward, doors sliding open and you wanted to puke, your throat raw and scratchy. It looked the exact same as it did when your little girl died here, same beige paint on the walls, the same as the rest of the hospital, only difference being the sickly bright yellow sun painted on the walls. The smell of antiseptic burned your nose, the fluorescent lights already starting a headache to pound in your skull. You pushed your emotions down as Loki exited the elevator, you trailing after him through the halls.

“I said nobody’s allowed in that room but her family.” Loki barked orders to officers as you rounded the corner. Keller Dover came into view, David yelling out for him as he took off down the hall away from you. “Where you goin’?

You stopped in front of Grace, “Where is he going?” She only shook her head, she had no idea. You took off running, multiple officers trailing you as bystanders stared at the scene unfolding in front of them.

You and Loki took off down the hall after him, telling officers to not let him go. Bolting outside you see Keller’s truck slam over the parking lot median and on the highway, speeding down it. Loki and you turn back, sprinting for the car to follow him, your breaths coming out in clouds in front of you in the cold air.

The tires screeched as Loki sped through the wet pavement of the parking lot; Loki pulled onto the highway, muttering to himself, “I got you now, fucker. I know where you’re goin’.”

The car pulled aggressively into the driveway of the old apartment building, Keller’s truck nowhere to be found. Loki slammed his hand down onto the steering wheel, “Fuck!” You jumped slightly at his outburst, adrenaline pumping through your views despite the feeling of pain in your entire body. He exited the car quickly, you following, your boots splashing through the muddy puddles as you advanced toward the boarded up building slowly.

Above you, you could hear muffled screams, you and Loki reach for your guns as you near the door. Loki kicks the door open with a bang, entering the building with his gun drawn. Your heart was in your throat as you crept through the first floor, heading up the stairs towards the sound of muffles screams and banging. Your pulse was racing and your vision was blurry, exhaustion nipping at your heels every step you took, threatening to take you down.

The screaming got louder as you got to the top of the stairs, wailing piercing the air. Your boots creak along the floorboards, you approach the room the screaming is coming from and the air escapes your lungs.

You see a boarded up area, the boards vibrated as whoever was behind it banged against it. You stood back, letting Loki enter as you reached for your radio and called for backup. Loki pries at the wood, it doesn’t budge at all, mocking you. The wailing continues, Loki calls out to the person, telling them to hold on. You clip your radio back onto your jeans and turn to look for anything to pry off the wood, not wanting to waste time by running back down to the car.

You see a crowbar lying against a wall, and you thank god as you grab it, the metal heavy in your hand. Loki grabs the crowbar from you and begins to work his way through the wood. The minutes seem to drag by, each second longer than the last.

“Hey, just hold on for us in there okay?” You talk through the wall as Loki finally gets the panel off revealing a sight that shook you to your core.

Alex Jones. Badly burned, bruised, bloody and beaten. He looked terrified, eyes wild with panic, whimpering in pain as he coward away from your gawking stares.

You stood next to Loki as Alex was taken away by EMS, O’Malley stood in front of you, “Someone needs to notify the aunt and we need to get an idea of where Keller is.”

You spoke up next to Loki, “I’ll tell the aunt.” Loki looked at you with a confused expression as O’Mallley nodded and walked away.

“I want to be the one to tell her, I’ll be fine, Loke.” You could tell by his expression that he was unsure about you going alone.

“Babe, if this is some karma thing for her-” It wasn’t. At least you didn’t think it was. Your little girl couldn’t be saved. You accepted that fact even if it tore your heart apart, forcing you to move on.

You interrupted Loki, not allowing him to finish his sentence, “Don’t. It’s not. Find Keller, I’ll tell Holly. I'll text you, alright?”

Loki nodded curtly as he handed you the car keys, he’d get a car from the station, an uneasy look spread across his face. He didn’t have a good feeling about letting you go alone, but he knew better than to hold you back from doing your job.

Little did he know that he would regret letting you go in alone more than words could describe.

tag list: @lexie-wayland @whew-oh-em-gee @winterlavenderskysworld @buck-this-nasty @heeyirenee @pinkpunkdynamite @eleventhdoctorsangel @multiyfandomgirl40 @thanossexual @speedybonkuniversityzine @booklove103 @curly-q3 @msfarr88 @glittrguts @space-helen

#detective loki #detective loki fanfic #detective loki fanfiction #detective loki imagine #detective loki x reader #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal fanfic #prisoners #hugh jackman #fanfiction #angst #poison and wine

158 notes · View notes

jarienn972 · 3 years

Text

Weathering the Storm - Part Four

For a multitude of reasons, it has been ages since I've been able to update this story. I had the chapter all plotted out, but never seemed to be able to find time (or sometimes just motivation) to write. I appreciate those who reached out to me asking if I planned to update it and I thank you so much for your patience! I absolutely plan to finish it and right now, there are 2 more planned chapters to close everything out.

For now though, since it has been a few months, here’s a quick recap of where we left off in the last chapter: Emma braved the elements to investigate the abandoned Sheriff cruiser, and after seeing the dashcam video, knows that her husband is injured after the disastrous traffic stop. She's made the assumption that Killian would try to make his way to the closest dwelling to the lonely stretch of highway - Zelena's farmhouse. We're going to pick up at that same farmhouse as the unrelenting thunderstorm continues.

If you’d like to catch up from the beginning, you can find all of the current chapters on FF.net and AO3. Tumblr: Part One Part Two Part Three

Despite the warm glow from the flickering orange and gold flames in the fireplace behind her chair, the lingering dreariness of the day was wearing heavily on Zelena's mood. The sky was still laden with dull, grey clouds unleashing unholy torrents of rain upon the farmhouse's metal roof and continuous gusts of wind threatened to blow away the fluttering blue tarp which was only barely protecting them from the elements.

Oh, what she wouldn't have given right now if she could still possess the ability to poof them all away from this isolated outpost deep in the forest. Maybe she shouldn't have been so hasty and rammed that beat up old jalopy of hers into the Black Fairy. She wasn't particularly good at driving the beast but perhaps she could have managed to get into town… Oh, heavens...who was she kidding? In this weather, she wouldn't have made it to the end of the drive, and anyway, the ugly, metal death-trap was still sitting on a lot in town, rusting away as it awaited repairs. It hadn't been a high priority to fix when she'd had electricity and a working telephone to call Regina who'd pop in with supplies and whatever if she needed a hand with something. If she couldn't solve the problem with magic from a distance, she'd drive out to help her sister and niece, but she certainly couldn't do that right now.

At least, she could be thankful for the simple fact that Robin would sleep through almost anything when she had a full tummy. She couldn't recall the exact time she'd put her daughter down for her afternoon nap, but she estimated that it had been about an hour and a half, meaning her child was going to awaken soon and Zelena would have to figure out a way to entertain a cranky toddler in a dark, drafty house. For now though, the exasperated mom was enjoying the quiet reprieve from this stress-filled day before Robin was awake and wanting to play ,and then Zelena would also have to figure a way to keep the baby from bothering their guest.

Their guest.

How long had it been now since Hook showed up sopping wet on her doorstep? Two hours? Closer to three? Surely Emma would have realized that something was amiss if she'd not heard from her husband by now. How long might it take before someone realized that he was lying on her sofa right at this very moment? He was still semi-peacefully slumbering after taking a swig of the children's pain reliever which might have taken enough of the edge off to allow him to rest - or he'd just passed out from sheer agony and exhaustion.

Either way, she tried to distract herself with a little bit of reading by the firelight. The dancing flames cast odd shadows across the pages making the text difficult to see at times, but then she wasn't fully paying attention to the prose before her. She could scarcely recall a thing she'd read from the prior chapter, much less the last paragraph. She just needed something - anything - to keep her weary mind occupied during this brief reprieve. She was going bloody stir crazy, even beginning to believe she was hearing things that weren't there. She'd swear she just heard something rapping on the kitchen window, but quickly dismissed the thought, figuring it was just the swirling wind rattling the creaky door.

Until she was certain that she heard the sound of her name being called over the howling of the storm.

**********

Emma had briefly considered poofing herself right into the center of Zelena's kitchen, but decided against it at the last second, instead materializing from a cloud of pale grey smoke on the front porch instead. While she was somewhat protected from the storm by the narrow extension of the roof, rain water poured over the eaves in sheets. Considering that the gravel driveway leading up from the road had morphed into a shallow, muddy lake, the porch was relatively dry in comparison, although Emma wasn't certain just how protected she was from Mother Nature's fury when a bolt of lightning lit up the darkened skies. The tin roof above her head probably wasn't the safest right now…

She took a long stride closer to the door, wiping away some condensation from the glass with her sleeve as she peered through the window. She couldn't make out much inside the empty kitchen as it was fairly dark with a faint orangish glow in the distance. Zelena probably had a fire burning to provide some light and heat to stave off the chills with the power still out. She couldn't hear any voices emanating from the interior of the house, but it was possible that the noise of the rain striking the metal roof was drowning out any sounds from inside. But in the dim backlight provided by the firelight, Emma could make out a dark mass draped around the back of one of the ladderback chairs - a shape that looked decidedly like the collar and shoulders of a coat. A dark coat that had enough of a sheen on its surface to reflect the warm hue of the flames. Just like a certain black leather coat that her husband had been wearing when he departed for the station this morning.

Please, let that be Killian's coat, she begged of whatever higher power might be listening as she knocked anxiously on the window. Not noticing any movement inside the farmhouse, she rapped again, but this time on the wooden door instead of the glass as her sight fell upon a ruddy stain upon the white paint. Was that blood?

"Zelena?" she shouted, hoping that her voice would carry louder than her knocking. "Zelena? Are you in there?" Well, that was a stupid question...Of course she had to be inside. Most people wouldn't leave home with a fire still burning and where exactly would she go? Even if she'd managed to get her crappy car running, there was no way she would have made it into town in this downpour. She probably wouldn't have reached the end of the driveway… "Zelena!" she cried out even louder this time.

Seeing the familiar hue of the former witch's wild auburn hair through the steamed up glass, Emma's nerves abated momentarily and she let out a relieved exhale as the door was yanked open.

"Emma?" a startled Zelena muttered as she found the drenched, blonde sheriff standing at her doorstep, but her mood instantly lifted. "I am so happy to see you! I was hoping that you'd soon figure out your husband came here to seek help."

"Thank goodness. There weren't many places he could have gone, so I was really hoping he made it here. He recorded the whole thing on the dashcam, so I know he was shot. Is he alright?" Emma tried to keep her nerves in check, but as she rambled on, she knew she was failing miserably.

"He's in on the sofa. He's sleeping right now. Well, at least I think he's sleeping… He's been in and out of consciousness," Zelena explained as she waved Emma inside. Emma brushed past the redhead who closed the door quickly before the wind blew any more of the never-ending precipitation into the kitchen. Zelena continued detailing all she'd done to help, even though she doubted Emma heard half of it. "I've tried my best to get the bleeding under control. It isn't near as heavy as it was before, but he still lost a lot. The bullet that hit him went clean through and I don't think anything too vital was struck, but I really don't know for certain. He's still a bloody mess and a bit feverish. I tried giving him some of Robin's baby ibuprofen to help with the pain too, but I don't have a bloody clue how well that worked..."

Half-listening as she rounded the corner into the living room, Emma made a bee-line over to the sofa where she discovered her husband curled on his side with a woolen blanket draped over him. Even with the golden glow cast by the flames, his skin bore a deathly pallor. "Oh, Killian…," she sighed as she dropped to her knees on the floor beside him. She cupped her palm around his cheek, finding it cool and clammy beneath the warmth of her fingers. A muted, but guttural moan escaped his throat as he stirred at her touch. He blinked twice in the low light but as his sight adjusted, his eyelids parted fully to focus on the unexpected, but magnificent face of his true love.

"Swan?" he mumbled, his muddled brain trying to determine if she was real or just a cruel hallucination.

"It's me," Emma smiled, happy to find him conscious and communicative. "I'm here and I'm going to get you help…"

"Now that you can heal him, it'll all be fine," Zelena spoke up. "I would have already done that if I still had my magic, but now Emma can get you all fixed up," she gave a nod to Killian but the expression that crossed Emma's face confused her.

"Unfortunately, it isn't quite that simple…," Emma groaned in frustration. "Because this situation involved criminals from outside of Storybrooke, I had to have David notify the state police and put out a bulletin to watch for the vehicle. They'll have questions about the shooting, and if the deputy who they can see being shot on dashcam footage is suddenly, miraculously healed, those questions are going to get uncomfortable and weird and cast doubt on the whole thing. I don't even think that saying Killian was wearing a bulletproof vest would hold up under the circumstances…"

"So, what does that mean?" Zelena questioned.

"I'll have to get him back to Whale - transport him directly to the hospital…"

Emma was cut off mid-sentence as the storm unleashed a tremendous gust of wind that blasted through the broken window, billowing out the tarp until the nails could no longer hold and the resulting gush extinguished the fire. Swirls of raindrops, leaves and other debris were forced through the opening as the tarp floundered and flopped about the floor. Without a moment's hesitation, she spun around and raised her hands. In a split-second, a magical wave of bright light filled the room, vanquishing the tarp and all of the storm debris as it repaired the damaged window, restoring it to its original state like its twin further down the living room wall.

Zelena breathed a sigh of relief as the threat of further damage subsided for the time being, even though the room was plunged into darkness without the flames illuminating it. She wasn't going to miss that ugly plastic sheet, nor would she miss the drafts and rainwater that seeped in around its edges.

"Thank you for fixing that awful eyesore," Zelena said as Robin let out a terrified wail after being awakened by all of the commotion. "I'm coming, my love," she assured her daughter but she also gave Emma a quizzical look before heading over to the play yard. "Do you think you're going to have to explain that one?" she asked Emma with a gesture towards the repaired window.

"Hopefully, it won't come to it, but I suppose I'll think of something, if necessary," Emma replied as she turned her attention back to her wounded husband while Zelena scooped up a whimpering toddler. "Okay, one crisis averted," she whispered as she gently squeezed her husband's bicep through the blanket. "Let's get you into town so we can get you fixed up too."

Killian gave a weak nod and allowed his eyes to fall closed again as he steeled himself for teleportation, never knowing how rough the landing may be when they re-materialized. The commonplace of magical transport was something this grizzled mariner was still getting used to.

"Take us with you," Zelena interrupted. Unprepared for such a request, Emma glanced upward into the pleading eyes of the redhead who was still bouncing a teary-eyed toddler on her hip.

"What?" Emma stammered, her brow knitted in confusion. Had she heard that right?

"Please… Will you transport us there with you? I promise, we will be out of your way as soon as we get there. I'll call Regina to come pick us up, but I can't stay isolated out here in this bloody storm with no power and no way to get in touch with anyone. I hate not having magic anymore… I don't want to be a bother, but please…?"

"Um...sure, I guess," Emma responded. "For everything you've done for Killian today, I suppose it's the least I could do."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" the former witch gushed. "Let me grab Robin's things. I'll be less than a minute!" She scurried into the bedroom to collect Robin's diaper bag as well as a jacket for each of them, then quickly darted into the kitchen to grab the baby's pre-made evening bottle, which the little one eyed greedily as they returned to the living room. Her final task was to toss a pitcher of water onto the smoldering remnants of the fire to ensure it was completely out before they vacated the farmhouse. Returning to Emma's side, Zelena gave her daughter a tight hug and exclaimed: "All ready."

"Then off to Storybrooke Hospital we go," Emma stated, swishing her wrist before the magical cloud enveloped them.

#cs ff #cs fan fic #captain swan ff #killian whump #weathering the storm #gunshot wound #i know this update has been long delayed and is a little short #but i needed to break it there

20 notes · View notes

kkaebsongtypo · 4 years

Text

[5:38pm] “Let’s go for a drive.” Jeno's eyes were turned up into crescents as he approached you with his idea. After a quick glance at the clock, you agreed.

“Okay, sure. Do I need to change?” You gestured to your current attire of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Jeno shook his head.

“Nope, just put on a sweater or something to stay warm.” He smiled at you again and placed a kiss to your forehead before you hurried off to grab a cardigan. When you returned to the front door, Jeno was pulling on his shoes. You stuck your wallet in your pocket and slipped your own shoes over your feet.

The drive was rather quiet, save for the soft music and hums that floated around the car. You stared out the window as you and Jeno reached the highway. You turned to him with a tilt of your head.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” You raised your eyebrows at him and he glanced at you quickly before turning his attention back to the road ahead.

“Do you want me to tell you?” His question made you narrow your eyes at him with a small smile. He took your hand and rubbed his thumb over your knuckles, his signature smile still on his lips.

“Hm, ominous. I guess I’ll find out when we get there.” He chuckled softly and brought your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. Your smile widened at his action as you turned your head back around to face the window. Trees and sunflower fields passed by as you got further away from the city. The sky slowly started to darken ever so slightly as the sunset neared.

It didn’t take very long for you to realize where you were headed. The familiar route to the small town about half an hour out of the city wasn’t hard to recognize after how many times you had driven it with Jeno.

A bright smile found your lips again as Jeno came to a stop in front of the local coffee shop you’d always frequent whenever you visit the town. After telling you that he’d be back, he ran into the quaint shop to pick up your usual orders. He returned soon after, two cups of steaming tea in hand. The sweet smell of chai filled the car as Jeno got in and pulled away from the shop, continuing elsewhere.

The sky began to fill with streaks of pink and orange as you and Jeno drove across the bridge above the river. The drive down the dirt road off the main street was rough but quickly smoothed out when Jeno backed into a small clearing next to the river. The normally occupied fishing spot was empty, probably due to the gradual drop in temperature as the fall evenings progressed. The forest that surrounded the small area and lined the river was a mix of yellow, orange, and red trees, with the addition of green pines strewed about. With your tea in hand, you stepped out of the car after Jeno as the trunk opened.

“Babe, what is all of this?” Your eyes widened at the sight of pillows and blankets laid across the floor of the trunk. Jeno adjusted the set up and crawled in, gesturing for you to follow him as he leaned back against the bundle of pillows. You handed him your tea and moved towards the empty space next to him. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side.

"Well, I thought about how we could just stay at home and watch the sunset, but then I thought this might be more fun, and way nicer." He smiled at you and looked around the cozy space. You look out towards the sunset. The ribbons of colour painted the sky and reflected off the water, along with the few lights from the town across the river. You had front row seats to the mixture of pink, orange, and purple as they danced among the clouds. You played with Jeno’s fingers from where they rested on your shoulder and took a sip of your tea.

“Thank you for bringing me out here, babe.” You turned to Jeno and planted a kiss to his cheek.

“Of course, baby. I’m glad you like it.” He smiled and pressed his lips to yours in a sweet kiss. You both turned your attention back to the sight in front of you after pulling away. You leaned your head against Jeno’s shoulder, relishing in the beauty that filled the sky from beside the boy that had your heart.

unus annus m.l

78 notes · View notes

roleplayfinder · 3 years

Text

AXIS -- A Post-apocalyptic Group Roleplay

Hi pals! I submitted here before and met some really incredible writers, so I'm back again in hopes of finding more. My little discord server has become a very tight-knit community of talented writers with great ideas, and we'd love to introduce some fresh eyes into the mix as we begin the next chapter of our story. We're currently wrapping up the origin story for a group of survivors, weathering (no pun intended) a natural-disaster laden end-of-times. Plenty of space to join in the group's origin story, or create your own along side it.

Here's our ad:

~~~

Reintroducing: AXIS -- We are an 18+ Post-Apocalyptic server for original characters; with a highly collaborative community and a "challenge-by-choice" system. This means that our Mod team has written (and is actively adapting and continuing) a storyline that your character can have as much or as little involvement in as you'd like. While the written plot has grittier threads of horror and hardship, these events are volunteer only. There's plenty of space for writers looking for a different take o "Slice-Of-Life" plot.

Our writing is done in multi-paragraph lengths, in 3rd person, past tense. This story will center around an unlikely group of survivors (not your average G.I. Joe), just looking to find traction in the new world. We look to write new characters into our story, rather than toss them into the world and see where they stick. For this reason, we ask that you be ready to plot with our staff and writers to introduce your character! We strive to incorporate all ideas in an interesting and cohesive way.

~~~

Asheville, North Carolina USA. January 3rd, 2020.

It was nothing like the movies. Nothing like the clips of people flocking to grocery stores and bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highways. There was no time for hysteria. The panic seeped in slowly -for most- in the all too quiet comfort of their own homes.

What began as an anomalous snow day ended in the longest night humanity had ever witnessed. The city of Asheville woke up on January 4th to see that the sun had never arrived, but neither did the moon. By 10:45 am, the small southern town had accumulated 4 feet of snow - more than had ever been recorded in history. --But the snow never stopped. Calmly, quietly, it continued on. 84 hours, 7 feet of snow, and a temperature drop below -20°F. Those who relied on city power alone were the unlucky ones. They found the wall of snow outside as a life-saving means of extra insulation until the cold seeped through. As temperatures continued to drop, the snow became harder - denser - and trapped them in their homes.

Then, came the heat. Before they knew it, the snow had melted and flooded their homes. By noon on January 7th, the most beautiful sunrise marked the beginning of a new era, and the end of what would then be known as The Whiteout. As the sun climbed, so did the temperature; and by 7pm, it found its perch at the highest point in the sky. There, it would remain for roughly two more days - reaching above 125°F as the tri-state area became a hot, muggy swamp before drying up completely.

Thus, the New Cycle began. Daytime and nighttime became a moving, irregular target. As soon as one could adapt, the cycle would change. Those who hadn't been claimed by the long cold nights, were threatened by sweltering heat the next morning.

When the daytime came, the sun was closer, hotter, and more intense.

The nights were even longer. Thick blankets of grey clouds and complete, frigid darkness became the new norm.

Those that managed to survive lived hour by hour, battling the elements, as well as the effects of the changes on humans and animals alike.

Good luck out there, you're going to need it.

~~~

The invite link: [https://discord.gg/JfYpHN9Y](https://discord.gg/JfYpHN9Y)

Feel Free to DM me with any questions!

#eighteen and over #eighteen plus #post apocalypse #post apocalyptic #dystopia #discord rp #discord roleplay #multi para #horror roleplay #adventure #discord group #submission

18 notes · View notes

myelocin · 4 years

Text

where we are with love | miya a.

synopsis: even with getting lost in the next town over, atsumu still has a way of stealing your attention away from the scarlet spectacle that is the sunset.

characters: miya atsumu, you (lena)

genre: fluff, domestic fluff

wc: 1000+

a/n: this is based on lena’s whole idea of where she sees herself at 6:30 pm,,i just started thinking about it so here we are

a ping from your phone, honk from outside, and the car door opening then slamming despite the engine still on in the background. atsumu, smile in place, has one hand in his pocket while the other taps away at the screen of his phone, your picture with the contact name you still roll your eyes at on display. six thirty pm with the scarlet swirling at its brightest in the sky, wispy clouds rolling like a dream, but all of that fades into the background as you meet a pair of brown eyes that look like nothing but your truth.

“hey,” he smiles, and even if you want to point out that his zipper’s down, you can’t bite back the smile that breaks out of your face at the sound of his familiar hello. the funny thing is, he could have said something else too; could have pointed out the fact that your shirt’s hastily tucked in or the buttons by your collar is undone, but he didn’t. six thirty pm and you know the sky is at its grandest at this very second, but you suppose the spectacle will always be there for you to see later from one of your friend’s Instagram stories.

but right now, you think, six thirty pm is this.

the sound of slamming the car door shut as atsumu takes a seat on the driver’s seat leans a quick kiss to your cheek with another cheeky hey that you admit you can never get sick of. a couple seatbelts buckling almost in unison, and a few taps to the gps on the screen that triggers a voice guiding which turns to take every once in a while.

from the rearview mirror, scarlet swirls in the sky behind you, and you admit that even if it looks beautiful and the sun both bright and blinding as it sinks behind the horizon screams for an audience—all you can really focus on in the moment is the sound of atsumu’s voice as he tells you about his day.

a familiar kind of sound, almost like music despite the lack of instrumentals. a feeling of “this is it,” settled easy and familiar in your chest, that has everything bursting at the seams because truth be told this really is it.

“what’s up?” atsumu asks, and through the rearview mirror he catches a peek of you smiling to no one and nothing in particular. he thinks to himself that he should probably ask you again because it doesn’t seem like you heard him the first time, but he presses a little harder on the gas instead.

an open highway, and some clouds in the sky with the leftover swirls of scarlet that wave at him from the rearview mirror in the back and the windshield in front. he bites his lip when he catches himself thinking of you, then chuckles when he realizes that even if you’re right next to him—it still is you that fills his thoughts in the end.

“this is really it for me,” he thinks, and he knows that even if this was the big thing or grand finale in terms of love that everyone told him to stay away from before he turned thirty, he knew that this—love—he means, it exists in the moment for him to take.

atsumu sees the exit he knows he’s supposed to take, but instead he reaches forward, lowers the volume, and switches lanes as he moves away from the supposedly scheduled turn. when he doesn’t hear you ask him why, he only squeezes your thigh as a way to answer the question he knows you left unspoken despite your curiosity.

it’s kind of like a romantic gesture, atsumu thinks. almost like a metaphor; the one that’s used in nearly every movie where missing a turn means changing the redundant plans society manages to weasel its way into a person’s life.

he feels the smile stretch across his face before he could even think to control himself.

“if you’re gonna drive the next town over and get us lost, i’m taking an uber back home and leaving you to fend for yourself,” you snort.

maybe not exactly how it goes in the movies, atsumu thinks. but still, he reasons. this is it.

the six thirty light has always looked beautiful with atsumu, you think to yourself after his chuckles and reasoning dies down.

maybe it’s the way the sky looks in his eyes, you ponder. scarlet on the soft sort of brown has always left your breath hitched.

maybe it’s because he just glows a little more golden during sunsets, you think next, but after you listen to atsumu crack another joke that if you were being honest, makes absolutely no fucking sense, you can only lean back against your seat as you let out a laugh of your own.

moments with him feel a different sort of magical. like the fleeting spark that a firework brings; always magical in the moment that it has you feeling so high on life you think you wouldn’t be able to breath after the skies mellow back into its usual hues.

but he looks at you afterwards, soft brown eyes like home, lazy smile from the very lips that say the words which have you bursting at the seams or rolling your eyes every time. your eyes catch a glimpse of the polaroid tucked in between the “sun blocker” as atsumu refers to the sun visor above him. the look of happiness in that snapshot in time still mirrors the kind of happiness you wear when you’re around him.

the light floods the car again; the final cry of the scarlet skies as the sun finally dips under the horizon, and even so you don’t have it in you to turn away from atsumu to watch the finale.

maybe, you think, he’s always just looked magical because love really is this.

“whatcha’ lookin’ at babe?” he asks, breaking the silence but not the moment.

“just making sure you’re going in the right direction.”

“you’re next to me, so i think we’ll be fine,” he smiles.

“you’re lost aren’t you?”

“babe—“

89 notes · View notes

castielchitaqua · 3 years

Text

kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

#im a collector im a maniac #poetry #not mine

9 notes · View notes