#and so he orders El to go dig up the dirt around town and he goes over and lifts the curse

[moeblob]

I'm suffering Fates Brain Rot so I drew OCs? Logical!

Nytis (blondie) is a demon cleric who hates feeling any form of pain but lives to cause others pain (he does indeed see the irony of becoming a cleric). In order to help protect himself he forms a pact with Elnae (red gal) and she basically fights in his place if there is a threat of injury. She also does little errands like info-getting and sneaking around for him.

The thing is, while he can hurt others no problem and it's satisfying, he was granted the ability to heal others after he swore allegiance to a deity he holds no respect nor regard for. He honestly doesn't care about whatever gods exist. HOWEVER. As a demon, simply using holy magic actually hurts him so he's a pretty stingy healer and has a sword "just in case" he has to fight.

That said, he does actually have one thing he refuses to let go unpunished: a kid being injured/cursed. He might be a messed up demon but he draws the lines at letting kids suffer. When El asks about it and is like "haha what, did you have a bad childhood too, buddy?" he's like "???? How else would I end up like this? As a cleric? Hurting myself to heal? What the hell is wrong with you YES I had a bad childhood."

#my characters #hes actually really mad when hes planning to be in a town for a day and then dip and he sees a kid in the markets #who looks like a zombie almost while still living and he realizes that someone CURSED THIS CHILD #and so he orders El to go dig up the dirt around town and he goes over and lifts the curse #its super painful on his end but seeing the life return to the kids eyes is like aight i can take it #and then he finds out the church of that town had some really shady dealings and they cursed the kid #and that the kid was supposed to die when they turn ten and hes like hey wtf lets go ruin the church el #and shes like are you.... are you declaring war..... on some church.... as a cleric.................. sir. what. #anyway they argue a lot and bicker and are secretly good friends #neither one will admit it tho #also shes super gay and is like you know if i didnt have a pact to serve i would love to travel and flirt with women thatd be nice #and nytis is like great thank you for the info now go do (thing) #i dont really draw them much but i really like them

[regrettablewritings]

Preference: When They Get Jealous

Characters: Nevada Ramirez, Okoye, George “Digger” Harkness, Lucifer Morningstar, Clyde Logan

Nevada Ramirez

Nevada Ramirez does not get jealous. Don’t get anything in that pretty little head of yours twisted: Nevada “El Trujillo” Ramirez does not stoop so low as to feel jealous. Jealousy is what a pussy incapable of keeping his woman feels. And Nevada don’t never gotta worry about that type of bullshit.

Nevada Ramirez does not get jealous. Not even when he sees some jackass getting a little too handsy with you. He gets angry, sure. But not out of jealousy: It’s because that dumbass just doesn’t know his place. He knows you’re too sweet for your own good, that you’ve never been particularly good with confrontation or speaking up when it came to strangers; luckily for you, your boyfriend is more than happy to lend you a hand with that problem.

He sees you smile all wobbly at the asshole, brows ever so slightly furrowed over eyes that whimper in panic. Maybe even reads your lips a bit. He can’t hear you over the thudding bass of the club, but he knows you well enough to know that you’re stuttering, your voice quivering as you try ever so gently to politely shut him down. It almost makes Nevada want to smirk: You’re trying to help your own pest, give him a head start and give him a chance to escape. But it’s too late for that, and you know it the moment you see two of ‘Vada’s boys stalk up to you and your new friend, with one of them grunting that it’s “time to go.”

You’re pretty sure your “new friend” knows it’s too late as well, given how he tenses, but the hand he has on your lower, lower back stays. Maybe even applies further pressure. He tries (stupidly) to hold his ground. But the ground can’t hold him; not as Nevada’s boys pick him up effortlessly and drag him off to a more dimly-lit section of the club. The only thing shining brightly from that corner being the exit sign.

Fifteen minutes later, your boyfriend joins you. He would pretend that he doesn’t know why your lips are pressed in disapproval, and that he doesn’t see how your brows are still furrowed but this time, in a way to suggest disapproval. And you would pretend that you don’t smell the smell of cigarettes smoked in the alley, or sweat worked up from an activity he got too into. More importantly, you pretend that you don’t see his bruised and bloodied knuckles as he rests and arm about you, gently ushering you closer to him as he murmurs about how lonely you looked without your Papi around.

Instead, you give in to the kiss he gives you. His idea of an apology without outright owning up to it.

Nevada Ramirez does not get jealous. He gets even.

Okoye

On the outside, she is calm and collected. The very image of the perfect warrior. But on the inside? Okoye is blaze with passion. Of course, her fierceness shined through when it came to protection, particularly that of her country, her king, her queen, her princess, and, of course, you. But it was ultimately her taciturn countenance that people took note of, which makes her all the more deadly to the unassuming.

Case in point, if she sees anyone putting the moves on you — man or woman — they will find themselves in one of two situations: They will either have the tip of an often-used vibranium spear pointed at them, or they will be requested to help Okoye spar. And, more often than not, the latter is what she chooses to apply.

Mind you, the challenged needn’t be a member of the Dora -- they needn’t even be a seasoned combatant or even have so much as an orange belt in Tae Kwon Do. Which frankly isn’t very fair, considering they’d be receiving a challenge from the head of Wakandan security, but oh, Okoye will insist: “There are few things more patriotic than assisting your protectors where they need the assistance,” she says. The smile she speaks with is very slight, but there’s no doubt from anyone who knows here that there’s a sliver of malice in them.

There’s really no need to go into how the match goes, especially since it’s obvious who the victor is every single time. Generally speaking, there are only four things that bare mentioning:

For one, no matter how much of a sweat or how bruised and banged up her opponent gets, Okoye always goes easy on them. Always. For two, every blue moon, Okoye might let them land a hit on her. However, this is out of pity as well as being for show. Because in the event they so much as scratch her, there’s the third thing: At the end of every sparring match, you go up to your beloved, singing her praises or to offer her a cloth to dab what little sweat she might have shed, or to tend to whatever sores she might have received. But whatever the case, you always go to her.

Fourthly, none of Okoye’s opponents ever try getting cozy with you again.

George “Digger” Harkness

Digger’s got a lot of nerves, daring to actually exhibit jealousy. He’s not a cheater, no, but he sure doesn’t exactly keep his eyes locked and loaded on you as much as you would like for him to. The amount of times he’s earned your ire for glancing at a jiggling ass or checking out a pair of swaying hips could fill a small novel.

So you (pretend) that it isn’t petty when you finally gain the opportunity to enact revenge on him.

Considering that his release from Belle Reve wasn’t exactly officiated by actual personnel (and was, in fact, just a flat-out jailbreak), your beloved Aussie had to lay low for a bit. That meant that in order to keep the feds from knocking down your door and getting you more involved than what you already were, Digger had to hide from place to place for a bit before he could even dream of returning back to you and setting up shop in your humble abode. But just because his life was sort of on pause didn’t mean that yours had to be.

It seemed like every time Digger gave you a ring from a burner phone, you were about to be headed out somewhere or were planning on going to an event with friends. Really, the fact that you wanted to go somewhere wild should’ve been a big indication to Digger that you were pulling his leg, but it didn’t matter: On the occasion that you sent a pic of what you planned on wearing, the jealousy consumed him.

You were going out? In that outfit? In that color you know makes you irresistible to both him and probably literally anyone with functioning eyes and a working downstairs!? Well, no, actually: While you did occasionally join your friends for a night out on the town, it was rarely ever in any of the outfits you implanted in Digger’s mind. And even then, for the most part, you weren’t actually going anywhere except to the couch to scroll YouTube or binge watch New Girl until you fell asleep.

But of course, Digger never thought this might’ve been the case. Instead, he thought to enlist the help of “friends” to keep an eye on you and report back to him if any bastard’s eyes or hands went anywhere they didn’t belong, aka on you. And when those efforts came up fruitless (he refused to believe them when they insisted you weren’t acting up), he took matters into his own hands: His dumb ass cut his location-hopping a bit short, appearing at your door a frustrated and possessive mess as he wasted no time storming through the door, hoiking you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes so he could take you to the bedroom and “remind you who you belong to.”

So, in short, Digger’s main resort when he can actually be around you is his go-to for most things he gets involved in that isn’t thievery: He, ahem, “smashes your back out”. Lovely.

Lucifer Morningstar

Lucifer swears he doesn’t get jealous but since he doesn’t think it’s a lie, he’s technically not lying. But he’s most definitely not being forthcoming with the truth. And that truth is that when he gets jealous, Luci becomes the most petty baby of them all!

Normally, he’s pretty confident that he has your attention. After all, what’s not to love? He’s sexy, talented, witty, interesting, and, oh yeah, the literal embodiment of enticement and charisma. Regular men just simply cannot compare! . . . So why in the Heaven would you be smiling at such a drab, bipedal specimen who thinks that they can replace having a personality with simply owning a pocket watch in this day and age!?

He doesn’t care that that guy is your coworker, he’s boring and stupid and there’s no way you really find him interesting, right? . . . Right?

If left to his own devices (hell, he’ll make the devices himself even if you protest), Luci will go out of his way to try and prove that that guy isn’t worth your attention and that you should please keep it on your loving Devil instead please. He’ll bequeath him unpleasant sobriquets; he’ll enlist his connections to dig up some dirt; if you leave them alone together for too long, Lucifer might even ask him what his deepest desire is. But these will often fall flat on the ass: The nicknames will roll off the “opposition’s” back like water off a duck (or you’ll fuss at Lucifer to quit it); the worst thing that could be dug up was that he was a college republican or something; and apparently his deepest desire is to acquire a copy of the Star Wars holiday special.

And somehow, that’s even worse!!

He might actually become a little pathetic (which, considering it’s Lucifer, probably just means his hair becomes a bit less combed, his clothes become more disheveled, and he might even somehow become even more clingy and demanding and even direct his pettiness towards you) because (Y/N), please, you can’t seriously be considering leaving your handsome, interesting, Devil for some boring, sad, oblivious piece of --

Really, the best way to get Lucifer to stop pestering is by reminding him who you’re with: Himself. After all, you’re not going home with the guy from work. Nor do you let him rest his head on your lap so you can play with his hair, or giving him your kisses, or letting him touch you in places only Heaven and Hell know drive you wild.

No . . . Those are reserved only for Lucifer, your beloved Hell bastard, for better or for worse. But mostly for the better -- even though he can sometimes just be the worst.

Clyde Logan

It really depends on the environment, because it ultimately can go one of two ways based on that alone. Clyde thinks the world of you, that you must be some kind of angel to see something good enough in him worth dating. And while it’s a bit of a confidence-booster in some respects, it also leads to a lot of other worries, highlighting even further his own long-term insecurities.

In a way, he’s both shocked and glad that you don’t get hit on every moment of every day the moment you walk out the house: You’re clearly the most gorgeous gal ever. You deserve acknowledgement of this! But then again, he doesn’t want so many eyes on you; one pair might most definitely belong to somebody better for you than him: Better-looking, better at talking, better socially, better job . . .

So when the two of you are out grocery shopping or visiting a local farmer’s market or anything and some rugged fox of a man casts a sensual smirk your way, Clyde can’t help but gain the demeanor of a nervous puppy, his large frame seemingly shrinking as his long hair curtains his face. If he had a tail, it would most certainly have tucked itself between his legs. It only gets slightly better when you only return a polite but small smile and take your partner’s hand to gently lead him elsewhere. But only slightly. It may take some cuddles and smooches when you get home to properly perk Clyde back up, but that’s far from something you mind doing.

However, should you both be at Duck Tape, or any other gathering that might make use of a mixologist for that matter? Clyde is in his element.

Clyde isn’t one to boast or show off; it’s not compatible with his shy nature, and his belief in the Logan Family Curse just doesn’t allow for him to get greedy about it. But if one night you drop by to visit him at work and he sees some guy making goo-goo eyes and hokey small talk at you? It’s on.

It doesn’t matter what drink the guy orders: Clyde immediately knows how to make it and make it perfectly, utilizing only his organic hand. The concoctions are mixed with such ease and precision, his every move emoting a sense of confidence that the unsuspecting would never have guessed a man like him could possess. And if he would be so bold, Clyde might even do so while barely breaking eye contact. It’s all the more better if the guy flirting with you tries ordering a drink for you himself. Because that’s when Clyde can start off with the man’s drink . . . before making you a completely different one entirely. The patron’s brow furrows.

“That’s . . . not what I ordered for her,” he points out.

And Clyde nods. “Nope. But that’s her favorite, and I reckon she’d prefer that over what you wanted her to have.”

You toasting at your beloved and offering a, “Thanks, honey” only sweetens the deal.

There aren’t many opportunities where Clyde feels like The Big Man on Campus, so to speak. But moments like that, where he feels he gets to show some of his worth? He can’t help but be a bit emboldened by them.

Of course, it goes without saying that it isn’t the drink-mixing or skill that drew you to him: It’s that sweet, thoughtful disposition of his. Because let’s face it: In a county of foxes and wolves, you can’t beat a sweet-eyed puppy-dog.

#nevada ramirez x reader #okoye x reader #digger harkness x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #clyde logan x reader #nevada ramirez #okoye #captain boomerang x reader #trouble in the heights #black panther imagines #suicide squad imagines #lucifer imagines #regrettablewritings

[fuckingthefictional]

Cross my heart- Part 5

Warnings: war related violence (death, murder, injuries, PTSD), swearing.

A/N: this was uploaded a while ago but as of now (3rd jan) it deleted itself and I’ve had to try and rewrite it from memory, so apologies if it’s shit.

“Sergeant Fenton, you will report for duty at 0600 hours tomorrow morning.”

“Yes sir. Who will I be with?”

“Solo Mission Sergeant. You will be flying over a suspected German camp across the battlefield. You will either confirm or deny our suspicions by reporting back to us.”

“Yes Sir.”

She hated solo missions, they were about ten times more likely to end in death. She just hoped to any God that may listen that she was kept safe.

//

“Why’d you have to go?”

“Because they asked me John- I’m not going to be shot up a post for cowardice and disobeying orders”

“Look- just stay safe Liza.”

“I will, you stay safe too- I’ll be back soon I promise.”

She hoped for John’s sake that she did come back soon, even though she had already accepted her own death and was prepared for what was to come.

//

It was safe to say that she was not prepared for this, a simple flight observation task she was prepared for- but not a crash in German territories.

The atmosphere was seemingly black, as the smoke levitated off of the fiery wreck of the plane.

She was disorientated and in pain. It hurt, her leg was leaking warm thick blood. It painted her hands and stained her flight suit.

Her foot was being pinned down by a heavy piece of the planes’ body, while further up her leg there was a deep gash with some jagged metal buried in it. She’d given up with trying to take it out, as every time she tried it pushed deeper into her flesh.

She didn’t know what to do. She was in enemy land with no way of communicating that she was down. She was as good as dead- but she wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Not if she could help it.

She slowly began to pull her foot from the heavy trap as she bit down on her flight suit to mute her screams of pain.

She felt a release and looked down to see her leg was now free. There was a sense of relief as she shuffled back on her bottom away from the crash site.

Until she felt something hard it her back, something that didn’t feel like a tree. But more resembled a pair of boots and legs, she looked up and towering over her was a soldier.

He’d obviously been the one to investigate the site to see if there was anyone to be found. It was obvious that the German soldier wasn’t expecting to see a girl before him and was apparently in a state of potential shock.

She took the chance while she could, as she took out a pocket knife and plunged it into the mans neck.

She was sprayed in blood. She’d just killed a man- someone who’s parents, siblings, wife and children were probably waiting for to come home. Only for it to be destroyed by her.

She wanted to vomit up her insides, the sight of the older man with dead eyes made her stomach churn uneasily.

But she had to survive. Using her wits, she stripped him of his uniform and swapped hers with his.

She dragged his body to the wreckage and tossed his body into the flames. The fire rose higher with the new sustenance that it had been presented. There- now it looked as if you had died on impact.

//

47 men. 47 people who were never going to see their families again because of her.

The camp was now eerily quiet and it set her teeth on edge. It was now a ghost town and all life was gone- it was silent.

Her leg was numb now and her head had become woozy from blood loss. She had a few more additions to her list of injuries- a bullet wound here and there, she was in unspeakable pain as she found herself stumbling around as the world before her became disorientated and a mere blur.

But she refused to give up, she thought about Harry and John and how she promised them that she would make it back.

The thoughts of her brother fueled her determination, Harry had always said- when in doubt, trust your gut. So she did.

//

Scrape. Pat.

Scrape. Pat.

Scrape. Pat.

The sounds of the shovelling were starting to drive her to a state of insanity. She had been stuck in the German’s tapper tunnel for what felt like a year- but was really only 32 hours.

She threw the soil behind her, as she kept limping forward. Every inch of her ached, it burnt in agony- and all she wanted to do was succumb to the darkness and join the 47 she had murdered.

But she refused, she kept digging as she hoped and prayed for a way out.

Her prayer was answered when she heard muted voices. Pressing her ear up against the compact soil, she concluded that the voices were speaking English.

This only fueled her encouragement, as she begun to dig faster and the dirt walls crumbled away. Finally a dim light enveloped the pitch black that she had been in for all those hours.

She was free.

And then she was thrown against a wall, she struggled against the strong force as her head cracked against a wooden support beam.

She was panicking and this only intensified when she spotted the glint of a silver blade.

She just had time to move her body slightly to the left before the knife plunged into her shoulder. She screamed out in pain.

“I’m fucking English!” She shouted, “Stop!”

The man’s blue eyes had been filled with confusion and frantic frenzy. She could have fucking swore she recognised those eyes.

“Why you wearing a fuckin’ German uniform then?” A different man who was pointing a gun at her head spoke up.

“Look if you go through the tunnel you’ll find 47 dead Germans.” She stammered, “I killed them- there’s also an allies plane, it’s mine I was shot down.”

The men seemed to confer with eachother as they decided to take the trek and see if their ‘captive’ was being truthful.

//

The next time she woke up she was in a bed, bandages wrapped around various parts of her body.

Her entire body ached and it was only when a nurse entered the room that she realised she was in a hospital room.

The nurse informed her of the injuries she’s had, a shattered kneecap, 3 bullet wounds, a stab wound to the shoulder, and gash in her thigh, a near cracked skull.

And yet the thing that hurt most wasn’t physical, it was the news that she had been honourably discharged from her airforce squadron.

She felt worthless, like all her effort and time that she had invested was just gone.

She had written to John and Harry, explaining what had happened and how she felt unsure of the future.

And then she was shipped off to a rehabilitation centre for recovering soldiers. It was nice to get some time away- where she could learn to walk properly and to heal up.

//

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“Miss Fenton, please sit down.”

“It’s Sergeant!”

“Sorry, Sergeant Fenton, Please sit down.”

“You’ve taken everything from me!” She cried, “and your biggest issue is that I’m not sat down?”

“We apologise. It just isn’t appropriate to give you an award for your services.”

“My services? It was not my job to become partially disabled and to nearly get killed.” She began to rant, “You said this would be over by Christmas years ago! And here you all are, sat in comfy offices. As we’re fighting for our country and laying down our lives only to you not giving give a shit!”

“That is enough!”

“It is the fucking truth- and you would be shot for cowardice!”

“We are going to ask you to leave.”

“Gladly!”

It was the letter that arrived two weeks later, that letter was the needle that broke the horses back- the letter that informed her that Thomas Shelby, her saviour, had received extra medals for her services.

//

Harry woke up to the screams again, Eliza wasn’t coping at all. And it broke his spirit to see his little sister struggle like this.

Eliza was beginning to lose sleep as well, she was beginning to lose her functioning side of logic.

That became apparent when John ordered a drink at the bar and it was apparent that Eliza had not heard him.

“Liza?” John waved his hand in front of her face.

Eliza finally came back into the present. It was obvious that she wasn’t sleeping well as the dark circles under her eyes popped out and the pale shade of her skin made her look ill.

“You look shit.” John said bluntly

“I can’t do this anymore- I’m not sleeping, I’m barely functioning.” She began to tear up.

John took her out from behind the bar and took her to the private room, so that his friend could cry in her own space.

She sobbed as John held her frame, he put her on his lap as he rocked them both in an attempt to calm Eliza down. It barely worked but soon enough her heavy sobs were replaced with quiet sniffles.

“Talk to me Liza.”

“It’s Tommy- I’m falling for him and I can’t stop myself.” She sighed and rubbed her face, “but the fucking history between us.”

“What history El?”

She began to unbutton her blouse as she pulled down the fabric to show the old stab wound that ran along the junction between her shoulder and collarbone - It was long and jagged and it stood out against the milky skin.

“He was the one in the tunnel that night, the one who attacked and stabbed me.” She shook violently, “I’m falling for him but every time I look into his damn eyes all I can see is the knife and the pain.”

John just kissed her head, as his own tears began to spike at his eyes.

The door flung open, Eliza didn’t realise how wrong the position they were in looked. What with her hair messy and her button undone all while being sat on John’s lap.

It became even worse when she realised who had just walked in. It was Tommy. He looks furious and betrayed.

“So this is why we couldn’t be together Aye?” He spat, “Because you’re whoring around with me brother. You’re a fuckin’ slag Eliza.” He turned and left as Eliza frantically scrambled to her feet in an attempt to explain.

But it was too late, he had left.

She’d added another injury to her list in that moment- fucking heartbreak.

#cross my heart #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby x reader #Peaky Blinders #PeakyBlinders #peaky fookin blinders

[papa-rhys]

Benevolence - Preview

Here’s Chapter One of my novel for your viewing pleasure. 

It’s only my first draft so it’s subject to change! Enjoy!

The papers have spelled my name wrong again – damn mess that they are. 

It ain’t like “Olivia Sullivan” is difficult and if they was strugglin’ so damn much, they coulda just used “Black Olli” like everyone else. They say I got some Indian in me, that it’s what makes me so “savage” in nature, but I don’t know if that’s true or not and I don’t reckon the press knows a damn thing they’re talking about when it comes to Indians. To be honest, I don’t know how much of anything them papers say about me is true, these days.  

Probably most of it. 

When you live the kinda life I live, you get in the habit of forgettin’ all the awful things you do. All the dead faces you leave behind ya tend to blur into one, and after a decade or so, the papers can say anything they damn well please about you ‘cause you can’t remember enough of what you’ve done to confirm nor deny it.  

Readin’ through the paper feels like I’m reading a Penny Dreadful, only I’s the subject of it. I ain’t got the foggiest idea whether or not I killed that man like they’s sayin’, just like I ain’t got the foggiest whether or not I got Indian blood tricklin’ through my veins. But I guess there could have been a point between the seventh and eighth shot of whiskey a few nights back where I did indeed bounce that man’s head off the edge of the bar and kill him. I suppose it does align with my reputation. 

I close the paper and fold it in half, slapping it onto the wooden bench beside me and getting to my feet. It’s a painfully hot day in El Santo, New Mexico - hotter than usual, even. The black shirt and jeans I’m wearin’ ain’t helpin’ matters, but us Sullivan’s always did value style over comfort. Stupid, really. Good fashion sense never did much to help ‘em when The Law came chargin’ into camp. The thought makes my skin flush even hotter and I shake it off. God, I’m achin’ for a little rain. 

Folk around town are busying themselves, taking advantage of the sunshine overhead. Cowboys mosey on by, dipping in and out of the saloon despite it only being just past ten in the morning. The ladies are dressed in their cotton dresses and holding their lace parasols, chatterin’ to each other about their god-awful husbands. 

Ma ‘n’ Pa always reckoned I’d make some feller a fine wife. And I suppose I would. If I wanted to. But I reckon I’m built for the life I got. I can shoot, I can brawl, I can lie, and I can damn well rob a feller blind. The Lord didn’t design me for cookin’ and cleanin’ and watchin’ babes in their cradles. I ain’t no damn maid and it’d be a waste of all I’m good at if I settled for bein’ one. I don’t gotta be cooped up in no farm house in order to show a man I love him.

I head for the general store and pick up a few supplies for the road. Baked beans, jerky, some cartridges for every one of my weapons, and a few carrots and corn cobs for my horse, Monty. It’s a long day’s ride ahead of us until we get into the next town over and I reckon we’ll both be beat by mid-afternoon and dyin’ for a good bit of grub. 

“Hey there, boy,” I coo, patting him on the side of the neck as he huffs. There’s a funny lookin’ guy standing outside the saloon a little ways up the street that’s been eyeing me since I went into the general store and I reckon I’ve been made. But I ain’t too keen on letting him know that I’m aware of him, so I keep my head tilted down as I fuss over Monty a little more. “We should make a move, I reckon,” I tell him, earning a shake of the head from him. “Yeah, well I’s the boss, not you.” 

I untwist the reins from the hitching post and mount up, keeping my head forwards as I bring Monty around and keeping my eyes off the man outside the saloon. I observe him from the corner of my eye on the way past – black hat, long black coat coverin’ a brown shirt, and gold capped boots. Ain’t no mistakin’ who he is. 

He’s a Red Wolf. Hell, I’d bet my life on it. 

I dig my heels in and Monty starts into a trot; his hoofs thudding rhythmically against the dirt road. I don’t want the Wolf to know I’s made him, but I sure as hell do want him to be able to catch up with me farther along the trail that leads outta town. He’ll follow, for certain. He wouldn’t be able to resist a young woman  and besides, he knows exactly who I am and Red Wolf creed says he’s gotta kill me soon as he recognises me. Here’s hopin’ he abides and manages to catch me.  

Otherwise, how else will I be able to kill him? 

I pull the reins steady and Monty comes to a stop at the side of the trail just before a winding tree. We’re about two miles outta town now and it’s one of the last few trees around before the scenery fades into open land, offering nothing but sky and half-dead grass either side of the trail.  

I’m outta my saddle in a split second, hopping down onto the dirt and securing Monty’s reins to the tree. He gets skittish around gunfire. Not all that useful for an outlaw, but he’s a good boy and does what he’s told, so I’ve kept him all these years regardless. He gets antsy as the man from town appears a ways down the trail and I lean against Monty with my elbow rested on the saddle and one boot crossed over the other, waiting for him to reach me. 

It takes a few minutes for him to catch up to me and for a moment I think he’s gonna keep ridin’ west, following the open road into the next town over; which would be a shame ‘cause I’m really in the mood for killin’. But he stops just ahead of me and drops down off his beige Arabian; his spurs clinking with the impact. 

He’s a few years older than me – maybe 30 ish – and his jaw is shadowed with a scruffy stubble that looks more than a few days overdue for a trim. There’s wrinkles in the corners of his eyes as he scowls at me and what’s visible of his cheeks between the wide-brimmed hat and the previously mentioned stubble is littered with scars. He makes his way towards me with his hands on his hips - flicking his coat open to flash me a glimpse at his twin pistols - and I turn to face him, lowering my arm to my side where my Colt sleeps, cradled against my hip. 

“Mornin’, Miss,” he says, nodding his head. He seems friendly enough but I know who he is. I know it’s feigned. That friendly neighbour act might work on cowboys and workin’ girls, but he ain’t foolin’ me and there’s no way he’d expect to given who I am and the history our clans got with each other. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and stop right where you stand, partner,” I tell him, stopping him in his tracks a few feet away. “I don’t reckon you’s as dumb as to not know you I am.” 

He smiles and his crooked, blackened teeth make my stomach churn a little. “I know’s exactly who you is, Miss Sullivan.” 

He dares to take another step – his hands still on his hips and his chest puffed out – and I draw as fast as the thought flits through my mind. Raisin’ a gun to a man is second nature to me. He chuckles and raises his hands, but not high enough. His chuckle stops and he draws too and in the blink of an eye, we’re both starin’ down the barrel of each other’s weapon.  

I fire first, but I don’t got any use for him if he’s dead, so I aim for the hand that holds his gun and blow a hole in his thumb, earning a roar from him. The pistol falls to the dirt and he stumbles and I’m on him in seconds; pouncing on him like a rabid dog. I’m straddling him now and he fights back until I clock him around the jaw three times with the butt of my Colt and he finally gives up. 

“Alright, alright, you made ya damn point,” he hisses, spitting a mouthful of blood into the dirt beside us. 

I grip him by the collar of his shirt, curling the fabric around my fingers and pulling tightly. “Who named The Sullivans?” I ask him. “Who told The Law where we was campin’?” 

He smirks up at me. “Your gaggle of inbred yeller-bellies had quite the bounty on yer heads,” he says. “Happens y’all just got sloppy.” 

I hit him again. “You know as well as I do that that ain’t true, so cut the shit ‘n’ give me the name of the Wolf who tipped ‘em off.” 

“I ain’t got –“ 

Another smack should do it. 

This time I angle my strike downwards and get him in the nose and the crunch it makes under the impact of my Colt is enough to damn near echo. It’d surely turn my stomach if I hadn’t done it a million times before.

He yells and his head flops back and for a second I’m worried I’s killed him, but he starts shakin’ his head and I reckon he don’t think his buddy is worth dyin’ for.  “Jacob Dixon,” he breathes, his head rolling on his shoulders and his eyelids fluttering. “Goes by ‘Dix’… he’s the feller who ratted ya damn gang out. Just… enough with the damn hittin’, girl.” 

“Where’s this feller at?” I ask. He shakes his head and swallows hard. “You tell me where he is ‘n’ I won’t bleed ya like a stuck pig,” I spit, my face inches away from his. 

“Don’t go pokin’ around for him,” he tells me. “You’ll only find stuff you didn’t wanna know.” 

“I swear to the heavens if you don’t tell me the location, I will kill you.” 

“Alright, alright… But if I tell you, you’ll let me go?” he asks, blood trickling into his mouth from his nostrils and spitting back up at me as he talks. 

“Sure, I’ll let ya go,” I tell him. “If you give me the location.” 

“We’re camped before the Arizona border. I don’t know the name of the place, just that it’s inside the boundary of the New Mexico Territory.” He coughs and splutters and spits another mouthful of blood. “We’s been there a few weeks.” 

“How many of ya?” 

“I thought was gonna let me –“ 

I’m runnin’ real low on patience and the thought of a bullet carvin’ a path through this guy’s skull is lookin’ real temptin’. “How many?” I roar. 

“Five of us! The rest of the fellers is spread out in different states. Boss wanted us coverin’ the way from here to California. Said you was gonna be comin’ for him ‘n’ didn’t want ya to get closer than he’d like.” 

I push myself up onto my feet and dust myself off, smacking the dirt away from my knees as he flops onto the floor. “What’s ya name?” I ask him, fixin’ the position of my hat. 

“Tommy,” he croaks, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and looking at the blood smeared across it. 

“Thanks for yer help, Tommy,” I tell him, raising my Colt and bringing the sights flush with his forehead. “But I never liked folk who grovel.” 

“No, wait, I –“ 

With a squeeze of the trigger, there’s one less Wolf in the pack. One less name on my list. Tommy’s blood seepin’ into the dirt of the trail beneath him, the liquid poolin’ around his head and creepin’ its way towards the spot where his Arabian had stood before takin’ off at the sound of the gunshot. His eyes are still wide with fear, his arms and legs sprawled out in every direction, and I feel damn good about it.

I wipe my mouth and then raise my neckerchief to my forehead to mop up the beads of sweat I’d earned in the sun-doused scuffle. Stuffing my Colt back into its holster, I head for Monty, who huffs and stomps at the gunshot that surely rings in his ears as much as it does in mine. “There, there, boy. It’s alright,” I tell him, placing my hand to his nose and soothing him. “I’s got us a lead on that rat of ours.”

#my writing #writeblr #writerblr #excerpt #writing #w benevolence

[alexisluthor]

It was unintentional, the result of digging on a construction site. Wind whipped around the stripped land and dust particles flitted through the air. The site was on the other side of Smallville and there was no reason Clark should have been there at all. 

He was on the farm, doing chores, which, since Jonathan died, held no fun whatsoever. Every turn, every patch of land, every practiced movement of his hands reminded him of the father he’d never see again and he didi those chores as fast as alien-ly possible to avoid those thoughts and feelings.

It was the late afternoon when he heard it - a cry. He dropped the bag of feed and peeled off his gloves, head craning to hear better. It happened again, a cry for help. It sounded like an adult and because of it’s clarity and Clark’s non-existent attempts to hear beyond Smallville’s limits, he knew it was coming from town.

Following a sound isn’t as easy as one might think. Clark sped around town, only stopping in abandoned alleyways behind buildings without cameras to avoid detection. He would come to a shattering halt and listen, re-orient himself. 

It took all of two whole minutes to find the construction site and the worker trapped beneath a beam. The trapped man was on the site on an off day. He’d gone to retrieve a report he’d left the day before and on his way back to the truck, something red and glinting caught his eye. They were digging deep into the ground to create a cellar or basement for whatever building was going up. 

The man paused at the lip of the trench to get a better look when the ground beneath his feet gave way. He, along with three steel beams that had been at rest on the unsteady earth all tumbled into the trench. No one was on the site to help him and his cell phone was in his truck.

Luckily for him, Clark heard his cries for help. Two and a half minutes after the fall, after the crushing beam landed on his legs and snapped the bones like twigs, a young man in a plaid shirt was jumping into the pit. 

The college kid with a body builder body had to pretend that it was difficult to move the beam, but luckily, he’d had years to perfect his bullshitting skills. The guy was barely holding on to consciousness anyway, so whatever he’d remember of this, Clark was sure no one would believe him anyway. 

Kent’s strong hands lifted the beam off with ease and he dropped it nearby, not paying close enough attention to where he was setting it. The end of the metal beam landed with a crack and Clark looked just in time to see that the steel had crushed a piece of red kryptonite. It was the furthest end of the beam away from Clark and it had landed with more weight than the end he had his hands on. The resulting hit to the kryptonite left the red rock in dust. It had become a fine red mist that mingled with the dirt in the air and wafted towards him in a glittery wave of sparkling rouge. 

Clark coughed and tried not to breathe in at first - until the first wave of euphoria smacked into him - then, suddenly, holding his breath seemed to be an incredibly stupid thing. He took a deep breath, then another, and a third. He talked to the guy and carried him out of the trench but disappeared before the ambulance got there. 

He ran. Not for the practical purpose, but for fun. He ran and ran, passing the farm right up. He zipped through traffic, cars going 80 miles an hour appeared to be standing still as he weaved around them. Sometimes he ran in the grass instead, but it was easier to orient himself by following roads. 

He ran until the cornstalks disappeared and turned into the rocky mountains. And rather than traverse 70 through them, he would take massive leaps and bounds. He jumped, and ran and sometimes even appeared to fly until the rocky mountains were behind him and the desert lay ahead. But just as soon as it appeared, it was gone. 

He ran until his feet were off the ground and on the water. He’d passed up Leggett and ran right out into the Pacific Ocean. He was only a few miles from shore. If he’d stop, drop out of super speed and return to normal time, he’d sink like lead right into the water. So he ran back to shore. 

Clark picked a spot out of eyesight and collapsed on the beach - not out of exhaustion - but gratitude. His worries, his troubles had melted away and all that existed was the sand between his fingers and the California sunshine caressing his skin. 

For the first time in two years, he felt peace. Here, there was no concern over his mother’s political career or her gaining relationship with Lionel Luthor. Here there was no worry for the farm or heartbreak over Pete’s absence in his life. Here there was no fear of the father who had etched that wretched symbol into his chest. Here, his father’s grave didn’t hang in his memory like a lead weight. Here, it didn’t matter that he was single handedly keeping an entire farm afloat while simultaneously trying to survive college. 

One thing did still bother him though - even in this place. 

Lana and Lex’s faces floated to the surface of his wind-blown thoughts and remained burned there behind his eyelids. Lana and Lex were engaged. Lex had been responsible for the fires at the factory and had, yet again, avoided any sort of repercussions for his actions. 

The further apart Lex floated from him, the worse things he seemed to do. He had been experimenting with a dangerous chemical, even after the government had given him warning and shut him down. He continued on with it anyway, and the resulting explosion had cost three men their lives. 

Did he even care?

There was a cold edge to his stare now that had never been there before and it scared Clark. The old Clark. Now though, he was Kal-El, and he would dole out justice, even if the law failed to do it. 

He sat up on the sand and felt the wind card through his curling brown hair. Soaking up the moment for just a little longer, he decided that his next stop would be the Luthor mansion. 

Lex could wait though - Clark deserved to watch the brilliant sun dip below the ocean waves and sink to the other side of the world. It was a breathtaking sunset filled with sherbet oranges and salmon pinks with puffs of purpling clouds passing overhead. 

He made a mental note to watch more sunsets around the world as he stood and brushed the sand from his clothes. A new outfit would be in order for what he was about to do with Lex, but he didn’t want the older man to grow suspicious. So he whizzed like a bullet back to Kansas and bought a new flannel shirt and denim jeans. 

He may be Kal now, high as hell on red kryptonite, but he was older now than he’d been on his first ride with Red K - he knew better how to behave - how not to alert people to this monumental change in personality. 

At sixteen, when he was high and spent the summer in Metropolis, he had been as predatory as a shark, wearing a grin to match. He was all black Armani and sunshine yellow Ferrari’s. Perhaps, he thought, he could find a happy medium between Kal and Clark. Not turn into Lionel Luthor but also not revert back to the bumbling farmboy. There was an in between and he was going to find it. 

His inhibitions were gone. Left back at the farmhouse that he refused to return to, instead zipping straight to the mansion where he was no longer welcome. The world seemed clearer, brighter, more black and white and less gray. He knew what he had to do. What he wanted to do. 

He wanted to punish Lex.

-Read More-

#ao3 #clex #smallville #clark kent #lex luthor

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

Affairs of the Heart - Chapter 3

Note:  This is the first story in a planned series set in this universe under the umbrella ‘Hardy Investigations’.  Case suggestions are welcome, but it will be a long time to fruition if submitted!  This story is fully written, so they would be utilized in future stories.

General warnings: mature content, occasional language.

Masterlist

Summary

September 1948 - Mrs. Mark Latimer hires Hardy Investigations to find out if her husband is having an affair, requiring some duplicity and ingenuity to find the truth as they go undercover.

Tuesday passed normally, if a bit slow.  Most of the morning appointments were delivering final reports and otherwise closing cases, making it a bit easier for them both to breathe and allowing them space to focus on ongoing investigations.

“Let’s not take so many on at one time again,” Ellie sighed, leaning back in her desk chair and closing her eyes.  It was only half three, but she was exhausted.  Their morning had started early with surveillance, and they’d been on the go all day.  “We can’t do our jobs properly if we don’t get a chance to sleep.”

Alec hummed in agreement, coming to stand behind her and rubbing her shoulders.  “I have an idea.”

“If it’s a shag you’re after, fine so long as you do all the work.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking,” he chuckled, digging his thumbs into her neck until she moaned, tension releasing.  “Though tempting.   No.  Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

Ellie lit up for only a moment before realization dawned.  “You mean at ‘The Office’.”

Something in her tone made him pause, and he stepped away.  “Come here.” She let him lead her to the sofa, and they sank onto it side by side.  “What’s wrong?”

Shifting, she rested her head on his shoulder.  “I don’t know.”

“El.”

“I remember why I left,” Ellie blurted, staring unseeingly at the far wall.  “I know coming here was my idea, that you wanted London, and I’ve finally realized it’s because I wanted the people here to see me, as I am.  As you do.  Not as a housewife, or mother, or just… a woman.  I wanted the people I’ve known all my life to look at me and know that I’m smart, I’m capable.  I did important work during the war, what I did mattered.  It changed lives, saved lives.  I wanted them to know I’m capable of more than just taking messages and making tea.”

“You mean your father.”

“Yes.”  She sniffled, and he tenderly wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Oh, darling.”  He kissed her head, pulling her tighter against him.  “I’d like to say he sees it, but we both know that’s a lie.  In some ways I miss the war, because it seemed for a moment the civilized world was taking notice of something I’ve always known – but he’s never going to change.  He’ll never see it, and I think it’s his loss.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t wish,” Ellie said bitterly.

Alec smiled.  “D’you want to know what I think?  The best way to change the world is by example.  By doing it as it should be done, and hoping others will recognize the truth of it.  You won’t change his mind. But you- we- can raise our children to be better.  I see your influence in Daisy every day, and it makes me terribly proud.  The best we can hope for is that others will learn from their example.  There are plenty of attitudes that will never be corrected, but some just need to see it in action.”

“Did I tell you Tom cooked on Friday?” she murmured, pressing her cheek against his chest and listening to his heartbeat.  “He said you inspired him.”

“See?”  He tried to modulate his tone, but his smugness was still borderline unbearable.  “That’s how we change the world, Ellie.  By raising our standards.  Not everyone, but enough will rise to meet them.  In turn, they will demand better of others.”

Shaking her head fondly, she pressed her lips to his chest through his shirt.  “Shut up.  I just- I think, for some reason, this particular case is getting to me.  I feel like I’m no better than the stereotypical assistant-slash-mistress.”

“For one, there’s no denying that despite appearances, you are most certainly the boss,” Alec teased, “and besides, you and I both know the truth of our relationship.  Who cares what the rest think?”

“You, whenever I ask for a raise.”

Rolling his eyes he checked his watch, before nudging her up with a groan.  “Now, let me buy you dinner, mon sale petit secret.”

“Please never speak French to me again,” Ellie laughed, checking her reflection in the mirror and refreshing her lipstick.

“What’s wrong with my French?” he protested, pressing himself against her back as he fluffed his hair.

“You’re not very good at it.”

He pouted at her in the mirror.  “Am too.”

“Say something else then, because I’m certainly not convinced.”

Alec wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him as he pressed kisses to her cheek and made her giggle.  “All right, uh… ah!  Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?”

“Alec Hardy!” she gasped playfully, elbowing him.  “How scandalous!”

“I saw it in the paper recently, it’s a line in a new show by some American playwright.”

“What’s it called?”

He blew a raspberry against her neck.  “A Streetcar Named Desire.  It’s due to open in London next October.  Set it New Orleans.”

“You can take me for my birthday, then.  For now, however, I believe you promised me dinner?”

“You didn’t answer my question though,” Alec pointed out, helping her into her jacket before putting on his own.

Ellie threw him a coy smile on her way past.  “Peut-etre.”

They had a devil of a time finding the place, Alec complaining all the way in.

“Why’s it so hard to find?  Do they not want any customers?  No signage, a dirt lane – it’s like they’re begging to be out of business.”

Ellie linked her elbow with his, rolling her eyes.  “It’s supposed to be underground.  The point is to have a safe place to take your mistress.  Remember?”

“Still.”  He opened the door for her, and they walked inside.

From the door, all that could be seen was a vestibule and coatroom.  A doorway leading to the rest of the restaurant was hidden behind a sheer curtain while an expectant maître d’ waited at his stand.  Sliding his arm around her waist, Alec led Ellie there.

“Table for two, please.”

“May I ask how you heard of us?”  His tone and smile were suitably deferential, with an undercurrent of suspicion and cautiousness.

Ellie grinned widely.  “Mark Latimer recommended it.”

The maître d’ snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared almost out of thin air.  After a moment’s whisper, the waiter vanished behind the screen.

“One moment, please,” the maître d’ said, and no sooner had he than the waiter returned with a nod.  “Please, follow Joseph.”

They followed him through the curtain into the restaurant proper.  It was small, maybe a dozen tables, undeniably romantic and cozy.  Each table was small, set for two, with a single rose in a vase and a tealight.  The lighting was dim, giving the illusion of privacy, and the tables were arranged around a dance floor.  A small stage tucked in the corner sported a string quartet playing softly.

Half the tables were occupied, and they were seated at one near the window, away from the other couples.

“This is nice,” Ellie smiled, opening her menu.  “We don’t go out often.”

“Aye.”  Alec was too busy scanning the room over the top of his own menu.  “D’you see him?”

“No.  Quit being so suspicious.”  Leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs at the knee, she took stock without seemingly looking up.  “What are you ordering?”

“What, so you can steal half?”

“Obviously.”

They settled in at the table, ordering from the waiter before making innocuous small talk.  The room slowly filled, the last empty table happening to be right next to them and being seated just as their entrees were served.

Ellie glanced up out of habit before doing a double-take, kicking her partner under the table.

“What?” he looked up from his steak with a frown, before catching on.

“Oh, hello.”  To say Mark Latimer was surprised to see her was an understatement, but after a moment he relaxed.

“Hello!  Thank you for the recommendation, this is lovely,” Ellie gushed, smiling brightly.  “Didn’t expect to actually see you here though!”

“Hello, I’m Becca,” his date said, and Ellie took the opportunity to examine her.  Early thirties, blonde, and a hint of an Australian accent.

“Ellie, this is Alec.”

He waved awkwardly, taking a large bite of his steak to avoid the need to speak.

“So how long have you known each other?” Becca asked, ignoring her menu in favor of watching them.

“Three years,” Alec mumbled just as Ellie said, “Five.”  They stared at each other across the table for a moment, each arching an eyebrow at each other.

“We met five years ago but have been together for three,” she explained.  “I’m his secretary.  What about you?”

The other table’s waiter appeared then, and Becca waited until they’d ordered and he’d left to reply, shaking out her napkin and settling it across her lap.  “I work the front desk at Trader’s, the hotel in town.  We met six months ago when we had a toilet clog.”

“Oh?”  Ellie hoped her tone was suitably inviting, face open and eager, and the other woman delivered.

“Oh, yes.  It’s quite a shame, but the hotel’s had quite a few plumbing issues since.  He must be there once, twice a week.”  She tittered, and Ellie laughed along.

“How clever!”

“Bec has access to all the rooms, and is kind enough to wait with me while I fix the issue,” Mr. Latimer winked.

Alec chuckled in agreement, wiping his mouth.  “Aye.  This one’s a true professional, devoted to her work.  No matter how late we’re in the office, she’s right at my side.  Attached at the hip, you might say.”

They all laughed, pausing for a moment as the other table’s meals were delivered.

“So, what do you do?” Mr. Latimer asked, and Alec paused only a moment.

“Doctor.  In the next town over.”

Ellie hid a snort by taking a long drink of her wine, praying no medical emergencies arose.  Having served he was experienced enough in basic first aid, they both were, but anything more serious than a nick with a knife would prove him for a fraud.  It would be just their luck for one of the old men in the room to have a heart attack or some such crisis.

The two couples chatted all through dinner, and well after.  Ellie was almost disappointed that Mark Latimer was a lying, cheating bastard – she liked this couple, enjoyed talking to them.  Yet the entire time she couldn’t get the image of his toddler daughter out of her mind, could see little Lizzie playing happily, unaware of the drama brewing in her home.

Eventually, though, Mr. Latimer himself pushed away from the table.  “It has been a pleasure, but I think it’s time for me to return you home, my dear.”

“Yes, I must be getting home as well,” Ellie said graciously, equally unsurprised and certain that there would be a detour before Becca made it home.  As the night had dragged on he’d given his mistress longer, steamier glances until the point where she wondered if they would be satisfying urges in the carpark without even leaving the restaurant.

“Good night!”

“Good night.”

They watched the other couple leave hand in hand, Alec waiting until they’d disappeared through the curtain to drain his coffee cup.  “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

Alec drove with the lights off, keeping just far enough behind Mr. Latimer’s car to avoid detection.  Their mark had driven out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell, and they were now following them back to Broadchurch.

“What if they go to Trader’s?” Ellie mused, as she scribbled down notes about the meal and everything the other couple had said.  “We could hardly follow them into the room.”

“Not interested in swinging?” he deadpanned, throwing her a smirk.  “Probably for the best, I don’t think they’d be interested in anything other than each other.”

“Don’t even suggest that!”

Alec laughed.  “Did you notice she had her foot in his lap nearly the whole meal?  Or how closely he kept her in front of him?  No, I suspect he’ll pull into the first empty lot he can find and have her in his lap before you can say ‘bob’s your uncle’.”

“Be serious.”

“I am!  He’s in a personal car not his work truck, it would be highly suspicious if he were at the hotel.  They’ll find somewhere abandoned, we just need to hope it’s somewhere we can watch without being spotted.”

Ellie huffed.  “I know what you mean, but that sounds terrible.”

The car ahead pulled into a lot then, and she realized they were near the coast, overlooking the cliffs and about a mile up from the center of town.  The road dead-ended at the lot, and Alec pulled into a ditch just before the lot proper, keeping out of sight.

“Right, let’s go.”

“Hang on,” she whispered, tugging him back until their lips met in a firm kiss.  “Right.  Good luck.”

And they exited the car, sneaking towards the lot with their cameras at the ready.

#bbatcfic #Broadfic #Broadchurch #HardyxMiller #Hardy #Miller #Hardy Investigations #Affairs of the Heart #oohlala

[wonderous-writer-suggestions]

Writer’s brother on earth

((Soooooo this is what Happened to her brother before wonderland. Hooraaaaay.))

Part 1

His mother held his hand tightly then pulled him into the fifth hug she’s given him as he’s tried to walk out the door.

“Mom it’ll be ok, I’ll be fine.” He said.

She stepped back and adjusted his uniform, “I know I’m just...” she sighed, “You remind me so much of your father. He’d be very proud of you.”

He smiled and picked up his bag, shrugging it over his shoulder. He kissed her on the cheek and turned to leave, “I love you mom, I’ll write as often as I can.”

“I love you too.” She said chocking back tears of many emotions, “Be safe Eliot.”

With that he walked out the door, unaware when or if he’d walk back through it again. That night he along with many other soldiers were shipped off to Vietnam. A war with some purpose to start, an honor to fight as always and defend whoever may need it. But something didn’t feel right.

He set his bags down in their base and started to make nice with his roommates.

“You hear about the missions we’re getting into?” Asked the man beside him.

Eliot looked over curiously, “Yes we’re just pushing back the other side right?”

He shook his head, “There’s a lot more to it than that. Anyone we find in this land could be under the influence of the enemy. We have to interrogate them, burn villages-“

Eliot sat up, “Wait Wait Wait where’d you even hear all this?”

“Over heard the captain, so keep it on the down low he’s going to give us a briefing in the morning.”

Eliot was silent a moment till the man held his hand out to him, “My name is Buck by the way.”

Eliot took his hand and shook it, “Pleasure to meet you, name’s Eliot.”

The next morning the captain did in fact brief them on everything that would be done. Eliot was amazed how much of it rang true with what Buck had said. This all seemed so weird but, he’d never been a big major war like this before so maybe this is just how it goes, he thought.

The next few weeks consisted of the most nerve racking war in existence. There wasn’t a base of relaxation anymore. Everyone would dig a trench and sleep in it and pray to god nothing happened. They had to walk through miles of elephant grass, possibly beside booby traps and enemy troops 24/7. Often times walking out there’d be one less of your own men than you started with.

Towns would be burned and people slaughtered. Eliot found himself getting drunk of the energy of his troops, the desperation to see the blood of someone other than his own friends. He wasn’t himself, he wasn’t a soldier, this wasn’t a war, it was a massacre of madness.

He lay limp in his trench that night, distant gunfire and bombs being muffled by the dirt and sand around him. He held a note in his hands from his mother.

ʜᴇʟʟᴏ sᴡᴇᴇᴛʏ,

ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪs ғɪɴᴅs ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʟʟ. ʏᴏᴜʀ sɪsᴛᴇʀ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴀ ғʟᴏᴡᴇʀ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀᴘᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴅʀᴀᴡɪɴɢ, sᴏ ɪᴍ sᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪs. ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀᴇ sᴛᴀʏɪɴɢ sᴀғᴇ, ʜᴀᴠᴇɴᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏɴᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ. ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇ ᴜs ʏᴏᴜʟʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴍᴇ sᴀғᴇʟʏ.

ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

ᴍᴏᴍ

The drawing was nothing more than a butterfly and the night sky. The flower a dried up dandelion. But it made him smile, it was unique and sweet, it kept him sane. He read the note over a thousand times until he felt his eyes burn, and finally he surrendered to sleep.

He woke up to the sound of gun fire much closer, and Buck shaking him awake and dragging him from his sleep.

“Come on El we have to get up now we have to go come on!” He yelled.

Eliot didn’t even respond he just grabbed his gun, shoved the note in his pocket and ran with the rest of the troops into cover.

Once everyone lay still in the elephant grass an eerie silence fell over.

A private officer spoke up, “We need to keep moving, follow suit soldiers.”

No one argued. Just exchanged looks and didn’t look back as they moved deeper.

They moved on in silence until even their heartbeats sounded like gun fire. Everyone was on edge as beads of sweat begged to roll off and trigger any undetectable traps beneath their feet. There’d be the sound of muffled struggles, and no one would blink an eye. They just hoped nothing more would happen.

The grass soon turned to tropical woods, Eliot looked around taking in everything as he moved forward on light feet. His eyes traced along the tangled vines and umbrella like leaves above him. His eyes traced forward and fell upon the similar tundra, only this time found every leaf and piece of vine and bark speckled with holes, marking the figures in burns.

Suddenly he realized what it was, he looked over the marks more in detail, they seemed fresh enough. Then he studied the sky. “Napalm.” He whispered.

Buck looked over, “What do you mean?”

“Look at the trees. They’re burned, almost to a clearing just up ahead.” He answered.

There was silence again.

“If we find any bodies, then we know were in a blast zone.” Eliot said trying to sound calm.

But it was too late. They hadn’t even reached that point yet when a bomb went off above them. It exploded down like a rain. He heard it snap and crash into the trees, a few soldiers yell to take cover, as well as gun shots into nothing. Eliot grabbed back and shoved him out of the way of a few falling branches. The napalm began to string and eat away at his clothes, his helmet, and anything around him, like acid.

Another bomb went off, his vision was turning red he just wanted to survive and get everyone out. Mistakingly he turned his gaze upward towards the sound of the explosion, only to see a large branch come towards him. Buck grabbed him and pulled him out of the way. Eliot looked over him, half his face was burnt and his arm ready to split apart, but he kept his eyes forward and dazed.

Then he smiled at Eliot, “It’s been an honor my friend.” And with that he collapsed in front of him. Eliot tried something anything pleading for him to come back. He was yanked away by other soldiers kicking and screaming like a child, he tried to throw them off and get back to Buck he couldn’t leave him.

The napalm kept melting onto him and burnt his helmet and into his hair, he screamed more even has he was dragged away from the explosion, leaving Buck to disintegrate. His eyes fell shut in frustration until finally the private officer put a hand over his mouth to shut him up.

“You listen to me soldier! Get a fucking hold of yourself right now.” He said on a tone of an aggressive leader.

“You want to honor your friend then you focus forward on the ones around you still kicking!” He smacked Eliot’s face a few times when tears began to well up.

“Look at me dammit. Look at me!!!” He ordered.

Eliot opened his eyes, they were cold and broken. The officer held his face, “We aren't dying tonight.”

He was right, no matter how much he may have felt it he was the one soldier that managed to cheat death.

To be continued...

#writer speaks #brother #reader #my writings #tw war #tw death

[mahmoodjamal]

Tasting the Sky - Ibtisam Barakat PART I A Letter to No One 1981, Surda, West Bank Like a bird clawing The bars of a cage And wishing them branches, My fingers grasp The bus rails before me. But I wish for nothing. I'm midway from Birzeit to Ramallah, at the Israeli army checkpoint at Surda. No one knows how long our bus will stay here. An army jeep is parked sideways to block the road. Soldiers in another jeep look on with their guns. They are ready to shoot. A barrier that punctures tires stands near the stop sign. I regret that I chose to sit up front. The window of the bus frames the roadblock like a postcard that I wish I could send to all my faraway pen pals. They ask me to describe a day in my life. But I do not dare. If I told them of the fear that hides under my feet like a land mine, would they write back? A soldier leaps into the bus. He stands on the top step. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, dark like midnight. "To where?" He throws the question like a rock. I pull myhead toward my body like a tortoise. If I don't see him, perhaps he won't see me. He asks again. I stay silent. I don't think a high school girl like me is visible enough, exists enough for a soldier with a rifle, a pistol, a club, a helmet, and high boots to notice. He must be talking to the man sitting behind me. But he leans closer. His khaki uniform and the back of his rifle touch my knee. My flesh freezes. "To where?" He bends close to my face. I feel everyone on the bus nudging me with their anxious silence. "Ramallah," I stutter. "Ramallah?" he repeats as if astonished. "Khalas. Ma feesh Ramallah. Kullha rahat," he says in broken Arabic. The words sound like they have been beaten up, bruised so blue they can hardly speak their meaning. But I gather them. "There is no Ramallah anymore," he says. "It all should be gone by now." I search for the soldier's eyes, but his sunglasses are walls that keep me from seeing. I search for anything in his face to tell me more than the words he's just said about Ramallah. What does he mean? Are the homes all bulldozed down? And the people? My father and my family, will I find them? Will they wait for me? Fear is a blizzard inside me. A thousand questions clamor in my mind. It was less than an hour ago that I took the bus from Ramallah to Birzeit. Now I am returning. How could everything disappear in less than one hour? Something must be wrong with me. Perhaps I do not know how to think, how to understand my world. Today I chose to sit up front whenI should have chosen to hide in the back. I should have known a front seat lets one see more of what lies ahead. I want to open my mouth and let my feelings escape like birds, let them migrate forever. I am waiting for the soldier to step off the bus. But he doesn't. He counts us, then takes out a radio and speaks. I don't understand, and I am somehow content that I do not. I do not want to know what he says about me or the bus, or what he plans to do. He switches back to Arabic, takes the driver's ID, tells the driver to transport us all--the old passengers, the young, the mothers, students, everyone--to the Military Rule Center. He means the prison-court military compound on the way to Ramallah. I know where that is. It sits on the ground like a curse: large, grim, shrouded in mystery. In ten minutes our bus will be there. New soldiers wait for us at the entrance to the compound. One walks to our driver's window, tells him to let all the passengers off, then turn around and leave. The driver apologizes to us. He says if it weren't for the order, he would wait for us no matter how long it took. I wonder if he is afraid to continue on to Ramallah, to be alone when he finds out whether it's really in ruins. "Wait a moment," he says. "I will return your fare." But no one can wait. "Yallah! Yallah!" a soldier goads. "Hurry!" After a second head count, at gunpoint, we form a line and walk to a waiting area. We stand against a wall that faces the main door. The compound feels like the carcass of a giantanimal that died a long time ago. Its exterior is drab, bonelike, and hostile. We take out our IDs. Two soldiers collect them to determine if any of us had been caught in previous confrontations with the army. Our IDs inform on us. The orange-colored plastic covers, indicating that we all are Palestinian, pile up on the table like orange peels. Two college students, with thick books in their hands, are quickly separated from the group. For a moment, my dream of going to college feels frightening. "Hands up!" someone says, and one of the two soldiers now chooses the people he wants and inspects their bags, pockets, bodies. He skips the girls and women. All is quiet until he raises his hand to search a teenage boy standing next to me. Even before the soldier touches him, the boy starts to giggle. The sound breaking the anxious silence is shocking. At first, the giggles are faint, then they grow so loud that soldiers from outside the yard hear and come to see. The boy's laughter is dry and trembling. Worried. I know what he feels. He wants to cry, but in spite of himself, in spite of the soldiers and the guns, all he can do is giggle. Angered, the search soldier punches the boy, but like a broken cup that cannot hold its contents, the boy continues to laugh. The soldier punches him again. The boy's laughter now zigzags up and down like a mouse trying to flee and not knowing which way to turn. But a kick on the knee from the soldier's boot finally makes the boy cry. He folds down in pain and then is led inside the building. We stand still like trees--no talking, no looking at oneanother, no asking questions, no requesting water or trips to the bathroom, no sitting or squatting. We do not know what we are waiting for or why we are waiting. The hours stretch like rubber bands that break and snap against our skins, measured by the ticking of boots, going and coming across the yard, in and out of the building. I keep my eyes on our main guard, who now sits by the door. Lighting a cigarette from the dying ember of the one he has just finished and filling his chest with the flavor of fire, he makes frog cheeks and blows smoke rings that widen like binoculars as he glances at us through the smoky panel. He looks at us as though we are only suitcases in his custody I want to ask him if I can take out a pen and paper. If he lets me, I will empty myself of what I feel. I will distract myself from my hunger, for I have not eaten all day. And I will record details to give to my mother in order to avoid her wrath--if Ramallah is not really gone. But something in my mind wags a warning finger not to ask, not to do the wrong thing. It's a finger like Mother's, telling me to get home in a hurry, not ever to be late. But I am already many hours late. Mother tells me not to speak about politics. She is always afraid that something bad could happen suddenly. "Khalas, insay, insay," she demands impatiently. "Forget, just forget." And I do. I know less about politics than do most of my classmates. I never even learned how the colors of the Palestinian flag are arranged. Sometimes I glance at the outlawed flag during street demonstrations. I see it for seconds only,before the hand that holds it is shot at by Israeli soldiers. At times, I see the flag drawn in graffiti on walls. Someone does it at night and leaves it for us to discover in the morning. The soldiers spray over it during the day. Anyone caught with the Palestinian flag is punished. Mother does not want me or any of my siblings to do anything that could cause us even the slightest trouble with the army. "Imshy el-hayt el-hayt wu qool yallah el steereh," she says. Walk by the wall. Do not draw attention to yourself. Be invisible if you can, is her guiding proverb. If I see Mother again, I will tell her what happened to the bus at the checkpoint. "Why go to Birzeit?" She will slice at the air with her hands, half wanting to hear my answer, half wanting to hit me. Birzeit is where students go to college after finishing high school in Ramallah. Some also come from Gaza, Nablus, and other cities, towns, and refugee camps. In Birzeit, many students become active in politics and have fights with the Israeli army. They chant on the streets that they want freedom from the occupation. But I did not go there to chant for freedom. I have my freedom. It is hidden in Post Office Box 34. This is what takes me from Ramallah to Birzeit. Post Office Box 34 is the only place in the world that belongs to me. It belonged to my brother Basel first. He left Ramallah and did not want to give up the box, so he passed it on to me. On the days I don't go to Birzeit, I bury the key in the dirt under a lemon tree near our house. If I die, the key for the box will be under the ground with me. Having this box is like having a country, the size of atiny square, all to myself. I love to go there, dig the key out of my pocket, turn its neck around, open the door, then slowly let my hand nestle in and linger, even if the box is empty. I wish I could open my postbox every day. I feel that my hand, when deep inside it, reaches out to anyone on the other side of the world who wants to be my friend. Some postal worker in Birzeit must like me, perhaps because I put "Thank you to the postman" on all my envelopes. When many days go by without my coming for letters, I sometimes find a stick of chewing gum in my box. Someone has opened it first, written a line of cheerful poetry, then wrapped it again. Smiling, I skip out of the post office. I chew the line, taste its meaning. Paper and ink, poems and my postbox are medicines that heal the wounds of a life without freedom. On some days, I wish I could stay inside my postbox, with a tiny pillow made from a stamp with a flower on it. At the end of the day, I could cover myself up with one pinkenveloped letter and sleep on a futonlike stack of letters from my pen pals: Dimitri from Greece. He writes of a Greek holiday called No. I reply that all teenagers in the world should celebrate this day. Dimitri and I argue about baklava. He insists it's Greek. I assure him it is Arabic. Perhaps it is both, we finally decide to agree, since both our peoples love it. Luis from Spain. He is unhappy for reasons I do not understand. His country is not occupied, and he does not have a strict mother like mine. But I like it that he always writes something about basketball. He says when he gets out on the court he forgets all his worries. Hannah from Great Britain. What if I wrote "Great" next to "Ramallah" when I send my letter? From Great Ramallah to Great Britain. We would be equals then. Hannah's letters are always egg white, with the queen stamp, which I stare at for a long time. The crowned queen is beautiful. Hannah writes about the trips she takes with her family and the books she reads. She loves Gulliver's Travels and Emil and the Detectives, books that I, too, love, because Gulliver and Emil remind me of myself. Gulliver knows exactly what it is not to be free. And both Gulliver and Emil form fond friendships with strangers. Sally, a grandmother from America, speaks about eating turkey on Thanksgiving. "Eating a country?" I write back. She explains. And I laugh because Mother dislikes the "Roman rooster," our name for turkey. She would never let one in our house, much less cook it for a celebration. I have many pen pals: tourists, Holy Land pilgrims, and students who join pen pal programs to see the world through other people's words. Some write only once in a long while. Others write often. But all of them send me scraps of their lives translated into English, which I have been studying for six years, ever since I turned eleven. In return, I tell my pen pals about my school, friends, teachers, studies. I describe the seasons, the land, the wheat and olive harvests, and the Eid celebrations. Looking into a hand mirror, I describe myself if I don't have a picture to send. Translating many words and sentences, I also write about the Arabic language. I explain that verbs in Arabic form roots that create trees of nouns and word structures. An yaktub means towrite. Maktoob means a written letter. Katebah is a female writer. Ala-katebah is a typewriter. Kitab is a book. Maktab is a desk for writing. Maktabah is a library, the place where one finds books. All these words grow from the root verb kataba. Making words in Arabic is like planting a field with seeds, growing an orchard--words hang on the vines like grape clusters, leaves throw shadows of meanings to the ground. I am eager to answer all my pen pals' questions about language. But when they ask me about my childhood, suddenly I have nothing to say. It's like a curtain comes down and hides my memories. I do not dare part it and look. So I skip all childhood questions and reply only about the day. Today, I wish I could tell my pen pals that I was going to Birzeit to open my postbox, to meet their words. There were no letters from anyone. Maybe they were on their way, but the postal trucks were unable to get to Birzeit. The roads and mail system here are like our country, broken. Letters are like prayers; they take a long time to be answered. What would my pen pals say if I told them that I am standing at a detention center because I went to open my postbox for their letters? Now, gazing at the ground under my feet, I remember that I need to make up something ingenious to convince Mother that I did not go to Birzeit to talk to college boys or do anything related to Palestine or politics. I usually cannot convince her of anything. She is cleverer than I am. She is cleverer than anyone I know. Perhaps ten mothers in Ramallah are not clever at all because she has gotten their share of cleverness. When unsatisfied, she pokes my chest and curses me. To answer her, I write poems about the cruelty of mothers. "What difference is there between a mother and a soldier? None." I underline my answer. "Mothers and soldiers are enemies of freedom. I am doubly occupied." I post the poems on the wall like freedom graffiti or tuck them in "her journal," a journal that I keep only for my mother. She reads it when I am gone. Often, however, I write good words in her journal, hoping that when she sees them she will know that I care about her and be gentler with me. "God, I feel terrible for Mother because she works so hard. And I don't know what it is to be a mother in a land filled with soldiers and war. Please make her happy. Take from my happiness if that's the only way to help." "Liar," she pencils next to my words, then erases it. The faint traces remain. I see them. We never speak about her journal, but we meet there to say the things we cannot say out loud. My true journal is written with no pen or paper, but in my mind, with an invisible hand in the air. No one will ever find it. When Mother says to come home, I write in my mind that I feel at home nowhere. I want to wander the streets after school, walk forever, walk away from a world I do not understand, a world that tells me daily there is no place in it for me. And it is not just Mother who is afraid and watches over me. Father does, too. My parents, Suleiman and Mirriam, whom I call Yaba and Yamma, often disagree on things, but when it comes to me, they act as though they never disagree.My father copies his feelings from Mother the way one copies homework. On some mornings, they whisper a few words, then my father pretends to go to work early. But he waits outside until I walk to school, and follows me. He must want to see how I behave on the streets when I am alone. He does not know that I read him the way I read a street sign, and that I watch for him every day the way I watch for the snipers on top of the large buildings in Ramallah. They, too, watch how we walk and what we do. Without looking at them, we know exactly where they are. When my father walks behind me, as if he thinks he can outwit me, I feel sad. How little he knows me. "Yaba, why not wait outside until I leave?" I said one morning. "What for?" he asked. "So that you can follow me," I fumed. He became outraged and charged after me. I bolted into a room and locked the door. "Why do you challenge me?" he shouted. I opened the door and walked right up to him. He only shook his head, blamed my defiance on my schooling, and blamed himself for sending me to school. "You dig your head into your Nakleezi books like a sheep, grazing all day," he said, and sighed, perhaps wishing he, too, could read English books. I know that my father does not really want to put down my schooling, especially because of the way he treats the word chair, the only word in English he knows. He says it with pride, moves it around in his speech as though to gaina better view of things. He sits on it like it's a throne. Yet it is a lonely chair. My love for language and words seems to come between us. It takes away his authority over me. The books, not he, are my references. The soldiers are another force that separates us. Father knows that they, not he, are the ones who control every one of us. We are not free to be a family the way he wants, with him a lion in our lives. He is like a lion in the zoo. Any of us can be taken away any day. No one can stop that, no matter how hard he roars from the fenced space allotted to him. I compare my father with the fathers of other girls. He is poorer than many, and war lives inside him. Every night, he wakes up shouting that someone is going to kill him, kill us all. He punches at the air, kicks with his feet to free himself, and cries for someone to help him. Mother sleeps on the farthest edge of the bed to avoid getting hit. She pretends she does not hear his cries. But every night I run to comfort him. I bring him a cup of water and sit beside him. I ask him to tell me what he sees. Catching his breath, he mixes words and tears. My father has no language for the pain and loneliness he feels. Is that because he has lived all his life not knowing freedom? Or does he hide his freedom somewhere, the way I hide mine in Post Office Box 34? It is late afternoon, and we are still standing, still waiting at the detention center. My feet are aching for rest. Then, unexpectedly, I am released. My tears drip onto my shoes. Tears are my secret ink, inthe absence of real ink. Liquid stories. On the air that comes into and leaves my chest, I write all the things that happen to me. "Now the soldier hands me my ID and tells me that I can go home ..." I run toward the center of Ramallah, my heart heavy, as if it has stones in it. Questions rattle in my mind. What did the soldier on the bus mean? But ... Ramallah ... is ... still ... there. It is there. Juabah newspaper shop, Salaam taxicab office, Fam boutique, Abu Azmi grocery shop, Zabaneh market, Salah pharmacy are all closed, but all are there. I want to hold Ramallah the way one holds oneself when there is no one else to touch. Quickly, I realize that some fight between Palestinian protesters and Israeli soldiers must have taken place. The streets are deserted, except for speeding military vehicles. I walk cautiously. I feel afraid and alone. "Walk by the wall." Mother's proverb now guides me like a map. I hurry up until I get to the street near our home. But there, my heart begins to race, and my mind begins to fill with soldiers. Suddenly, I can see the kinds of things that my father describes in his nightmares. With every step I take, more images of war appear. I stagger through the door under Mother's scrutinizing eyes. She is filled with fury. But one look into my face, and all turns into worry. "What happened?" she gasps. I tell her that the soldiers detained me with many others. I tell her that, like Father, I have become ill with war. I describe to her the images I see. But I do not say I had gone to Birzeit. Perhaps she does not really want to know. For this, I am grateful. "When a war ends, it does not go away," she says. "It hides inside us." She knows. "Do not walk that road," she warns me. "Insay. Insay." "Just forget!" But I do not want to do what Mother says. I cannot follow her advice. I want to remember. Sinking in the sea Of forgetfulness I reach for the raft of remembering. Where the small girl I once was Stands alone, Holds a key to the postal box of memory, And awaits The day When she will Find her home By asking Her heart to Take her there.

#memior #biography #art #poetry #literature