#we need to bring back schoolhouse rock or something

[henpeckedho]

Okay so I'm just going to put this out there: y'all really need to learn what a President can and cannot do.

A President is NOT a dictator. They cannot do just whatever they want, whenever they want. This is a good thing.

A President can only codify a law IF IT IS PASSED BY CONGRESS FIRST.

Biden literally cannot do anything other than urge people do the right thing until a resolution passes Congress.

Since partway through Clinton's term Congress has been doing less and less every year because of shitty political maneuvering.

Please get mad at the right people. Yell at your Congress person. Vote in midterms to solidify a Democratic house and help turn the Senate (don't at me about the Senate right now--two "Democratic" senators are really Republicans and we all know it).

Don't even try to tell me voting doesn't work. How do you think we got a 6-3 majority in the SC? Because Republicans have been systematically showing up to every local and state election for over 30 years and now they have majority control of 26 states. They have control in the majority of state judicial branches. They showed up to the boring, uncool elections. They control city councils. They control state governments. And Democrats/third party could, too...if people show up to vote. But voting numbers don't lie. And we don't.

Get involved in grassroot organizations to increase voting registration and access. Stacy Abrams helped GA vote blue in the last Presidential election because she and her organizers got people to the polls. AL a while back got a Democratic senator for 2 years because we got people to vote. Republican politicians openly discuss the fact they only have the support of 30% of the country. But only that 30% consistently turns out to the polls. They have also openly said that they spread the word voting doesn't work so they can keep winning. When you say voting doesn't work you are spreading Republican propaganda.

#not sorry for yelling #i'm so sick of people not understanding the system #the system is broken and needs to be fixed #but you have to make sure you're actually IN the system to even stop the facism #we need to bring back schoolhouse rock or something #and eo's are not laws #because if eo's were laws one i and other trans people would be dead from trump pence #and two that would make the president a dictator #we do not want dictators

[beardedmrbean]

Hi, sorry about yesterday, I don’t mean that Americans don’t hold onto their heritage and such taught that America was a Melting Pot of multiple cultures and we do our own twists

https://youtu.be/IQ28jC6zG9k?si=KVkqbfE1KmOjXlD7

But I’m trying to figure out why white Americans never develop a pan Europe thing.

I think the back to back of dealing European issues with the war worlds created a culture shocks for Americans

Never read a ww2 American biography yet, but did many American soldiers go like this

“My fellow European cousins! How are you…wait your that short? Your culture does what? You eat THAT?! Oh….man this feel weird..”

Obviously not all Americans didn’t have a clue what Europe was like. But imagine a working class American when airplanes were basically a an elite thing going to Europe back then?

Now I’m saying this because African Americans fetishization of Africa. Tbh I’m going to say this for another anon as Netflix Cleo documentary pointed out that African Americans keep stealing other cultures like Egypt because “duh it from Africa” without context

My false Eden idea going to play a role

No worries, no need to apologize we do tend to Americanize things even the things we brought with us, Sketti and Meatballs is a American dish so is chop suey in much the same way that chicken tikka masala is a national British dish, that was fun watching people lose their shit over. I want some now too.

Oh schoolhouse rock, bet there's people that would call this racist now. No cultural sharing alowed.

But I’m trying to figure out why white Americans never develop a pan Europe thing.

Few reasons for that I think, big one being we came here by choice to put it bluntly,

Another may have to do with the volumes of information we have and have had for a long time about the various countries and regions in Europe where as Africa was mostly split up between the desert and not the desert, learned some German history in High School but did you learn about Chad or Kenya. That's a thing that's getting better too.

We also have to consider the ramifications if something like that started up, look at the hoteps and then change everything to white european and see what image pops into your head, since they do exist they're just treated like pariahs because it's all hateful nonsense.

Never read a ww2 American biography yet, but did many American soldiers go like this “My fellow European cousins! How are you…wait your that short? Your culture does what? You eat THAT?! Oh….man this feel weird..”

Probably a few, probably didn't bring out too much of the odd cuisine for the troops coming through, likely didn't have much to offer after all.

Audrey Hepburn told the story of when her town was liberated, American soldier gave her some chocolate which was worth its weight in gold to her at the time, then they set up a projector and watched a movie in the town square I believe, GI's brought in supplies food and such, oh and iirc she said it was a war movie they put on, but nobody was worried.

So likely not a whole lot of that going on, WWI maybe since everything was on lines with the trenches.

Obviously not all Americans didn’t have a clue what Europe was like. But imagine a working class American when airplanes were basically a an elite thing going to Europe back then? Now I’m saying this because African Americans fetishization of Africa. Tbh I’m going to say this for another anon as Netflix Cleo documentary pointed out that African Americans keep stealing other cultures like Egypt because “duh it from Africa” without context My false Eden idea going to play a role

We had books and stories but no doubt the farmboys that got drafted had no clue on a bunch of it, ya flying was a big expensive deal not a standard thing to have done.

I'll never understand how the whole claiming of north africa got going, I mean if they actually believe it you'd think they'd scream and yell about Arabs being colonizers, which they are, but the we wuz crowd seems to give them a pass in my experience for some reason.

Being a Pan European, would just get you called a white supremacist that or a supporter of the EU, both terrible things to be called in my book.

#zoomer huey annon

[renee-writer]

Loved Her First Chapter 20

A/N This chapter cis a mix of @omgbarbiegurl and It's words. From' She stood in the doorway to' in the empty air' are her brilliant words.

AO3

The men are busy building Faith’s schoolroom. Their women want their children educated and, now that they have a learned woman, the Laird’s own daughter, here to do it, they want a place for it. It keeps the men busy. The women are equally as busy, with chores and child raising. Claire with her doctoring while dealing with early pregnancy, not easy at her age.

Jamie is soon able to lead his daughter to the cave turned schoolhouse. She gasps at seeing it. He kisses her and leaves her to admire it on her own.

Faith stood in the doorway of the cave, taking in her little Schoolhouse.

Her Da, Uncle Ian, Jeremiah, Ian, and Rabbie had all worked hard to bring it up to her, (apparently), picky standards.

There was a large white sheet suspended between two nails buried into the rock to use as a makeshift chalkboard. Her chalk would be the ash from the fireplace Ian and Jeremiah had built against the wall to keep everyone warm.

Slates had been purchased with pencils; split logs hauled into the cave would serve as benches.

Her desk was the best part though.

Her Da had built it with his own two hands, she could see and feel the love that went into it. Was it any wonder she had sobbed over it when he presented it to her.

He had been dismayed, thinking she didn’t like it, but her hugs and kisses had reassured him that she did.

She was going to have 15 students in all; the oldest was Brianna, (who was not happy about taking orders from her sister), and the youngest was the 4-year-old daughter of one of the tenants whose Mother had been very excited for her daughter to get educated.

Faith sighed softly and turned to head where she collided into Ian.

“What in the world?”

“I was just bringing ye some wood.”

“Oh, thank you.”

She moved aside to let him in and sighed softly.

“Getting nervous are ye?”

“How did you know?”

“Ye have a tell.” He set the wood down and turned to her. “When ye get nervous, ye twist your hair out of yer bun.”

He walked over and twirled the strands of hair hanging from her bun around his fingers.

“Ye have no reason to be nervous, the bairns will adore you.”

“I am not worried about them adoring me, I am worried about them obeying me.”

“They will do that as well.”

“Well-”

He blew out a breath. “Faith, ye are a learned woman from the Colonies, they know to heed yer word.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts’. Ye are gonna be wonderful, and if this doesn’t pan out, ye will be marrying me in a years’ time, so no need to worry.”

Her eyes narrowed and Ian felt his balls shrink a little.

“What do you mean, ‘no need to worry’?

“Well, I uh just figured ye would no be interested in teaching after we marry. Ye will be busy with our house and bairns.”

“Excuse me? Why would I suddenly be content just to sit around the house, wait for my husband to get home, and get pregnant? I have better things to do, you know.”

“I just assumed that…”

“That I would just roll over and spread my legs after you praise my housekeeping skills?”

“Uh…”

She doesn’t let him finish his sentence, instead, she storms past him out of the cave and to her waiting horse.

She says nothing, just mounts the horse and rides off, leaving Ian with his mouth hanging open.

“What just happened?” He asked to the empty air.

He jumps back on his own mound and hurries after her, “Wait!” He calls out as he catches up to her. A sharp order in Gaelic halts both horses.

“Let me be Ian Murray!”

“Nae, I said something that upset you and I shan’t leave until I straighten it out.” She huffs as he dismounts and lifts her off her horse also, “I dinna ken want it be like in the colonies so please, my heart, tell me what ye expect after we be married?”

She bites her lips as tears tinkle out of her eyes and start to run down her cheek. She has to recall that her expectations and his are going to be different. “I expect to keep working at least until our first is born. I expect to return when are bairns are old enough to join me in the classroom.”

It seems reasonable to him. “Then that is what you shall do.”

She exhales sharply. “Truly?”

“Aye. You are more then just my intended and my Laird’s daughter. You are Faith Fraser, yer own person.”

She throws her arms about him. “Thank you Ian. I love you.”

“I love you.” He hugs her tight.

#my writing #outlander fanfic #omgbarbiegurl and i's #loved her first #chapter 20 #jamie and claire #cannon divergence #outlander fandom

[nsomniacsdream]

They need to bring nic cage back and do a national treasure 4:2national 2treasure.

Wide opening shot of Washington D.C.: panning down and zooming into the Lincoln Memorial.

NIC: Look Tommy, right here on Lincoln's luscious tush! It's the code, just like it said in Benjamin Franklin's sex worker registry!

Other guy: this is why it's all about the Benjamin's baby! *they fist pound*

Cut to a week later in England, "Hail to the queen" is playing and we focus on Big Ben, so the Americans know it's england:

Girl Character: Nic, how are we supposed to figure out this code? It's a bunch of numbers and then the letter H!

Nic: Using the lace garter we stole out of Franklin's sex dungeon, laying it across the code like so... the next clue is on the queen of England's Gooch!

Girl character and Other guy stare at each other in silence for a second..

GC: what.

Outside of buckingham palace, or some other castle, who's gonna know:

Nic: I'm gonna dress up as a member of the guard and sneak up to her room, she takes her sleeping pills at 8, so I'll have time to really study the "area".

GC: Other guy and I will be disguised as the security change over, so we will be watching you from the cameras.

*Note* If you zoom and enhance during this scene, you can briefly see two men barely touch hands in the background, Disney fans have already flooded the internet with glee over Disney's first gay couple.

Interior: Queens bedroom, four poster bed with curtains around it.

We see Nic thru the security camera: Bangkok Dangerous, baby.

GC: What was that?

Nic: nothing. Now to get this done.

NIC CAGE gets down between the queens (played by Sacha baron Cohen, but not acknowledged by anyone) legs. His head dips, and comes up with a peach pit in his teeth. His eyebrows waggle as he spits it off camera.

Sacha, groggily, high pitched: oh no ones been twixt my nethers but my cousins, oh ho ho.

Nic freezes, then grins. He looks to the camera: At least it's not bees.

Exterior: Congress.

GC: This clue I'm just not getting. "Lich *smudges* baby phylactery"?

Nic: it's Mitch McConnell. His dong looks like the eraserhead baby.

GC: wtf are you talking about?

OG: yeah, this is like common knowledge. There's a schoolhouse rock about it, you would know if you weren't British.

Nic and OG, in tune: Oh I am a bill, I'm just a bill, and I'm terrified of McConnells eraserhead dill!

GC: you yanks are fucking crazy.

Nic: what was that?

GC: I said I'm constantly impressed by you.

Interior, Speakers Podium. Mitchs phylactery has been found and the souls of the innocent he harvested by exacerbating poverty are pouring out of his mouth. Our heroes has done it: they saved America.

Nic: I'm never going to unsee that.

GC: somehow, im attracted to you.

They embrace, it is reminiscent of a really big jerky smashed up against a barbie doll.

OG: ah hell no, nic! The secret service is saying we can't take any credit for this because something something national security!

Nic: that's OK T-dog. (The actor playing Other Guy was switched with a black guy for this scene, scheduling conflicts). I dont do this for fame. Because the real national treasure was the friends we found along the way.

OG: your breath smells like 1000 year old liniment and what I have to imagine was the first fish to crawl out of the primordial seas.

They all laugh, high five freeze frame.

The end.....?

[thestrandedrpg]

MERIDIUM NEWS: MAY

News travels through the air on the island like salt on a sea breeze. Here is the gossip currently circulating as of May 1, 2022. Read on below the cut!

GENERAL NEWS / NOTICES:

HELP WANTED: Tamyra Williams is looking for any volunteers who would like to help her to make her dream come true - a play of her own making that will bring her back to what she knows and loves the most, acting! Volunteers can help both during the preparation and rehearsal stage, during the play itself, or afterward in the clean up. Payment is knowing that the job is well done and the best seats in the audience. Once in a lifetime opportunity, don’t miss your chance now! KNOW YOUR NEIGHBOUR: This feature spotlights something new and/or exciting about a resident. Today's lucky person is Wren! Did you know that she runs a secret starfish hospital where any starfish who's lost a limb may rest and recover until it grows back? There are some who say "what a waste of time, Wren" or "that's natural selection, Wren" or "is that my tshirt you ripped up to make slings with, Wren??" but don't listen to them! Give donations to this little angel in her charity mission.

FARM MENU: In an effort to provide balanced meals to a bunch of idiots who only seem to eat raw mangoes and avocadoes, Farmer Hardy has offered to prepare cooked dishes. First come first served. Unless you disguise yourself and get in line again because let's be honest, Farmer Tomas is a little woo-woo in the wee-wah these days and he can't tell.

- arepas with your choice of filling (fried plantain, creamed saltfish, egg & tomato, brown sugar) - stewed black eyed peas with salt beef and boiled cassava - tamales (sweet corn, octopus, or salted & garlicked oranges for some reason) - something called filliq berry that grows only on Meridium and tastes like blackberry and coffee, only available mashed and shaken with sugarcane water. May cause intense paranoia and fixation on one minor social mishap in your past life. Don't come crying to us if you suddenly remember that time you opened a soda can without knowing it had been shaken up and sprayed it all over your project partner AND the photos of their newborn that they were showing you.

NOTICE: this friday, at the falls, the only and only Theo Delaurier will be hosting a HANDWASHING CLASS. She strongly encourages anyone who cooks food to attend as she has noticed a rise in food borne illnesses. Attendants will be rewarded with some medicinal herbs and a coupon to a free medical exam, in which Theo promises to try very hard not to roll her eyes at you. addendum: if you were part of Kotka's cult, you will be publicly humiliated and turned away. small to medium sized rocks may be thrown. addendum 2: duo don't even bothering with the whole 'we need each other to survive' shit. theo reserves the right not to educate or care for people who attacked her people. 

NOTICE: Maura Gallagher's unfinished school house is now back on the market, free of charge to whoever has no moral qualms about repurposing a dead woman's pet project for their own gain. Interested parties should contact ~wait, did she even have anyone to notify~ Emre Akbar, i guess? If the schoolhouse doesn't suit your real estate needs, her hut is also now vacant. Her signature denim jacket, along with her few earthly possessions, are now up for grabs! Happy scavenging!

FOUND:  A fishing net that when opened out has the words 'piss off' woven on it.  Belongs either to a hunter/fisher with some deep-seated issues about fishes or a spider named Charlotte.  Please see J.George for collection. This time on Meridium Musicale Magica: Another mixtape playlist dedicated to our resident Meridium Pollyanna, Ms Lily Takahashi!  Sent in by her admirer P.A. Rotte.  We got some great bops on this one: Homeward Bound - Simon & Garfunkel Mama, I'm Coming Home - Ozzy Osbourne Country Roads, Take me Home - John Denver Who Says You Can't Go Home - Jon Bon Jovi Won't Go Home Without You - Maroon 5 Almost Home - Mariah Carey Welcome Home (Sanitarium) - Metallica Goin' Home - The Rolling Stone Obelisk Eye never closes! This week our Obelisk Operatives (ObOps) have collected the following mysteries! So pull out your magnifying glass, write in the sand, and let's do some sleuthing. - One ObOp spied Wren Augustine perched at the top of the obelisk itself.  In a feat of engineering, it seems she's trying to build a treehouse balanced on the point, to rival that of Lily Takahashi!  Will she succeed?  We wish her well in attempting to block the Obelisk's lidless eye.  ha hah.  Hahhhhhh Ha.  AAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAA - LAGOON-MULTIVERSES ALERT!!  We've received first-hand reports that the lagoon will take you to new worlds and vistas unlike anything seen on Meridium!  One witness claimed to swim through a lagoon portal that took them to a world of lime jell-o!  The Obelisk Eye isn't sure what jell-o is, but we heard it's both delicious and dangerous.  If you visit another world, let an ObOps know! - The Obelisk's lidless eye gives its coveted EYE SPY award to one Amber Chase!  We have never seen someone on the island so determined to be cute and shady at the same time.  Has our resident investigator Kaz finally acquired a rival to match his own ferreting acumen?  One ObOp spied him burning old notebooks whilst loudly grinding his teeth. Revenge, or defeat? - We spotted the mysterious Sandra, who claimed she was playing a game of hide-and-seek with Amelia.  After following after Sandra for 5 hours, we determined she was not seeking Amelia out at all.  When questioned, Sandra had this polite response: 'I've determined that Amelia hides very well and in fact prefers to stay hidden.  This game will guarantee she remains so, therefore I believe I have done her a favour. Please stop bothering me.' Any other news to report?  Become an ObOp or risk being spied on!   Always remember:   T̶̪͋̓́̂͌̀̾͆͠H̷̺̙̥̟̼̿Ĕ̸̱͇̮̬̄̒̓̍̓̃ ̴̡͕̗͕̱͈̘͛́͋̀̈́̀̚͠͠ͅȎ̶̞̙͈͉͈̙̥͒͒̐̒͜͜B̸̧̪̀̎̃̓̉̌͠͝Ę̴͔͚̰̠͖̠̘͒̌̂͑̓́̓͝L̷̨͇̺̣̜̾̋̊̀̀͜Į̴̛̮͇̭͙̠̣̱̓̏S̴̡̗̦͚̠͖̺͋̉̾K̸͙̜̠̬̟͇͂́̎̀̒̑̇͜͝ͅ ̸̞̗̺͍̥̒̊̊̾̕͝͠͝E̵̯̺̼̤͉͉͆̄̈́́͝Ỹ̷͎̦̟͉̗̞̊͘E̷̖̫̫͂̑̽̋̈́͠ ̸͉͙̥͂̐̈́͛̊͠N̴͈̾͠È̷̬̜̘̘̇̑̈́̍͋͂͌̔͠Ṽ̴̫̰̥͓̱͕͓͆̐̈́Ȩ̸̛̦͈̗̯̘̫͙̇̀̌̾̑͊R̴̼̣̃̈́͊͠ ̸̡̖̝̬̝̊̈̕C̴̰̰̉̄̃̑͒Ļ̶̢̱̬͇̻̈́̔̈́͋̽O̵̼͍͔͂S̴̭͍̆̉͘̕E̶̮͓̯͕̓͌͋̋̉̓S̸̤̞̘͙̘͂̎̎̇̿̽͆̎̊͝!̴̣̪͈̜̲̈́̾̂̐̍̍͊͊͝   FARMER'S MONTHLY EXCERPT:  It's been determined that Meridium rice grows steady and strong with a helping of blood fertilizer.  Tomas Hardy - once a curmudgeonly expert farmer and now a pleasantly confused doorstop can attest to this as a known fact, given his blood was first to fertilize the staple crop.  The question being: will people eat blood-rice?  We'll put Siva to the test and report our findings.It has also been determined that the high ground settlement farm is now yielding mushrooms!  Quite by accident, most of them unfortunately poisonous.  But Sisco remains positive.  Or - our apologies, we mean positively addled. Q: What do you call a post-war French mademoiselle who sent herself through weeks of penance, only to find herself caught between honesty and secrets? A: Film noir Q:  What do you call a 70+ year old French woman struggling to find her way through dark tunnels, even darker phobias, hidden memories trapped in the dark recesses of her mind, and deep dark lagoon pathways? A: Canal Plus Special Farm Menu Item now available:  Saddy Madi! Stop by the farm to request a specialty drink for all your post-beast traumatized needs.  This drink is guaranteed to amp your anxiety, feed into all your worst worries, and help you work yourself to the bone while forgetting to eat.  Simple, clean, natural ingredients: - a jigger of beestings (only harvest from bees who've naturally expired RIP), finely crushed - crushed ice that is NOT derived from Emre Akbar - aloe, lots and lots of aloe - five teardrops.  Use topshelf Madi Byrd tears of guilt, for best taste. Mix well and serve raw and uncooked, at least five feet away from any fire because don't you know by now that fires only leave scars and broken hearts??  

DEAR MS. MERIDIUM:

Anonymous islanders are invited to voice their questions, complaints, and compliments to the island itself. Replies are not guaranteed.

Dear Ms Meridium, I need advice.  I've recently had a 4-man palanquin constructed to escort me around the island, and I might also hire it out to others (Hollywood actresses? mothers with babies?) interested in being carried long distances. My problem is finding manpower.  I require four strong tall men, and have succeeded in only locating three men.  A doctor, a man laying on a rock, and someone who has no interest in aiding me.  That's my problem.  Ms Meridium, what I'm asking is for you to procure me a tall man as my fourth. This island is in dire need of height! Regards, I'm Average Not Short

Dear Ms Meridium, Today I found a man, let's call him K. Raval.  No - no let's say his name is Kaz R.  This man was found asleep near the sea stairs, as the tide was coming in!  I'm not sure how he got there, but this isn't the first time I've seen Kraval lie dead asleep in rather odd places.  One time it was near the mouth of a known hog cave known for its hogs, another time I found him flopped so close to the heart tree fire, he could have rolled into it!  I want to offer him a sleeping draught but I'm afraid I might either accidentally poison him or he'll refuse anything I try to give him (on account that it might accidentally poison him, so.  This is reasonable).  Any advice on how to help? Gracias, Hijo de la Madre Dear Ms. Meridium, Hey, long term fan/ first time writer. Quick question- how long can you pretend to be checking on a now completely healthy patient before she realizes you’re into her? Also, what do you do about the fact that she’s a literal goddess? I mean, that thick black hair and those lips- sorry, I’m getting off track. While I’ve got you here, any advice on getting over your childhood crush that just happens to be stranded on the same deserted island as you? Thanks, Hopeless Romantic  Dear Ms. Meridium, Hear me out: Suresh wasn't a real person. He was a composite glob-creature created from coagulated water from all three lagoons, sent here to sow discord and strife. Did anybody bang him? I don't think so. Irrefutable proof right there. EMRE AKBAR WAS FRAMED BUSH DID 9/11 Sincerely, Conspiracy Tunafish Dear Ms. Meridium, What's this I keep hearing about a jinn being responsible for shit on the island? This is such bad mojo because I don't know if they mean Robin Williams or Will Smith. Those are two very different jinn and I need to understand which is messing with my life. Please clear this up for me, someone. Confused, Ain't Never Had a Friend Like Who?? Dear Ms. Meridium, If that Libby chick is teaching piano lessons I think she should offer them to EVERYONE not just her child and that hot Kaz lizard. I want to learn how to play Montero (Call Me By Your Name) on the piano and I think it's unfair that right now I have to just pretend that Iyaz Akbar's leg is my keyboard. Although I would like to do other CMBYN content with him once I find a peach hee hee! Tee hee hee! Cutely, A Precious Pony Who's Swangin

AO-TREE

The latest Meridium fanfiction submissions can be found pinned to the back of the Heart Tree. Let’s check out the latest titles!

TITLE: second chances RATING: G SUMMARY: talia ifrani, emre akbar and madi byrd grew up as thick as thieves, friends for life. at least that’s what they thought - when tragedy hit and talia disappeared, it drove a vedge between the two remaining friends and madi decided to run from the pain and move to america

now decades later they both found themselves on an island that was nothing like they’ve known before - and to their surprise, talia living on it. the three are faced with each other, their past hurts, and have to figure out if their friendship could survive, or if they would all go on their separate ways

TITLE: if i’d only knew you back then (maybe we could have made it work) RATING: G SUMMARY: what if when jupiter george headed to hollywood, she managed to find her father, and most importantly, her sister. the truth revealed much earlier to tamyea williams, the two navigate the risky business of the truth while also trying to find a way to deal with each other - modern!au

TITLE: i’ll fight you i promise (but maybe we will both like it) RATING: R SUMMARY: emre akbar was meant to be more than the villain of the story - he was supposed to be the hero. and yet, a few mistakes later, he found himself being hated and presumed to want to destroy the world. and if that is what’s expected of him, who is he to defy the entire world, correct?

enter kaz raval, the appointed savior, the one who was supposed to stop emre from ever succeeding in his goals. the only problem, they have once spent a summer together entangled in each other before outside circumstances forced them apart. now they have to face each other - except kaz is still as gorgeous and enticing as ever, and it’s much easier to fall in bed with him again than to fight him. to the public, they are mortal enemies. to each other… well, only time can tell (superhero!au)

TITLE: rock on! RATING: T SUMMARY: the castaways is a world-wide known lady singing group. they are on top of the world, touring and winning every award there is. but while everything is shiny from the outside, things are much messier behind the scenes:

the lead singer, libby, is sleeping with their manager AND a guitar player from another band; ilona, their guitar player, gets into a gambling debt and she cannot see a way out; hazel, the background singer, hazel, is studying to be a nurse which means late nights and her twin sister swapping in for her from time to time (without anyone knowing, of course!); the keyboard player, jupiter insists that she can see ghosts and that more and more of them are attending their concert with a sinister plan; lily, the drummer is stuck between a rock and a hard place - she wants to be part of the group, but she fears her reckless, violent past coming back to haunt her and threaten the group; and lastly, the bass player and composer is quickly falling for a fan

what could possibly go wrong?

TITLE: when the stars abound are shining down on us RATING: M SUMMARY: thulani kaba could never explain how his camera survived, why it kept on working. maybe the same magic that kept the people the same age kept the camera working as well. it didn’t matter, it gave him a comfort he’s always been grateful for. it was easier to watch and get to know people through its lenses - and his latest interest, after climbing out of the lagoon and finding a whole new group of people on the beach, was esther achebe. she was strong and fierce and loyal and always seemed to be caring for others - but who would care for her? thulani wouldn’t mind taking on that burden (canon divergence fic)

TITLE: hit me with your best shot RATING: T SUMMARY: lily is a freshman at north beach high and the first one in a hundred years who makes the women vollyball team in her freshman year. she quickly realizes that there is an extremely strong rivalry between the north beach high team and the south beach high one. lily has to prove herself on the team and bond with the other girls //story one of three of high school!au

TITLE: where heroes are made RATING: G SUMMARY: prophecies given out at camp halfblood aren’t the most regular thing, but still, nobody is fully surprised when cian’s eyes turn white and he recites the prophecy for the next big quest. soon a team is assembled, and somehow cian finds himself on it along with iyaz and iyaz’s overprotective brother, emre. the goal is simple - make sure the phophecy never gets fullfilled and evil isn’t released, yada-yada-yada. really, if he could figure out a way to spend some time alone with iyaz during all of this, he would much appreciate that

TITLE: if only i move an inch (don’t you feel the tension too) RATING: R SUMMARY: aurélie gets a phone call that tomas, her cousin has been in a car accident and wants to rush to him, but he lives across country. tamyra offers to drive her friend, who should not be doing so in this emotional state. a sudden pour of rain forces them to stop at the first motel by the side of the road. of course, there is only one room left, and of course, there is only one bed. what a shocker

TITLE: if you just look into my eyes, i might see a shine RATING: M SUMMARY: the first time wren meets her husband, kaz raval, is when she walks down the island. an arranged marriage to form a strong partnership between the two families, but wren wants nothing of the sort and considers running off and hiding away. but slowly the two of them get closer and closer (arranged marriage!au)

TITLE: if only others would stay away RATING: T SUMMARY: hazel beaufort has a problem - not kissing her roommate. it’s getting harder and harder and it seems like madi would like that too - and yet, the outside world keeps interfering

college au that shows five times hazel and madi get cockblocked from kissing, and one time they don’t

TITLE: what the hell to do now? RATING: G SUMMARY: emre doesn’t even remember the time he slept with this woman, and yet apparently he is a father, and with the mother passing on unexpectedly, he gets sole custody of the baby. iyaz is skeptical and wants to do a paternity test, but emre can do it. he practically raised iyaz, he can raise his own child. and if the lady living next door wants to help? even better for him, he’s been interested in aurélie since the two met

TITLE: hold me in the dark (we are here together, don’t be afraid) RATING: T SUMMARY: rarepair!ilona/toni (modern au) - during what was supposed to be a fun trip, the two of them get stuck in a cave system together, cut off from everyone else and low chances of survival. they have to keep the hope alive in each other, while deeper emotions and tragedies come to the surface

TITLE: sing me a song (help me save the art) RATING: M SUMMARY: libby bloom is the art teacher of meridium high school and she loves it. and yet, without any warning matthew alphonsus, the school director, announces to her that the art department will be shut down and suddenly libby feels like she is in a hallmark movie without an actual love interest - except this is her life, and now she has to figure out a way to save this place. and maybe, by the end of it, a love interest shows up too, in the form of the music teacher, tomas hardy. if she plays her cards right, that is

TITLE: one step too close to disaster RATING: T SUMMARY: tomas hardy is ready for his wedding day. the only problem? most of his friends think he is marrying the wrong girl. even bigger problem? the universe seems to agree about that too?

the night before the big day, three women (in spirit form; how this was even possible, tomas wasn’t sure, all of these women were alive and some were even coming to his wedding!) visit him - women who have meant a lot to him in different ways and different steps of his life, each exploring one aspect of his love life: the past, the present, the future. can these spirits change his mind or would he make the biggest mistake of his life?

TITLE: your aim is almost as bad as your cooking RATING: R SUMMARY: amber chase and gabriel beaumont met five years ago (maybe six) and fell hard for each other right away. and yet now their marriage was falling apart and suddenly secrets turned each other against one another, including actually having to kill the other one. can they go through with it? or will their bond prove to be stronger? /// mr. and mrs. smith au with rarepair!amberxgabriel

#meridium news

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Of Bruised Knees and Climbed Trees

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots

Pairing: Sheriff Din Djarin x Female Teacher Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Rating: G

Warnings: N/A

Summary: He has always been gentle with the little one’s but it is nothing compared to the sureness with which he climbs the tall tree and gentleness with which he reassures one of your students that they can in fact make the climb down and they’ll be okay.

Notes: We all love papa Din and is there anything sweeter than this guy being all gentle and kind to scared little one’s? Pure dad material.

Archiveofourown

Lunch times at the schoolhouse were never quiet affairs. After eight years as a school teacher you had learnt that if something was going to happen, it was inevitably going to happen at lunch time when the children were out of the classroom doors and in the fresh air. Touch wood, you think touching the wall of the schoolhouse, you had yet to have anything too dramatic happen this school year. There had been no fights between the older boys and girls which had in previous years had a tendency to happen as frustrations and teenage angst boiled over. There had been no major injuries, no children had gone missing at lunch time, and no one had attempted to tattoo another child like Davey McDonald that one year. He had definitely been the source of most of your schoolhouse drama. With him having completed his school last year, perhaps, you thought, this year might prove to be uneventful. 

This year had been rather tame and as you stood on the wooden porch of the schoolhouse watching your children make the most of their hour to run, get fresh air, and eat their lunches, you couldn’t help but smile. You watched Grogu, Mary-Beth and Timmy playing at the small pond, more of a puddle really, that rested near the school. Mary-Beth was showing both boys how to skip stones and Grogu seemed impressed every single time she managed to get a perfect skip. Timmy fumbled at his attempt, stone landing in the water with a sploosh! 

Your eyes drifted to the older kids, eating their lunch and giggling together in groups. The boys had separated off from the girls, no doubt more and more aware of their differences as courting became a new interest in their eyes. Soon you’d have the usual problems of teenage love on your hands, sweet, but always requiring your eyes to be peeled. While the boys would face no repercussions for a dalliance, the girls would, and you always made sure to keep a chaperone's watchful eye on them each year. Much to their annoyance. 

You spotted Jerome sitting on his own, sketchbook and pencil in hand and carefully walked your way over, picking through the rocks and fallen leaves as the weather began to turn colder. He was wrapped up full, only a little bit of his face visible beneath a large scarf and fluffy hat.

“Do you mind if I sit with you, Jerome?” 

“Not at all, Miss.” He quickly goes back to his drawing and despite the desire to peek you resist the urge and wait for him to offer to show you, if that were to happen at all. You pride yourself on creating relationships born from trust with your pupils and part of that was letting them come to you rather than demanding they share things. Jerome had become more willing to share his art bit by bit, preening under your admiration and praise and you hoped that it would be enough to encourage him to pursue his dream of art school. You had a few old acquaintances you hoped would be willing to offer him patronage if they saw his work, but that was a few years off and for now, you were just content to provide him with kind words and support.

He doesn’t ask if you’d like to have a look, just shuffles the book over into your lap with a shy look away, not wanting to see your reaction. They’re beautiful little drawings of the world around him. The daisies in the grass, the leaves on the ground, the nearly bare trees. A few sketches of the other children playing. Each has careful line strokes, hashing to shade and a style to them that gives them an almost classical look. Smooth, soft. 

“These are beautiful, Jerome! You really have a gift!” You praise him, carefully handing the book back for him to return to his sketching. The two of you fall into companionable silence as he draws and you watch the children around you. 

It is when you go to ring the bell to draw them back into class with a ‘Lunch is over, boys and girls! Time to get back to work!’, that you notice a crowd gathering quite a distance away from the school underneath some trees. With a quick request that Jerome keep an eye on the younger children, you stride your way over, hands lifting your skirt from the dirt. 

“What’s going on? David, why are you all…” You trail off as you look up to see the exact reason they’re all crowding beneath the tall oak tree. 

Lilly-Anne is shaking at the very top, arms wrapped tightly around the branch she’d managed to make it to. The girl is barely ten, and has always been one of your more adventurous and confident children, but in that moment she is clearly petrified and you very much consider climbing the tree yourself to get her. 

“Lilly-Anne, dear, are you stuck?” You can’t think of a possible reason but that fact, that she is stuck in some way whether mental or physical. 

“I-I-I I can’t get down! I-” She cuts herself off in panic, clinging even tighter to the branch as a brisk wind causes the smaller branches to shake. 

“I’m coming to get you! Don’t worry, sweetheart! It’s going to be okay!” You say, sounding much more confident than you actually are about your ability to climb a thirty foot tall oak tree in a dress and heeled boots. You haven’t climbed a tree since you were thirteen years old and have never been a particularly fan of heights, but needs must. 

You’re planting a foot on a knot in the tree and reaching up for a lower branch when spurs clink behind you and a familiar deep drawl sounds out from behind you. 

“Everything alright, Miss Y/N?” You’re in truth rather relieved when you turn to see Din standing there, thumbs tucked into his belt behind the buckle. The worn hat he never seems to be without is tilted back as he looks over you, your gaggle of children and up into the tree. The bemused expression turns to one of concern when he sees Lilly-Anne at the top, immediately pulling his hat and holsters off and placing them on the ground. 

Before you can even reply to his question he has gentle hands on your waist twisting you away from the tree before placing a boot in the same spot your foot was moments ago. It doesn’t irritate you that he has done all this without asking, instead you are relieved. You know you are not dressed for tree climbing nor are you proficient at it, Din is better suited for the task and you are glad that he is here. 

“Lilly-Anne, Ad’ika, it’s the sheriff! I’m coming to get you, little one, don’t you worry about a thing!”  He keeps his voice even, soothing, the same voice he uses whenever Grogu has a nightmare. She might be feet up in the air but even from down at the base of the tree he can see how scared she is, can hear her whimpering and crying out for someone to come help her. Like any scared little kid.

He’s not really thinking much of anything, in truth, not when he sees the little girl terrified and crying at the top of the tall tree. There’s a memory from his past, a small boy at the top of a large tree, his adopted father climbing to get him with gentle words. He remembers the fear of being at the top, of being so confident in your ability to get all the way up that you never considered just how you’d make your way back down. 

He’s not scared of heights, not anymore. His adoptive father had made sure of that. Taught him to climb right back down, how to face that fear that makes you freeze. It’s not a hard climb, and each foothold is easy to find. The tree is sturdy, thick branches and a wide trunk. Old, older than him, older than any of them and he wonders how many children have climbed it only to need a guardian or parent to come and rescue them from the top. 

“It’s alright, little one! I’m on my way, you just hang tight, okay?”

“O-o-okay…” He likes Lilly-Anne, she likes his adventure stories the most. The little wild card a born adventurer herself, she always talks about becoming a famous gunslinger, constantly badgering him to teach her how to shoot. Adventurous spirit, stubborn, but he’s never seen her scared of anything. It breaks Din’s heart to see her usual confidence and fearlessness missing. 

You’re worried. That’s the best way to describe what you’re feeling in the pit of your stomach and it’s nail biting, stomach churning worry. A part of you knows that Din is competent in a million different ways, that he’ll be fine climbing a tree that a ten year old managed to scale and that he’ll be fine bringing her back down. Another part of you worries that maybe he’ll slip or she’ll slip or both of them will slip. The thought of either of them getting hurt sends you into a pacing sort of panic at the bottom of the tree, eyes on them the whole time, watching Din scale as your feet move you back and forth, to and fro. 

He’s at the top before you can even blink, bracing himself besides her and talking to her low enough that you can’t hear. She’s shaking and you’re not sure if it is the wind or the fear that does it to her. He’s steady as a rock, it doesn’t surprise you, Din has, from the moment he walked into town, been steady, stable, and competent. He brings an ease to everything he does and seems to trust in his own skills beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“Hey, Ad’ika, I’m right here, okay? Look at me…” He knows this is the hard part, how to convince her to come down even with his help. She is so scared and he can now finally see the tear tracks over her chubby cheeks and the redness of her eyes. This little girl is so terribly scared and it makes his heart ache for her. But, he promises himself, that he’ll be the stable presence she needs, that he’ll be calm and collected for her even with a thirty foot drop beneath them and you pacing the ground below in worry. 

Lilly-Anne’s bottom lip is trembling and her knuckles are white from holding on so tight, but she looks at him and seems to calm a little at his presence beside her. “I need you to hold onto me okay, sweetheart? I’m going to come closer and I need you to hold onto me so I can help you down, okay?” He knows it’s a big ask, knowing she’d have to pull herself away from the safety of the branch and trust that he’d keep her safe and secure, but she nods her head at him with a little whimper and he knows she’s brave enough to do this. 

“You’re doing so well, Ad’ika.” Din praises her as he sidles as close as he can, helping her, with one arm, wrap her own around his neck and rest her legs around his hips. She’s a little big to be carried normally, getting to that age where her legs are getting a little too long and her body doesn’t fit as easily as Grogu’s would against his hip, but she’s light and easy to wrap around him as he secures his own feet and hands getting ready to make the climb down. 

“You got all the way up here, Lilly-Anne, you can get back down, okay? Look,” Din begins the climb down, at each handhold and foot placement he points out to her that she could grab here or step there. He wants her to understand that if she could get all the way up, she could have made her way down. While he’s more than happy to help her, he knows her. She is an adventurous child, likely to climb a tree again and likely to need to make her way back down. Just like his buir had done, he was determined to make sure she was never scared of getting back down again. “You just need to place your hands where they fit best, move them down with you, a step at a time, Ad’ika. A step at a time.”

“It’s...it’s scary though…”

“I’ll let you in on a lil’ secret…” He turns his head to give her a meaningful look with a soft smile, stopping where he is just for a moment, “it’s not being scared that matters, it’s being brave enough to do it anyway.” 

People think him fearless. The fearless sheriff, cleaning up the town, keeping people safe, facing down men with guns and hunting down criminals. He’s not. He’s scared of a lot of things, mostly Grogu, you or the other little ones getting hurt. Losing you from his life. Losing his son. Being a disappointment to his son. That scares him more than any threat to his own body, but still in the face of that fear he is brave. Bravery has never been the absence of fear, it’s doing what you need to do anyway, knowing that it terrifies you. His buir had taught him that and he’d teach Lilly-Anne that, teach Grogu that. 

As he continues down the tree he can see her process his words. Brain working hard behind big blue eyes before she tugs on the back of his shirt to stop him where he is. Once again he stops climbing. You’re still pacing below, every time they stop you grow more anxious wondering what on earth could be happening. Did Din lose his footing? Was he faltering in some way? Was Lilly-Anne panicking? 

But, that isn’t the case. When he asks her what’s wrong, she simply tells him she wants to try and climb down on her own, with his help. He can feel pride blooming in his chest, like a new bud opening up to the world in spring, and so he carefully helps her off of his hip and adjusts her footing and handholds before he moves below her so he can help her ease her way down and catch her if she slips. 

She takes those first steps backwards, tentatively, scared of where she should put her feet, but each step after becomes more confident until they’re climbing at a decent pace back down the tree. She is a natural climber.

“You’re doing so well, Lil’ika! I knew you could do it, darlin’.” Din’s voice is quiet but now half way down you can actually hear him speaking to her, little praises at every successful step, reminders of how brave she is, how good she is doing. It eases some of that panic within you, warms your chest at the sounds of him, so utterly paternal and kind. 

She is smiling wider as she gets nearer to the bottom, you can see that the fear has left her, the panic gone, replaced with a bravery that you are thankful to see. She has always been a brave child, an adventurous child, fearless. The thought that she would lose that had terrified you almost as much as the thought that she was stuck at the top of that tree. 

The moment her feet touch the ground again you are fussing over her like a mother hen, “Lilly-Anne, what possessed you to climb such a tall tree?!” You both do not want to stifle her adventurous spirit and at the same time feel a sense of responsibility to teach her to think before taking potentially dangerous actions. It is the one cruelty of being a teacher and not a friend, you must always tell them off for doing something which could have ended with them hurt because no one else would. “You could have been hurt, sweetheart.” You soften the blow with the endearment, checking her over for cuts and bruises. Her hands are a little rough, but otherwise she is fine and despite your fussing and admonishment she is still smiling. 

“I got back down, Miss Y/N! I got back down!” You sigh out from your place kneeling in front of her, a small smile making its way to your face. Before you tug lightly at one of the blonde braids of her hair. You want to be stern, but can’t find it in yourself to be when she had in fact managed to get all the way back down, when she was so clearly proud of herself. How could you bring yourself to crush that happiness? 

“Yes, yes, you did, well done, sweet girl...now that you’ve nearly given me a heart attack, why don’t you thank the sheriff and go get sorted for your next lesson?” You can still feel the residual adrenaline running through you, your heart is still beating faster than it should. To think you were going to climb up that tree to get her, in a full dress and heeled boots...you suspected the outcome would have been the two of you stuck up that tree, not just one. What a sight that would have made. 

“Thank you, Sheriff Djarin!” He’s buckling his holster on as she turns to him, already getting back into sheriff mode as he places that worn hat over dark brown curls. He cuts an impressive figure as sheriff, but you most enjoy him at his softest, when he lets the walls fall for the children and shows you who he really is underneath all that responsibility and posturing. 

“You’re welcome, Ad’ika, you remember how to get down for next time?” 

“Uh huh!” Like all children she nods her head so vigorously you briefly worry she’ll concuss herself, but know that they always seem to be fine afterwards.

“Good. Go get ready for your lesson.” He pats the top of her head with a soft smile. You only ever see that smile around you and the children, including Grogu, of course. The two of you watch her run off, the other children in the group following her at your insistence that they better be ready at the desks by the time you return. 

You know you need to move soon, they are waiting for their next set of lessons before the day ends and you have things to teach them. Things you always stress are important. But, you can’t ever resist spending a little more time with Din, even more so when it comes to thanking him for his hand in helping you with the children. He is always there when you need him, when his support or involvement is required. 

“Thank you, Din...I...I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t turned up. I’m sure we both would have been stuck up there if I’d tried to get her…” There’s something about being alone with Din that excites you more than it should. Perhaps, it’s the reminder that you’re an unmarried woman, he’s an unmarried man, and the two of you certainly shouldn’t be spending time alone together away from other people’s eyes. There is no one here to watch you, to ensure everything is polite and appropriate. It shouldn’t mean more than it does. It should just be a moment to thank him, something simple, devoid of any deep feelings, but like everything that happens with Din, there is always more going on beneath the surface. Your feelings are always deep and hard to understand with him. 

“Cabur’ika. You never have to thank me. For anything.” He’s almost bashful looking when he smiles at you from under the brim of his hat, face tilted down just so. You can see the hint of a flush to his tanned cheeks and the dimples pull at the sides of his mouth when he smiles.

“Yes...yes I do. I hope you...I hope you understand just how much I appreciate your help, Din. You...you do more for me than anyone else in this town and,” You gently reach for one of his large hands, holding it between the two of your own. His fingers are calloused and rough, his skin warm to the touch even in the autumn air. “I really do appreciate it. I appreciate you. So thank you.” 

He’s at a loss for words. Not just because of your own sweet ones, but because your eyes are so soft and large, staring up at him like he’s hung the moon, like he’s done something above and beyond. When in truth he has just done his job, the right thing. Supporting you as the school teacher will always be the right thing and certainly it isn’t all duty. He finds you to be beautiful, sweet and soft, kind, yet strong and fierce. Your treatment of his son, his Grogu warms his heart. Your deep love for your children makes him want to sigh like a lovesick school boy and your treatment of him, your acceptance, open arms to a man who should scare you, makes him want to be around you all the more. From the moment he met you, you had been welcoming and soft. That hadn’t changed and everything in him screams at him to do something, say something, hold your hand tighter, kiss your lips, but that’s too fast and too soon. It would be a dishonour to you, you deserved him taking his time, finding the right words and actions to court you, to prove that he was worthy of your time and affection. 

So instead he just smiles at you, squeezes your hands tightly, once, twice, before thanking you. There are few parting words, a slow goodbye in which you both are reluctant to pull away from each other, but a call from the schoolhouse porch draws you away from him with a sad little smile. 

His chest hurts so badly that he rubs at it with a palm. The hurt is a good sort though. Not the blistering pain of a gunshot wound or slash from a knife, but the ache of...of love. That’s what it is, he has to admit it to himself, it’s love. New and small, growing larger each day, but love.

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

Mando’a Translations:

Ad’ika - Little one

Lil’ika - Basically little Lily. The ‘ika is a diminutive suffix and often you take the first 3 words of a child's name like Gro’ika to make a familiar name. 

Cabur’ika - Lit. Little Guardian, but Din’s term of endearment for reader after ‘Never Mess With a School Teacher’ because she is a true guardian of her kids. 

Buir - Mother/Father/Parent

#din djarin x reader #din djarin / reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian reader insert #reader insert #readerinsert #western au #putting down roots #din djarinxreader #din djarin/reader #female reader #female identifying reader

[providencepeakrp]

Greetings to our new, current, and any future members! We hope you had a grand ole time at the grand opening event of Stomias Point Amusement Park! While the event is officially over, the amusement will remain open until the end of the summer season and has officially been added to the locations page.

In addition to the amusement park, a total of eleven new locations were added to the neighborhoods of Providence Peak and can be found on the newly alphabetized locations page. Also added were several member-run locations such as Art In Motion, Purple Haze, and Still Life Ceramics. Below is a helpful list of the eleven locations and what services they can provide.

Holy Spirits

A place most people would never know existed if they were just walking by and yet, the speakeasy located in the basement of an old Catholic Church has thrived with its business. Grab a drink with your father, your son, or anyone you desire in this exclusive University Heights bar.

Humming Bee

Work out all of your stress with a trip to the Summit Lake Yoga establishment. They hold unique classes ranging from goat yoga to mommy & me, so no matter what experience you’re looking for, there’s something for everyone!

Kinderhaus

This private and highly desirable preschool located in Claret Park serves children aged one year to five years old, preparing them to enter kindergarten with a bright mind and hopefully a bright future.

Lunch Box

Claret Park welcomes this artisanal sandwich shop that will make you feel like a kid again... but in a grown-up way! Stop by on a nice day and try their lunch combo containing a sandwich, housemade chips, specialty drink, topped off with a cookie sure to bring you back to those schoolhouse lunch days!

Nook’s General Store

For those looking to lessen waste in the environment or just experience a unique shopping experience, this Bighorn Hills addition is a plastic-free environment. Patrons are encouraged to bring their own containers to gather their dry goods in and weigh them for purchasing. 

Rooftop Swingers

Ever want to hit a golf ball from a rooftop of a coporate building while drinking a whiskey on the rocks and dipping pretzel knots in gourmet beer cheese? Well, here’s your chance! A highly sought after recreation has finally made it’s way to Summit Lake and it’s here to stay.

Speed Zone

The only speeding you should be doing is around the curves of this outdoor go-kart racing facility in Bighorn Hills. Find yourself having a lightening fast time on over an acre of racing track for a fun way to spend some time this summer!

Tequila Little Time

Killing a little time never seemed so delicious - but with bottomless chips and salsa for dine-in orders and $5 margaritas on weekdays, this Mexican restaurant located in University Heights is the perfect way to eat up any amount of time.

The Burger Joint

Greasy food and milkeshakes? Always open late, this burger joint is the perfect pitstop for college kids and those just passing through University Heights in need of a snack.

True Colors

This downtown space was turned into an lgbtq+ community center years ago, bringing a welcoming presence to the family life in Claret Park. Anyone is welcome to stop by and check out the safe space that True Colors provides. While you’re there, check in for a meeting on a current hot topic or grab a hot latte at their tiny cafe.

Wonderwell Science Museum

Located in University Heights, this science museum has been bringing Providence Peak hands-on fun for decades. It’s a fun way for kids and adults alike to spend a day learning (and experiencing!) science in a way they’ll never forget!

#providence.admin

[statticscribbles]

Date

Summary: 💀Sam Wilson/Reader High School AU. Reader and Sam are friends with benefits when Sam breaks it off with her to be with Sharon.

You and Sam weren’t official; everyone knew you two were sort of a thing, the closest was friends with benefits. Despite how much everyone knew they didn’t know you were developing actual feelings for him; you assumed by the time and effort he was putting into a simple ‘hook up’ as everyone called you he was as well. Still you’d avoided thinking too long on that line of thought; you knew it was better just to enjoy everything as it was; and with graduation approaching; you knew the last two years of hooking up with him was going to stop soon.

You meet Sam on the way to lunch and he leans over to kiss you. You’d been pleasantly surprised about the uptake in public affection, how casual he was about it.

“Anything big happening in Government I should know about?” “Nah, you’re just watching Schoolhouse rock and then breaking into groups to create your own storyboard for it. You’re lucky you have Steve for your group; man’s a history buff and museum painter all in one. You get like three classes for the full project.”

“Three? I’m guessing it’s counting for a good chunk then?”

“Yeah said it was going to be half of the final if we did well on it.”

“Jesus just what I need…” You slump into the seat in the lunchroom and Bucky glances up from the notebook he’s scribbling.

“I’m busy writing a song, you need guidance, ask the apostle Steve, he’s the history buff anyways.” He grins as Steve sits down, Sharon sitting next to him and wrapping her arm around his.

“Say the guy who looks like that world war two soldier who died.”

“Mhhmm, reign in the debate team Sharon; we’re not at a podium now.” Sam comments and you and Sharon laugh.

“What’re we moaning about?” Clint grins and You fill him in on the history project coming up next class period. He grins claiming you and Steve are in the trio you’re sure you’ll form; and you both go back and forth debating the best idea for a school house rock style cartoon. He’s adamant about doing it on World War two and you counter that

“I was wondering if we could talk later?” You grin over at Sam when he asks and you’re about to say something else but Steve cuts into the conversation reminding both of you about the band practice Bucky is holding. Sam makes a face but nods that he’ll be there. You affirm as well with Steve and miss the way Sam’s face drops more.

”So what do you think he wants to talk about?” Natasha is perched on the  desk and you look up from the history notes you’re working on.

“I mean in an ideal world he’d  ask me out, properly, or something..” You try to sound uncaring but the way Natasha smiles you know she knows about your growing feelings for him.

”Sharon Carter?” You blink and Sam nods looking faintly upset by how you’d shouted in the cafe.

“I thought the entire point of us hooking up was to avoid the whole teary-eyed goodbye when you go and fuck off to the airforce!.” you growl out the last bit, and Sam looks annoyed.

“See that’s it; you don’t care to learn anything about me Y/N..”

“I didn’t think I had to! We were just hooking up!” You snap at him and can see the embarrassment creeping on his face.

“Y/N…”

“No. If you’re going to ‘break-up’ with me to go after an actual relationship when you said that’s everything you don’t want. Fuck. Off.” You hiss turning away, His hand curls around your shoulder and you jerk away.

“Y/N I thought you’d understand; I want-”

“You don’t want me. I get it; it’s fine go enjoy your relationship with Sharon.”

“Hey Y/N..” Steve tilts his head when you slide into the booth and he brings you water.

“What’ll it be, doll?” You know the manager is watching and you’re debating saying something but you just point towards the usual burger and fries you always get.

He sits across from you as he places your burger down.

“On break now; so, I’m guessing from how miserable we both are; you heard? You’re a real swell friend, being so put out about Sharon on my behalf.”

“Steve; you’re still, doing the forties slang.”

“Sorry this place rubs off on you. You don’t need to be so put out about Sharon.”

“How can I avoid it, Sharon and Sam have been dating for like three weeks, two of those under my nose!”

“Wait, Sam is dating Sharon?” Steve looks annoyed and you nod, focusing on the burgers and fries instead of what you realize is his realization of Sharon cheating on him. You didn’t know the details of their relationship but by the looks of it Steve had taken it seriously, just like you had taken being with Sam.

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[ursula-van-wilder]

The Wraith: An Undeadwood Tale

Howdy, y’all. This is a short fic I wrote in honor of the one-shot Undeadwood series that Critical Role put out awhile back. Clayton Sharpe was my favorite character, and he inspired this story. This is supposed to take place before the events of the Undeadwood series, but it still takes place in Deadwood. 

I put up trigger/content warnings, but if there’s anything else I should add, please let me know! I haven’t posted a fanfic in a lonnnng time, haha.  Summary: Clayton Sharpe takes up an unlikely partnership with Deadwood school teacher Katherine Killsin. What they find in the woods outside of town rivals any campfire ghost story. 

Trigger Warning/Content Warning: Blood, gore, mention of spousal abuse. 

Part I: Miss Killsin 

As much as Clayton Sharpe liked to sit in the saloon all day, staring at nothing, thinking a little less than that, and keeping an ear out for trouble, such activities did cost money. Within his first few weeks at Deadwood, he went looking for a job. Such a task was easy enough; there was plenty that needed doing in town. But he didn’t want to paint fences all day for fifty cents. 

He stood at the bulletin, the sun beating down on his back. This was his second time drifting by, and now he committed to staring the advertisements full in the face. There were wanted posters for lawbreakers and crudely written advertisements for handymen. As good as the money was, he didn’t want to risk a bounty job with his history, not so soon after his arrival to Deadwood. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something--someone--coming his way. Without discernibly turning his head, he glanced over and saw a woman, dressed smartly in a dark calico dress. She had her hair pinned up beneath a hat that was starting to go a little ragged at the brim. Her hair--what was so familiar about it? As blond as it was, it might’ve looked white as a ghost in full sunlight. 

The woman came close, stopped a respectable distance, and said, “Mr. Sharpe.” 

He turned towards her. It seemed to most that life had given her sweet face a flinty edge; hard eyes, a sternly held mouth, and a brow that always seemed to have a weight on it. Sharpe just figured the sun was too bright. 

“Ma’am,” he said. 

“You are looking for a job, I take it,” she said, glancing at the bulletin. “I may have one for you, as I understand, too, that you advertise yourself as hired security.” 

“I do,” he said. He had seen her somewhere, he knew it. Vaguely, he recalled seeing her riding up on a ridge near town--at least, that might’ve been her. He remembered the horse more; a little chestnut pony. 

“Then I am in need of your services,” she said. 

At last, he asked, “Who’s asking, ma’am?” 

“Katherine Killsin.” She glanced to the side and nodded her head down the thoroughfare. “From the school.” 

Now he remembered. One evening, he had been walking in the dark through town. He had glanced into the schoolhouse and seen her there, teaching the men and women of Deadwood who wanted to read but had to wait until nightfall to learn. There might’ve been some mutterings about her in the saloon, too, from a few men who had tried to be fresh with her but had gotten a cold rebuttal and a firm dismissal from her class. Miss Killsin ran a strict school, and that much was known by all in town. She was one of many resident hardasses. 

“What do you need?” Sharpe asked. 

“I’d like some help with that bounty,” she said, nodding her head towards a wanted poster behind him. Sharpe glanced over and saw the name Herbert Jackson, and the grand bounty prize of $150, dead or alive. Jackson was wanted for petty theft, raiding a stagecoach, and killing a man. Sharpe’s eyebrow twitched. 

“I don’t do bounty hunting,” he said, with a hard tinge of regret in his voice. He sure as hell wished he did for that much. 

“You would not be doing the hunting, so much,” Miss Killsin said. “I would be.” 

“Then do it yourself.” 

“I am aware that going alone in the wilderness in pursuit of a deadly man is never advisable,” she said. “Trust me, I am loathed to ask for help. But you are a man of few words, which is chiefly what I need, and I will split the reward with you down the middle.” 

Seventy-five would settle him up for quite some time. But he didn’t think a teacher would have much luck in bounty hunting. “Have you ever done a bounty before, ma’am?” 

“No.” 

“Ever shot someone?” 

“Yes.” 

“To kill?” 

“Yes.” 

“And did you do it? Manage to kill, I mean.” 

She blinked as if it were a silly question to ask. “Well…” 

She glanced around them, but most people in Deadwood seemed to know to give the silent Mr. Sharpe and the stern Miss Killsin a wide berth and a good helping of privacy. That didn’t save them from curious glances. 

She met his gaze again and nodded. Sharpe couldn’t say he was surprised. Everyone who came to or through Deadwood came with some kind of bloodstained backstory. He nodded towards the Gem Saloon behind them and started walking there, with her following. 

Once inside, he gestured to the barkeep and sat down at the corner table, his back to the wall. Once the barkeep had delivered a bit of whiskey to the table, he stopped, one thumb nervously hooking to the ties of his apron. 

“For you, miss?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” Killsin replied. “Thank you.” 

Sharpe sipped his whiskey. “Do you even know where Jackson is?” 

“I do, approximately,” she said. “As it happens, he seems to be in my backyard. I have a small cottage on the outskirts of town as part of my payment. I’ve seen smoke coming from the forest, a few miles beyond. But more than that, Mr. Sharpe, I’ve seen him. He came around the cottage some two nights ago, and I saw his face quite clearly in the moonlight.” 

“What’d he come around for?” 

“Who knows,” she said, shrugging. “I managed to scare him off. But apparently my aim is much better by daylight.” 

Sharpe grunted and finished his whiskey. “What do you propose?” 

“I propose that we go in, stake out his camp, and we could have him by dawn,” she answered, at once. “I have reason to believe he is alone--though if he does have companions, I can’t imagine he would have more than one or two. If we go in quietly, find the camp, and wait him or them out, then we have a presumably safe extraction.” 

“Now,” she went on, “you said you do not do bounty hunting, and I will respect that. I suspect you would like to avoid dealing with any other bounty hunters. I say we kill Jackson, as the reward stands the same, and I’ll bring the corpse in myself. That is, if such an arrangement makes you comfortable, Mr. Sharpe.” 

In fact, it did. She had been thinking of this for awhile. Sharpe wasn’t the type of man to ask questions, but he couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “What does a school teacher need seventy-five dollars for?” 

She clicked her tongue and smiled. “Anyone could use seventy-five dollars. But if it puts you at ease, I plan to leave Deadwood as soon as possible, but haven’t the appropriate funds to do so.” 

He nodded slightly. “Well, then, Miss Killsin, I believe we have a deal.” 

He held a hand out to her and she took it, grasping it firmly and shaking it once, quickly, before pulling away. 

“Be at the cottage before sundown,” she said before she got up and left. 

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

Sharpe secured a horse and rode on up to the cottage outside of Deadwood. The cottage couldn’t have held more than a woodstove and a cot--maybe a small couch to boot. Long before he rode up, the smell of roses radiated from the cottage. The closer he got, the stronger the scent became, until Sharpe’s nose twitched and wrinkled from it. The cottage was covered in them, red as blood, the leaves dark green, with not a blemish in sight. 

Katherine Killsin was at the side of the cottage, saddling up her own little pony. She had changed into a more practical riding outfit, older and more worn than the dress she had met him in. She wore a man’s hat, similar to Sharpe’s, and her hair was in a frizzy braid looped once and pinned to the back of her head. She looked up when she heard his approach and nodded to him as she finished adjusting a strap. 

Sharpe glanced again at the cabin. At first, he thought the windows were dirty, but then he realized that whatever curtains Killsin had on the inside must’ve been black. They were drawn tight, letting no light pierce the interior of the cabin. 

“I have some rations, in case we’re kept too long,” Killsin said, patting the pony’s neck as she stepped towards Sharpe on his horse. She wrung her hands. “I’ve got some coffee on the stove inside.”  

“We’ll reach the forest just before dark, if we go now,” Sharpe said. 

She splayed her fingers and shoved her fingers down between each other, as if to fix the fit of her riding gloves. She pulled her hands apart and flexed the fingers. “Yes.” 

“Ma’am, it’s your time,” Sharpe said evenly. “Are you backing out?” 

“I am not,” she snapped. Without another word, she stomped onto the porch and went inside. Sharpe eyed the horizon, the sun hovering above it and the forest. He certainly didn’t like Killsin’s change in attitude. Earlier that day, she had been steady as a rock. He had a sudden premonition of her, gun in hand (if she had one), unsteady and shaking up a storm, accidentally taking aim at his head. 

Killsin came out moments later, a sack in one hand and a hunting rifle slung over one shoulder. 

“What’s the sack?” Sharpe asked. 

Killsin did not look up at him as she went back to her pony. “Salt.” 

Sharpe arched an eyebrow. As she settled on her horse, she smiled at him, as if they were about to go on a pleasant ride through the countryside. 

“Mr. Sharpe, I understand you are a Texan,” she said. “We should be evenly matched in our equestrian skills, then. Shall we?” 

Sharpe nodded and they went on their way, to the forest. He wondered where she might be from, as she didn’t sound as though she were from Texas, not unless she had abandoned the accent. 

As if she had read his mind, she said, “I am from Kentucky, you see.” 

He nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. Sharpe himself felt fine, but he felt a tension in the air he didn’t like. He wasn’t sure if it was centered on Killsin or not, but she certainly didn’t help it. She sat rigidly, her jaw clenched, with her eyes fastened on the forest, as if something or someone was about to come running out of it, guns a-blazing. 

He knew next to nothing about Katherine Killsin from Kentucky. But he was starting to think there was something about this job with Herbert Jackson that she needed to tell him. 

“You want to tell me why you’re nervous, while there’s still time to turn back?” he asked. 

For a few moments, she said nothing--almost long enough for Sharpe to turn his horse around. Fuck it all, he thought, and let her make take the job on her own. He had no time to get dragged into some kind of jackpot. He’d get seventy-five dollars some other way. 

“I know him,” she said. “At least, I think I do. If I’m right…” 

Her shoulders slumped and she lowered her head, the brim of her hat obscuring her face. “If I’m right, then we must kill Jackson, on sight, Mr. Sharpe. I cannot stress that enough.” 

“Well, it’ll be done,” Sharpe said, “if you can keep steady.” 

“I can.” At that, she did seem to compose herself completely, as she had been when they met. 

They got to the forest by dark, the interior of the wood darker still. It swallowed them, horses and all. 

Part II: The Evil Against Them

Finding Jackson was easy. He had a good-sized fire going, just as Killsin predicted. He sat close to it, his arms resting on his knees, the brim of his hat hiding his face. He had his saddle propped up behind him, and his holster rested there.  Jackson didn’t seem asleep, but rather inebriated. Sharpe could see brown bottles glittering dimly, spilling out of a rucksack thrown at the side of the small camp. A gunpowder grey horse stood nearby, its head lowered in rest. Jackson raised his head once, tipping it back to wipe sweat from his brow. Sharpe could plainly see the man at the fire was Herbert Jackson, from the ill-maintained mustache, the straggles of hair sticking to his forehead, and the crooked nose. 

When Jackson raised his head, Sharpe saw Killsin tense at the corner of her eye. She drew in a breath, soft and quick, as if she thought she would’ve seen something else when Jackson looked up. 

Jackson crawled over to the rucksack and pulled a bottle out. He took a long drink from it before crawling back to the beat-up saddle. He belched and groaned, closing his eyes. 

It appeared that Jackson was sick, Sharpe thought. He figured Killsin saw it, too. 

As they stepped back quietly through the woods, back to their camp shrouded in darkness, Sharpe whispered, 

“We could drop him now. He looks half dead.” 

Killsin whispered back, “I suppose so. Is that advisable, Mr. Sharpe?” 

“If we’re killing him, then it doesn’t matter what time of day we do it.” He drew his pistol. “Don’t aim for the head.” 

She drew in a breath as if to steady herself, and he saw her nod. Drawing their weapons, they started back with Sharpe leading. He glanced back once and saw Killsin’s eyes shining, her eyes peeled and fastened on the unsteady path before them. They tread without sound, with even their breathing lost to silence. 

They had gotten back to where they had been when they first saw Jackson, when Jackson threw his head back and hollered, 

“Rose, is that you?” 

He got up, unsteady on his own feet. He sniffed the air. “Yeah, that’s you. Get on out here, woman, else I’ll come for you.” 

He was delusional, Sharpe thought. Behind him, Killsin was completely silent, as if she were holding her breath. Sharpe didn’t see any firearm on Jackson, couldn’t tell if the holster on the saddle was empty or not. Sharpe started to move off to the side, moving so that he could shoot Jackson cleanly in the chest. 

Jackson sniffed the air again. “You got a man with you.” 

Sharpe frowned. He blinked once, and in that sliver of a moment, Jackson had darted into the woods, right towards where Killsin stood. 

She discharged her weapon once. Jackson’s horse whinnied in surprise, jerked from its sleep. If Killsin made a sound, it was drowned out by Jackson’s roar of pain and delight, which seemed impossibly loud. 

“Fuck!” Sharpe hissed and tore through the trees back to Killsin. The campfire light cut through the trees, lighting up chunks and pieces of what lay before him. He saw Jackson and Killsin grappling with each other. Jackson’s shoulder was bloodied and torn open, but he fought like a healthy man. Sharpe came close just in time to see Jackson’s hand clamp on Killsin’s neck and start to squeeze, vice-like. Killsin’s eyes bulged, and she slapped the side of her rifle against him, panic dragging her down. Jackson leaned into her. 

“Oh, my Rosie, you missed your shot!” He laughed. Sharpe thought his ears must be fooling him; Jackson’s voice didn’t seem to be coming just from within him but without him, as if the voice surrounded him. 

Sharpe brought the butt of his pistol down onto the back of Jackson’s head. Jackson didn’t even jerk. Killsin’s eyes rolled in her sockets and now she scratched at the hand that held her, her rifle gone, dropped onto the forest floor. Sharpe hit Jackson again, hard enough to split Jackson’s head open, a fine mist of blood hitting Sharpe’s face. 

Jackson let go of Killsin, who fell to the ground with great whooping coughs. He turned to face Sharpe, and it was then that Sharpe noticed the stench radiating off of Jackson. The only thing Sharpe could think of was the smell of death and rot, but this stink was warm and alive. Jackson’s lips peeled back, revealing grey teeth, grey like tombstones. 

As Sharpe went to shove him back, Jackson caught his wrist in a grip that might’ve broken bones. Sharpe grunted, balled his other hand into a fist and hit Jackson square in the face. He felt Jackson’s nose crack beneath his knuckles, and the hand that held him faltered, but Jackson did not let go. 

Sharpe punched him again, his eyes widened now with disbelief and frustration at Jackson’s apparent immunity to pain. Jackson’s face was twisted with fury now, blood running down his chin. He punched Sharpe in the gut, and Sharpe’s breath left him in a great, painful gust. He bent slightly but managed not to completely double over. 

He couldn’t blow Jackson’s head off. They needed it for identification purposes, otherwise it would seem as though Killsin and Sharpe had gone into the woods just to kill some stranger. Still, as a reaction, Sharpe brought his pistol up and fired. For a brief moment, by the firelight he saw that he had blown Jackson’s ear off. 

Jackson whooped, a shriek that sounded like wind running through trees, swooping over plains. He pulled himself away from Sharpe and darted through the trees, not towards Killsin but to his horse. He jumped onto its back and started down a scraggly path, into the dark. 

Part III: Red Sky at Morning

Sharpe helped Killsin to her feet. She wheezed and held onto his arm, moving towards the dying fire, despite the risk of doing so. In his escape, Jackson had taken the holster off the saddle, but left the latter in the dust. 

“Alright,” Sharpe said steadily, his tone hard as granite, “I think there are some pieces missing here that I’d like to know. He got some kind of grudge against you?”

Killsin looked over the fire at him, eyes rimmed red, making the blue irises seem all the bluer, still recovering her breath. Each pull in of air sounded like parchment rubbing together. 

Sharpe asked, “Who’s Rose?” 

She gulped. “I am.” 

“Is this some kind of…” Sharpe shrugged. “Is this your way of saying your relationship’s off?” 

“Jackson does not know me that way,” Killsin said. “But the man possessing him now does...did.” 

She bowed her head and took three deep breaths, slowing herself down. 

“I didn’t say so before, because it should not be possible,” Killsin croaked. She rubbed her eyes, and it was then that Sharpe realized how tired she looked. She might’ve been keeping late nights for some time. 

She took her hands away. “I was married once, Mr. Sharpe, long ago. I married young and badly. His name was John Barr. We were married a year before he started hitting me.” 

It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone, as if all men, regardless of their original character, would start to beat their wives after a year of marriage. For Killsin, the years had numbed her to the pain. Rose might as well have been another woman, just one Killsin knew in passing. 

She stared into the fire, which was burning itself to death, glowing soft reds and oranges. She glanced over at the rifle beside her. “I killed him with this rifle. Since John was well-to-do and well-known, I had to leave Lexington the night I killed him. So, I did.” 

She looked up into Sharpe’s eyes, and he saw the face of someone desperate, someone who had seen a ghost. It was the look of someone on the run, a look he knew well. He had seen it a dozen times when he woke in the middle of the night, and saw his face in the hotel mirror, half in darkness, half in dim light. It was a childish look as well as an animal one. 

“But I know I killed him, Mr. Sharpe,” Killsin said. “I have never made a steadier shot. I aimed for his head--and I didn’t miss.”  

She rubbed her brow, looking back into the fire. “That night I mentioned, where Jackson, or John, came to the cottage. He hadn’t just looked into the window. He came to the window and he said my name, my true name. He told me he was John Barr and that he came to collect me, to take me back to hell with him. I hadn’t heard my name in years…” 

“I was too scared to do much, other than crack the window open and fire at him. He moved out of the way so easily. I would’ve gone after him by myself, but I was frightened. That’s the truth of it.” 

Killsin didn’t look just scared--she looked haunted, looked damned. Sharpe didn’t know what to say. Killsin had to be crazy, and Jackson was probably just as insane for being able to take all those blows without flinching. She was covering up something, perhaps the shame of being tied to an outlaw. But the conviction in her tone was starting to make Sharpe believe her, he realized. 

“I don’t believe in hell,” Killsin rasped. “I don’t believe in heaven or any god--I abandoned those things a long time ago. I believe in a great nothingness that will take me when I die. I don’t fear that.” 

She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I didn’t fear death, until that man--that thing--came to my cottage.” 

Sharpe watched her, still unsure of what to say. Sure, he had heard strange stories, and Deadwood certainly wasn’t free of its legends. It should’ve been that Killsin was married to Jackson--the real Herbert Jackson. But why would she lie about that? It would be easier for her to tell the truth. It wasn’t as if Sharpe would care either way. 

Why was Sharpe so ready to believe her? He knew crazy people could talk sense, but the difference between the mad and the sane was that the sane could still hold reality and truth. 

Maybe, Sharpe thought, he wasn’t as steady-minded as he wanted to believe he was. Not anymore. 

“You’re not saying anything,” she said softly. “That’s alright. I don’t need anyone to believe me. I just need it dead. I only need fifty dollars to get me to San Francisco--you can have the rest of the reward money. An extra twenty-five for you. I promise that.” 

Sharpe wasn’t one to give pity lightly. Though he’d never show it to Killsin, he felt a pang of pity now. Maybe he felt a little bit of pity for every creature that ran scared at night, even if it was the way of things. One could harden to the reality of it, but it did not mean you numbed completely. 

“You’re right, I don’t need to believe you,” he said at last. “All I care about is getting what I’m owed. Which, coincidentally, means killing that man.” 

She looked up at him in surprise, which softened to a smile. “There is some good in this situation after all.” 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, in his version of a laugh. “I wouldn’t say that--not yet.” 

She pursed her lips. By now, dawn was making the forest blue. There was a slight chill in the air, but both knew that by midday, it would be boiling, even in the shade of the forest. 

“How far do you think he went?” Killsin whispered. 

“Well…” Sharpe got to his feet, dusting himself off. “If he’s fixed on you, he hasn’t gone far. But you got him good. He was already hanging on by a thread when we got to him--I don’t care how strong he was, that was a dying man if I ever saw one. I suspect he won’t put up too much of a fight now.” 

She got to her feet, clearing her throat once more. For a bare moment, Sharpe thought he might say something, some encouraging or reassuring message. But there was nothing that would put her at ease, he knew. The one thing that would put her at ease was at the end of that trail, bleeding out, slowly but surely, and waiting with rotting teeth.

The sky was red with a new day. Sharpe heard Killsin sniffle, and when he glanced down at her as they started down the path, he saw a tear draw down her cheek. She tutted as if to scold herself and wiped her cheeks with her shoulders. Sharpe looked forward again, his grip on his gun tightening. Maybe Killsin didn’t believe in hell, but Sharpe hoped there was one for men like Herbert Jackson--or John Barr, whoever he was. 

Maybe he’d see him there one day, but Sharpe would be happy to confirm Barr’s eternal residency. 

The path stretched long. Ahead, in the dark, a shriek pierced the air, a horse’s scream, and then the sound of gunfire. Before Sharpe made the gesture, Killsin was already moving into the woods, to the left, skirting around the pathway. Sharpe went to the right. Second time’s the charm. 

Sharpe smelled blood in the air. Then, he heard slurping and gulping, as if Jackson/Barr were drinking from a trough or puddle. Through the trees, Sharpe saw him bent over the body of his horse. The blood bubbling up from the horse’s hide, made not from the gunshot but by a cut, looked black as ink. Barr drank it up like spring water. Sharpe saw bits of flesh and bone, saw a glimpse of the poor horse’s skull, blown open wide. Jackson’s pistol was beside the horse, abandoned. 

Suddenly, Jackson/Barr was on his feet, swaying drunkenly. Sharpe saw the wound at his shoulder where Killsin had shot him. There was blood a-plenty still flowing, but that didn’t seem to bother him much. The entire lower half of his face was bloodstained, and his eyes now were reddish and half-lidded as if he were soon going to sleep. He sniffed the air before he grinned, wiped his cheek. 

“I was thirsty, baby,” he called out. “Care to give me a drink, Rosie?” When there was no response, he continued. “I’d never forget your smell. I bet you still wash with Dr. Hammond’s, don’t you? Still use that lavender powder, I know it.” 

Beyond the small clearing where Barr stood, Sharpe saw Killsin’s pale face among the trees. Barr’s back was to her. Sharpe saw Killsin’s eyes, unblinking, trained on that unspeakable thing that was and, simultaneously not, her husband. She pulled the hammer back on the rifle, slowly, silently. 

The blast from her shot cracked open the morning. As Barr’s chest burst open from the impact, golden sunlight pierced the clearing. Blood as brilliant as rubies flew through the air. Jackson/Barr arched, dropped to his knees, but he was back up again, he teeth bared, eyes flashing like embers. He swung around and stumbled towards Killsin as she stepped into the clearing. Her face looked as though it were carved out of marble, as if some artist wanted to capture the look of doom, fear, and resolution all at once. 

Sharpe fired, hitting Jackson/Barr in his unwounded shoulder. He fired again, blowing out one of Jackson/Barr’s knees. Suddenly, a new voice, the voice of a man, shrill with pain, came tearing out of the walking dead man. 

“Please, God!” it screamed. “God! Just kill me!” 

Again, Killsin and Sharpe fired. Jackson/Barr dropped to both knees, both legs now shot out. Killsin had gotten him again in the torso, now in the stomach. Jackson/Barr was red all over, and now he fell onto his front. 

Gunsmoke filled the air. Killsin paused before she stepped quickly, lightly, over to the body. It still wheezed, but it was fading. She took the bag of salt from her belt and started to pour it onto the body. Sharpe came over, not certain of what he was looking at, but feeling some kind of ending here, in the clearing. It was an ending written out in salt with rose petals mixed in. 

Herbert Jackson’s head rested on its side, so that one brown eye could look up at his killers. A fat tear rolled out from the corner, over his broken nose. 

“Thank you,” he gurgled, just before he died. 

The wind picked up then. It came in such a mighty rush that Sharpe almost didn’t move fast enough to clamp his hand over his hat. Killsin stood stiffly in the wind, let her hat fly from her head. She stared down at Herbert Jackson’s body, that bent-up corpse that the trees bowed towards, as the wind blew and blew until it howled--until it was gone, just as suddenly as it had come. 

Sharpe looked down at Jackson’s corpse, too. He did not relish the idea of dragging this body back to Deadwood, only because he wasn’t sure it would make it there in one piece. 

As if she were thinking the same thing, Killsin said aloud, “All that matters is the head.” 

Sharpe nodded. He watched her a moment, as she continued to look down at the body. She seemed calm, almost relieved. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, before she turned her gaze over to Jackson’s horse. She tutted. 

“Poor thing.”

Part IV: Give My Love to Rose

It had been three days since Killsin brought the bullet riddled body of Herbert Jackson to the local law enforcement. When the sheriff, pale-faced with surprise, asked why Jackson was so mangled, Killsin shrugged and said, 

“He put up a fight.” 

She had gotten the payment and gave Sharpe $100. Then, she hurried back to her cottage to prepare for her departure. 

For Sharpe, he was back at the Gem Saloon. The night was late, so late that the saloon was quiet. Sharpe sat in his normal spot, his back to the corner. He had spent three days wondering what the hell he had seen in the forest, if it was a ghost that had possessed Herbert Jackson, something worse, or if he had foolishly believed in something that was impossible. All he knew for certain was that he wanted to forget it, and do so quickly. 

The saloon doors swung open softly, and Killsin stepped in hesitantly. When she saw Sharpe, she came into the saloon fully, clutching her shawl closed with one hand. 

“Mr. Sharpe,” she said as she came to the table. He touched the brim of his hat to her, and when she asked if she may sit, he nodded. 

“No school tomorrow?” he asked wryly. 

She smirked, but it faded. She raised a hand to the barkeep and when he came over, she asked, “Could I have a bourbon, please? Just one.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” the barkeep said. He looked to Sharpe. “Another, sir?” 

Sharpe nodded, and the barkeep went on his way. Sharpe and Killsin basked in their silence as one might swim pensively in the sea, thinking of depths and the unseen within the waters. Neither one spoke until Killsin had finished off her bourbon, perhaps a little faster than advisable. 

She put her glass on the table and rasped, “A tonic for the stomach and sleep, indeed.” 

Sharpe’s grunt almost sounded like a laugh. Killsin folded her hands beneath her chin and watched the little flames in the lanterns for a while. 

Without looking at him, she said, “Today would have been our twentieth anniversary.” 

Sharpe himself had never been to a wedding, but he could easily see Killsin, younger, dressed in some fine wedding gown, glowing with the prospect of wifedom. What a shame it was. He watched her eyes grow pink, but she did not shed a tear. Instead, she let her eyes glisten with the pain of longing to weep. She stared at the lanterns with eyes that were alert but hollow; stone eyes of a cemetery angel. 

“I hate it here,” she whispered. “I miss Kentucky. But I can’t go back, still.” 

She glanced over at him. “I suppose you’re staying here.” 

He nodded, faintly. 

A million thoughts and words could have been shared then, were it two other people. But instead, as they had before, they shared silence--and now, the grief of passing: life passing, death and misfortune tagging along with it. 

Why was the only viable option to be alone? He wondered and peered into the depths of his whiskey. Why was that the only way? Never once in his life had there been an opportunity of companionship of any kind that had lasted. Always, there was death, or there was the slower death of drifting away. Everybody leaves, and it was always every man for himself. In letting her guard down, Killsin was reminding Sharpe of everything he tried hard to forget. In the end, there was one.  In the end, that was safer, as both of them knew there were some blows you never recovered from. Some blows kill you long before you die. 

Killsin stood, pulling her shawl tightly around her once more. “It’s late.” 

Sharpe stood with her this time. “Walk you home, Miss Killsin?” 

She paused before she nodded. They went out into the dark together, quiet as ghosts aside from their shoes padding in the dirt. 

Though he knew it was irrational, part of Sharpe kept an eye out for Jackson/Barr, or rather, for his ghost. There were many things Sharpe wasn’t sure of when it came to the supernatural. Long ago, so long that it seemed to belong to a different life, Sharpe’s mother told the story of how she had seen a specter at the foot of her bed. It came as the image of death, and the next day, one of her brothers died, mangled by farm equipment. But the vision had not come for Sharpe’s mother, as Jackson/Barr had come for Killsin. If anything, the spector only came as a warning to Sharpe’s mother. Or it had simply been a coincidence. Perhaps his mother had been sick that night, just as Jackson had been sick. 

But whatever it was that had been wrong with Jackson couldn’t be explained away by some fever-addled brain. Whatever it was, be it ghost or curse, Sharpe hoped Killsin was free of it. 

They followed the smell of roses to her cottage. She stepped onto the porch and turned to look at him, her expression lost in the absence of moonlight. 

“I never properly thanked you,” she said. “Thank you.” 

He stepped back, touched the brim of his hat to her. “Safe travels, Miss Killsin.” 

She thanked him again and bid him goodnight. He heard the cottage door open softly and close just so, and with that, he turned away. 

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

Deadwood baked in the mid-morning heat. Sharpe stood on the porch of the Gem Saloon, rooted there, waiting. He squinted out from under his hat, his eyes sometimes flickering towards the area of the cottage, which could not be seen where he stood. 

Killsin walked into town, stepping briskly in her usual fashion, a carpetbag in hand. She slowed to a stop when she saw Sharpe on the porch. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said. 

He stood up from where he had been leaning against the wall. He came down onto one step, wondering why he had waited at all. She wore a high-collared shirtwaist to hide the marks Jackson/Barr had left on her neck. She had a rose pinned over her heart. 

Sharpe was struck dumb for a moment before he reached into his pocket and took out twenty-five dollars. He held it out to her. 

“Even,” he said. 

For the first time, he saw her smile in a way that warmed her eyes. It wasn’t a big smile by any means, but it was pretty in its understanding, in its ease. She took the money. 

“Thank you, Mr. Sharpe.” She tucked the bills into her bag. She glanced up at him. “If you ever find yourself in San Francisco…” 

He nodded. 

“I haven’t had a friend in twenty years,” she said. “I knew when I saw you that I’d chosen rightly. I knew…” Then, she smiled ruefully. “Well. You’ve had enough of my crazy talk, I’m sure.” 

She started to go, but stopped. She turned to him again and unpinned the rose from her shirtwaist and held it out to him. 

So solemnly, she said, “For protection.” 

Sharpe took the rose and they nodded to each other. He touched his brim to her one last time. She walked down the thoroughfare, disappearing into the crowd, into the dust, towards the train station. 

Once she had disappeared, Sharpe tucked the rose into the breast pocket of his jacket. Though it was hot and his throat burned for a drink, he decided to go for a walk. 

He found the cottage blank as a clean slate. The windows were now uncovered, and he could see the shadow of a wood stove inside, of a white mattress on a narrow cot. The roses bloomed still, but their perfume seemed dulled despite the heat. A few of the waxy leaves were turning brown. 

As he reached for the doorknob, he wondered if animals felt this way when they searched abandoned homes, cabins lost in the forest. The doorknob gave easily, and the door whispered open at his touch. The inside of the cottage smelled cleanly of soap and lavender powder. Sharpe saw that Killsin had cleaned out the woodstove before she left. 

The one-room cottage was bare of her, but as he turned to leave, Sharpe caught something glittering on a shelf. He stepped over and saw a daguerreotype lying on its back in a gilded frame. As he picked it up, he saw immediately that it was a young Katherine Killsin, before she was Katherine Killsin. Serious even in her youth, she had looked directly into the camera, unwaveringly. The photographer had given her a delicate blush, and even dropped a bit of liquid gold onto her finger to color the ring she wore. 

Sharpe started to put it back on the shelf but his hand hovered a moment. Sighing, he tucked the photograph into his jacket, where it now rested beneath the rose. 

He stepped out of the cottage and looked once more to the roses. Already, they were beginning to whither. 

#undeadwood #critical role #oneshot #oc #clayton sharpe #fanfic

[glacecakes]

Alchemy Lullaby (11/?)

Of all the changes that came with living in the castle, becoming a father was not one he anticipated. When Eugene encounters a small child suffering like he did, he gives them the opportunity to grow up the way he never did… helping them both heal. (AU where Varian is 4 and gets adopted by Eugene)

Varian comes down with a cold; the ramifications of learning the truth.

Read the rest on AO3

Starting making this, had a breakdown, bon apetit.

No deadass that's what happened @space--butterflies and @finnoky gave me a rly good idea, I rewrote the whole chapter, had a mental breakdown, went to therapy, cranked this out. So. sorry for being late rip.

Uhhh it's 2 am I'm too tired to do my usual spiel remember to vote tomorrow if u can, comment, kudos, blood sacrifice, thank u i would die for u all

So apparently staying up all night with your negative thoughts in order to win your father’s love was a bad idea. 

The rest of the day was silent and somber. Rapunzel and Eugene kept sharing looks that Varian couldn’t comprehend. Cassandra paled whenever she looked at him. But they never spoke a word of what had occurred, and it was driving Varian crazy. He didn’t get any of the victory glory, no, instead he got bitterness and despair. At least momma would have been proud of him; she’d always wanted him to control his powers. 

Around bedtime he got cranky. It started with not wanting to eat dinner. Usually Eugene would let Varian throw a tantrum; he refused to bow to Varian’s wishes and let him have his way. But not then. Eugene was terrified of a tantrum, what the destruction could entail. So when Varian refused to eat, he didn’t question it, and simply carted Varian off to an early bedtime. 

But when he and his girlfriend came to get Varian in the morning, exhausted from a night of conversing and debating and crying, they found Varian not much better off. 

The boy’s face was coated in sweat, radiating an uncomfortable heat. He whimpered, not even complaining when Eugene lifted him up out of bed. Instead he buried his face into the crook of Eugene’s neck, hot tears dripping down onto it. While morning cuddles were usual, this crying was definitely not. 

It was so concerning that they had booked it down to the infirmary half out of their minds with worry. 

“You said he woke up like this?” The doctor asked, brushing a gloved hand across Varian’s temple. 

“Yes, he won’t talk to me, is he ok? I mean, obviously not, but-”

Eugene’s panicking was cut off by an abrupt sneeze, then another. Varian moaned, shifting away from the doctor’s hand. 

“Loud,” Varian mumbled. “Hurts.”

They all quieted. “Sounds like a bug, or the flu,” Rapunzel hummed. 

The doctor nodded. “He just needs rest and fluids. Has he ever been sick before?” 

“Not while with us, no.”

“Alright. Take his temperature every hour until the fever breaks, and if it gets above 103 bring him back.” With a ruffle to Varian’s hair, the doctor wandered off, likely to see another patient. 

“I’ll take him back to his room,” Eugene muttered. “You’re probably busy today, right?”

“Not too busy for him!” The princess whispered back. She frowned, reaching a hand over and brushing it against Varian’s cheek. Poor thing. “He’s miserable, he’ll need some love and snuggles.”

“Did you not hear the doctor? He needs rest.”

“How can he rest when he’s in pain!?” 

The conversation became more biting the more both of them spoke. Even without them running on minimal sleep, taking care of a sick child would not be ideal. And it seemed they had wildly different ideas on how to help. 

It didn’t help they’d been up all night thinking about the… other problem.

“Look,” Rapunzel finally sighed. “We all need sleep. You can take the first shift, I’ll come get you in a few hours. Ok?” Her eyes, while misty from frustration, tried to shine with their usual kindness. Eugene felt like he’d been punched in the gut with a guilt fist, but also, he remembered why he loved this woman so much. 

Eugene smiled sadly. “Alright, get some rest. Love you.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, and with that, she left.

For a moment he was lost in thought, but Eugene frowned as Varian began to squirm. Tears of pain still streaked down chubby cheeks, at least until Eugene began to bounce him in his arms. He kept one hand on Varian’s head and pulled it to his chest, the other kept supporting his son. Varian, despite being past infancy, still retained a love for being cradled and rocked. Likely because he never really got it before. It did the trick, and he was back to an uneasy calm in minutes.

He kept up the bouncing, letting Varian rest while they walked back to Varian’s room. He only stopped his soothing motions to deposit Varian back in bed, and then switched to stroking his son’s soft hair. 

“Daddy don’t go,” Varian whispered. “‘M sorry.”

Eugene blinked. There it was again, calling him dad. So far Varian only did it when especially upset or tired, but it warmed his heart every time. The situation wasn’t great, but still the fuzzies remained. 

“What are you sorry for, bud?” Eugene hummed. “Not your fault you got sick. It just happens.”

“For the rocks.” A hazy, clouded blue peeked open to stare into the man’s soul. Through the pain Eugene could see fear, despair, and anguish; and it wasn’t because of the illness.

“Those…” He sighed. True, they caused problems, and it was a miracle Rapunzel didn’t touch them and cause an explosion, but it could wait until Varian was healthy again. “It’s… ok. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

Varian shrugged. “Cuz momma….” his voice trailed off. He didn’t even know where to begin. If he told Eugene everything, about the experiments and running and pain, would Eugene do the same? 

No, no. Eugene and momma were not the same. Eugene loved him. Eugene cared for him! He would never. 

Thankfully, Eugene picked up on it. “Get some rest, ok? We’ll deal with it when you’re feeling better.”

Varian unconsciously grabbed his stuffed toy, bringing the ear up to suck on. “No,” he mumbled through felt. “Not tired.” 

His dad suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “What are you then?”

“A frog.”

He let out a bark of laughter at that. “A frog, eh? Like Pascal? Well this little frog,” he poked Varian’s nose which earned a breathless giggle. “Needs some rest.”

“Story?” Big blue eyes gazed up at him, pleading. 

Yea, he should’ve seen it coming. Now that he was thinking about it, Eugene prayed Varian had never gotten sick while on his own. Or with his mom. It’s unrealistic, of course Varian has been sick before, but what if his mom had done the same as him? What if she refused to comfort him, refused to snuggle and wipe his snot? 

So despite every fibre of his being wanting to avoid getting infected, this was a losing battle. He grabbed the Flynn Rider book off its nightstand. They’d been blazing through each book; in the few months since Varian joined them they were now on book 6. 

“You’re just one crazy event after another, aren’t you?” Eugene hummed. He got a wet cough as a reply. Gross. 

He’s totally gonna get sick isn’t he?

-

Despite her words, Rapunzel couldn’t sleep. 

Every time she shut her eyes, visions of obsidian danced behind her eyelids, willing her hair upright. She couldn’t get them out of her head, and it really was no surprise why. It’s not everyday that your boyfriend’s son reveals that he can control the rocks that gave you back your 70 feet of hair! 

Back when it first grew back, she and Cassandra had scoured the library for any information they could, before finally getting some help from Xavier the blacksmith. He’s a good man, and he knew a lot about legends, but legends aren’t facts. Now, she wonders if the rocks were leading her to him, to Varian, and it was by sheer coincidence Eugene found him first. But she’d never say that out loud. Varian was destined to be Eugene’s son, even if he wasn’t born it. Maybe it was a sign that he was her son too. 

Three delicate knocks ring on the King’s Office’s door. “Dad, can I come in?” 

At his affirmation, she opened the door. Frederick, regal as ever, stood on one end of the table, with Quirin at another. Oh, she’d been meaning to speak to her dad in private, but it’s not a big deal! Right…?

Well, maybe it was. Despite her and Eugene and Cassandra all vowing to keep Varian’s ability a secret for now, lest magic-fearing Frederick find out, the point remained that she needed to speak to him about it. While Varian had taken up most of everyone’s time and energy, the rocks never vanished from her list of problems. No, they still lingered around Corona, causing problems left and right. And something told Rapunzel that Varian’s outburst from before didn’t help matters. 

“I was wondering about… the black rocks?” She started, and both men froze. A silent conversation occurred, shared in frantic, locked eyes. Quirin fidgeted helplessly, unsure of what the king wanted him to say. His eyes glanced down at the map where black flags pinpointed the locations of each rock spotted. While most were clustered in Old Corona, to the east, there were a few dotting the island capital. Rapunzel’s heart sank the longer she stared. 

Francis’ tailor shop.

The schoolhouse. 

The tunnel system. 

The alley where it all started.

Varian. 

She struggled to keep from screaming.

“I’ve been aware of these rocks for… quite some time now.” Frederick rested both hands on the diorama that encompassed much of the office. “They posed a real problem, displacing people from their homes, damaging roads…”

“Oh no,” she breathed. How much of it was intentional? How much of it was an accident? 

“But fortunately!” Frederick perked up, giving her an encouraging smile. “We’ve taken care of them! In fact, I’m sending Quirin to Old Corona tomorrow to make sure our efforts have succeeded.” 

“You are?” Quirin asked, confused. He got an elbow in the stomach. “I-I mean, yes, your highness, I’ll be headed out first thing tomorrow.”

She furrowed her brow, uncertain. Old Corona… so that was where Varian lived before the alley, before them. “Great, then I hope you don’t mind if I join you? I haven’t been out that way in a while, I’m sure the people would appreciate a visit.”

Frederick scowled, but before he could protest, Quirin hastily agreed. “O-of course, your highness, I would be honored for you to… accompany me.” He raised his eyebrows in a concerned smile, desperately trying to convey a silent question. Did Rapunzel know what he had seen? Is she trying to protect the child? Please oh please don’t force him to hurt a child to appease her father.

But alas, she didn’t seem to get the message. “Great, now if you excuse me, Varian isn’t feeling very well and Eugene needs a break.” She marched out of the room. The moment the door closed both men sagged in relief. 

“Sir,” Quirin managed. “You and I both know the rocks haven’t been dealt with-”

“Don’t let her see or learn a thing.”

The knight fell silent. “Yes sir,” he whispered, but for once, he didn’t mean it. 

-

Varian fell asleep relatively quickly, and thankfully it seemed more or less steady. So much so that Eugene was able to swap with Rapunzel without issue. 

“I spoke to my dad, I’m headed to Old Corona tomorrow,” she whispered. Her eyes were exhausted but full of fire. 

“How come?”

“It’s where she lives.” 

Instantly, Eugene’s face fell. Right. The source of the fighting last night. 

Eugene had been adamant. He’d met Varian’s momma once before, and that was enough. She hated her kid, she abandoned her kid and didn’t complain once when Eugene whisked him away. But Rapunzel had insisted in truth above all else. If anyone knew what was going on, it’d be her. He knew deep down it was a losing argument, but the point remained that he promised to clock her next time she showed her face. 

“I’ll stay with him then. Hopefully this is just a 24 hour bug, I can’t do another day of this.” She smiled. It wasn’t the caring for a child wearing him down, that much was clear. 

“Go take a nap, I’ll hang with him,” she whispered. The words flowed over him like charmspeak, and next thing he knew, it was late afternoon and he was waking up in his own bed. 

He went to fetch some supplies. Nothing too much, just some pain medicine, towels, and cold water to soak them in. He’d probably also have to run a bath at some point, which Varian would despise. Much like Ruddiger, the child was happiest when covered in dirt and mud and soot.

It’s no wonder Varian adores the creature so much, he thinks with a chuckle. 

In fact, Eugene is so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t notice someone coming his way until he nearly spills the bowl onto the Captain. 

“Oh, shoot! Sorry Cap,” He winces, praying the man doesn’t try to kill him. He’s yelled over less. 

“Fitzherbert,” the man sighed. He looked peeved, but said nothing of it. “I was wondering why you didn’t turn up to training today.”

Shit! He totally forgot to tell anyone that Varian was sick! Ears reddening, Eugene stuttered. “I-uh-yea, about that…”

The Captain raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. His face was impassive, but his eyes said it all. He’d better have a good explanation, or his ass was toast.

“Varianissickpleasedon’tkillme.” he braced himself for the smack.

“I get it.” And with that, all the air flew out of Eugene’s lungs. 

“Oh thank god, I was afraid you’d kill me.”

“Fair enough.”

Eugene shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. He and the Captain never really spoke about personal matters, it was strictly a business truce. But it appeared that was about to change. The older man put a hand on Eugene’s shoulder.

“Fitzherbert, I believe Cassandra told you about her own adoption story?”

“How you took her in, yea.”

“I was just like you, back then.” The man’s eyes are stern but kind. Eugene had seen it directed at others, but never him. 

“I hovered, and I worried about every little thing. They become the center of your world so fast, and you want to savor every moment. The first night with Cassandra, I never left her side, I just… sat there, and marveled at how something so small could be so important to me so quickly.” He gave the new father a weary smile. 

Eugene glanced down at the water, rapidly warming. Cogs turned in his brain as he thought of a proper response. 

Captain sighed. “Look, you said he’s sick?” Eugene nodded. “Then I’ll let it slide. Hope he gets well soon, for both of your sakes.”

That caused Eugene’s head to snap up. “What? I’m fine.”

“You’re missing your sass, Fitzherbert. Your color, your spice. You live for that kid, I can tell.” He let the man go, and walked off with a wave. “Hope he gets well soon. Oh, and bring him to training some time, eh?”

Eugene raised his hand in farewell, dumbfounded. The Captain had never been that… nice to him. Ever. 

He didn’t ruminate on it for too long. He heard a faint cry from the end of the hall, where his son was. 

The door creaked open, revealing a sad sight. Varian tossed and turned in the bed, whimpering and hiccuping tiny sobs. His fists grasped light blue sheets, the same color as eyes which were currently closed. Rapunzel looked to him helplessly.

“Hey hey, bluebird,” Eugene cooed, sliding into the bed and pulling his darling boy into his arms. “Shh, you’re ok, you’re safe. Are you awake?”

Varian whimpered, and Eugene couldn’t tell if it was an affirmation or coincidence. The boy was a furnace, he could only imagine the pain and discomfort. Being sick was never fun, especially at that age. 

A more violent cry escaped small lips as Varian squirmed. 

“Varian?”

“Momma, it hurts…” 

Eugene’s heart plummeted into his stomach. He felt like he was going to vomit, and he wasn’t the sick one. Rapunzel stifled a gasp. Haunting memories of another mother resurfaced.

“H...hey, Varian,” her voice shook to high heavens. “Varian, it’s time to wake up.”

“Don’t wanna… no more.”

Oh lord, no more what? What did this woman do to her son? Their son? Eugene buried his nose into Varian’s sweaty hair and Rapunzel wrapped her arms around them both, a familiar position for the family. His mind raced at light speed, trying not to let too many possibilities flood his mind. He was scaring himself, but he dreaded the real answer more.

Varian’s leg kicked out in his sleep, and a tear rolled down his cheek. 

“Oh, bud,” Eugene sighed, biting his lip. Usually it was Rapunzel who took charge of lullabies, but… 

“Look to the stars... my darling baby boy...” Almost like magic, Varian began to settle. His foot, which had been raised mid kick, landed softly on Rapunzel’s chest, the fuzzy socks pressing against his shirt. 

The blonde smiled and joined in. “Life is strange and vast, filled with wonder and joy…” As the furrow on Varian’s brow smoothed, Neither of them could help the overwhelming love that filled their souls. All directed at the boy in their arms. Even if he was a handful, and possibly, apparently, dangerous. 

Eugene laid Varian back down into bed, brushing unruly hair back. He repositioned so Rapunzel was resting against his chest as they sang in unison.

“Face each new sun with eyes clear and true Unafraid of the unknown Because I’ll face it all with you.”

Varian smiled in his sleep.

#varian #tts varian #tangled the series #tts #tangled #eugene fitzherbert #tangled eugene #tts eugene #team awesome

[freudensteins-monster]

A Banner Reunion

A WinterShock follow up to A Banner Day. Set post Age of Ultron and Ragnarok, not really Civil War compliant, and there’s no Thanos or looming Infinity War. Also posted on AO3.

The first person Bucky Barnes met as he stepped off the last quinjet out of Wakanda was Darcy Lewis. She looked more uptight than her file photo would suggest (Bucky had read the files of all facility staff on the flight over, and Darcy’s maybe twice), and seemed to have taken Pepper Potts as her style icon. The wavy brown hair from her file photo was pulled back in a tight bun, and the colourful sweaters and jeans had been replaced by a sharp business suit and sharper heels. 

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes. I’m Darcy Lewis. I manage the upstate facility and act as the team’s PR manager. I’ll also be acting as a liaison between the facility, your legal team, and other interested parties. If you have any questions, day or night, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

She handed him a crisp white business card. Bucky took it with his shiny new Wakandan arm, noting a complete lack of reaction from Miss Lewis.

“Science Wrangler?” he read aloud.

“I have new ones on order,” she replied with a long-suffering sigh. 

“Thank you, Miss Lewis,” he smiled, tucking the business card into his jacket pocket. “But all I really want to know right now is which way to the mess hall?”

Miss Lewis smiled, but before she could respond Steve clapped him on the shoulder and led him away for a second breakfast. 

Over the next couple of weeks he received dozens of updates via Miss Lewis from his legal team about their attempts to have him cleared of all charges relating to the crimes he committed as the Winter Soldier (and the few he committed after), but he never saw her outside of their meetings. Not in the mess hall, not at team movie nights, not even in passing. According to Steve she was drowning in work and pretty much lived in her office. She needed help but had refused to hire assistants, not trusting the vetting process with all the enemies the Avengers had accumulated.

Feeling guilty, and just a little too curious for his own good, Bucky went in search of her office. He heard her before he saw her. It sounded like she was having the argument of the century with a disgruntled voice that reminded him of his old drill instructor. He was going to leave her to it and try again later when he heard his name being thrown about. He crept closer, keeping out of sight of Darcy and the holograph she was arguing with.

“How can you stand there denying the dangers posed by enhanced individuals when you’re harbouring the fugitive James Buchanan Barnes, the most prolific assassin in living memory?”

Bucky winced but Darcy narrowed her eyes at the hologram and stood her ground.

“Sergeant Barnes’ location is not a secret, nor is he a fugitive. He surrendered himself to the Wakandan authorities and per the agreement his legal representation made with the US government - which you’re well aware of, I remember how much you bitched about it in the press - he is on house arrest at this facility until his trial commences, if it ends up going ahead at all. And if you think he’s going to give up what little freedom he has now and could have in the future and sign this joke of a document, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Her opponent sneered. “Last I checked, Miss Lewis, you weren’t a lawyer.”

“Not yet, anyway. But I did pass my Civics 101 class, and I watched a lot of SchoolHouse Rock! as a kid: This is not a bill, or a law, or an official policy of the US Government. Even if it gets ratified by the UN, you cannot enforce it as it goes against the Constitution and violates a US citizen’s 4th, 5th, 6th, and 8th Amendment rights.”

“Wanda Maximoff-“

“-is a dual Sokovian-US citizen; I made sure of it. And if you can somehow round up a bunch of asshole commandos willing to enforce this PR nightmare to appease your bruised ego, the governor of New York - who gifted this land to the Avengers - and all his friends on Capitol Hill are going to have something to say about it. Especially after the so-called World Security Council tried to nuke his hometown while the Avengers were risking their lives to save his constituents from aliens. So,” she continued, tossing the intimidated stack of paper aside and waiting for it to hit her desk with a satisfying thump before continuing, “until you can put together something less offensive than this pile of crap, we don’t have anything more to talk about.”

“Listen here you little-“

“Sorry Thad, you’re breaking up. I think your country club is going through a tunnel.”

Darcy disconnected the holographic video call with a wave of her hand and fell into the closest chair with a dramatic groan.

“Wow…” Bucky remarked, stepping into her office. “I take it we don’t like that guy.” 

“We really don’t like that guy,” Darcy concurred, tossing her heels across the room in irritation.

“What’s his deal?”

“General Ross’ deal is that he wants all the power. And since superheroes have lots of power he wants them, preferably conscripted into service of the US government or locked up in a submersible military black site paid for with taxpayer dollars that he thinks I don’t know about. He’s been this way ever since Bruce’s accident.” At Bucky’s lack of recognition she continued, “Bruce was trying to replicate the supersoldier serum for the US Military, reporting to General Ross. Things went boom, Bruce turned into the Hulk, escaped Ross’ clutches and went on the run. Under the guise of bringing the Hulk in, Ross approved another human trial of the supersoldier serum. He ended up creating what the media dubbed as “the Abomination” – twice the rage of the Hulk, none of the ability to reconnect with his humanity. And while Bruce was forced to go back into hiding for the next five years for his part in destroying Harlem, General Ross didn’t even get knocked down a rank. The bastard shouldn’t be able to breathe in DC’s direction, let alone have a hand in policing “enhanced individuals,” so naturally he makes a perfect choice for Secretary of State,” she scoffed.

Bucky watched her for a moment before reaching out to help her up from her chair. “You look like you could use a drink. C’mon, I’m buying.”

“Dude, it’s like 10am,” Darcy argued, but took his hand regardless. 

Two floors down and one building over in the facility cafeteria Bucky watched on with barely disguised amusement as Darcy made love to her Mocha Frappuccino.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the stuff.”

She’d put on some flats and discarded her jacket before leaving her office, and once they were seated and waiting for their drinks she set her glasses down on the table and took down her hair. 

Bucky loved the way she smiled when she was able to let go of the stress of her job, even if it was only for a moment, so he did what he could to give her more of them. Tuesday morning coffee breaks became a regular occurrence, and if she missed dinner Bucky would check in on her to make sure she took a break and ate something. Eventually he asked her to schedule all their meetings and anything to do with his legal issues as her last tasks of the day, that way if she was snowed under and running late he had an excuse to invite her to join him for dinner afterwards. He was working up the nerve to ask her to dinner without the pretense of work when the Asgardians arrived.

Steve stood beside him, watching as the huge ship landed just beyond the facility's - and Bucky’s - boundaries. 

“So it’s true?” Darcy asked, out of breath from the short run from the administration building. “He’s really back?”

“Yeah, Thor’s back. You were there when he crash landed the first time, right?” Steve asked.

“She tased him,” Bucky informed him with a smirk. “I read the report.”

“Yeah, I totally tased him. And introduced him to Pop-Tarts. But I also lost him in the breakup – it’s been, like, almost two years since I last saw him.”

It didn’t stop her waving like a lunatic the moment Thor ambled down the spaceship’s ramp, a small village worth of people following close behind him.

“Oh, this is going to be so much paperwork…” Darcy muttered as the god caught sight of them.

“My friends! Lady Darcy!!”

“Thor! What the hell happened to your eye?” she asked when he wrapped her up in one of his godly hugs.

“It’s a long story, lightning sister.”

“Did you bring all of Asgard with you?” Steve asked as he and Bucky watched the strangely dressed visitors make the most of the sunshine and soft grass.

“As many as we could save,” Thor admitted somberly. “I know that their arrival will cause some problems for your world’s governments but any aid you could provide my people in our time of need would be gratefully appreciated. A new homeland, perhaps?” he added, managing to do pretty decent puppy dog eyes even with only one good one.

“I’ll make some calls,” Darcy offered, flashing Thor an indulgent smile.

“Thank you, my lightning sister. And for your efforts, I have brought you a souvenir.”

“Space souvenir? Cool!”

“Aye, very cool,” he smirked, putting a hand around her shoulders and directing her gaze to where a man wearing psychedelic monk robes was trying to make his way through the crowd of Asgardians. 

Darcy’s expression fell and Bucky almost rushed to her side.

“Bruce?”

At the sound of his name the man looked up and regarded Darcy sheepishly.

“Hey, bunny.”

“Bruce!!” Darcy was off like a shot, shoes abandoned in the grass as she all but threw herself on the new arrival. “What the hell happened to you? I hacked everyone trying to find you but not even Phil had eyes on you. Why didn’t you call me!” she cried, hugging him so tightly Bucky was worried the guy might not be able to breathe.

“I’m so sorry Darcy. I was stuck in Hulk mode up until a couple of days ago. He was like a gladiator on this trash planet in the outer reaches of the universe. It was crazy.”

“Not as crazy as these clothes, dude,” she teased with a sniffle, tugging on the gold vestments.

“Yeah, they’re a lot. But I had to Hulk out again on Asgard and these were the only spare clothes lying around on the spaceship. Oh, I gotta introduce you to some new friends,” he exclaimed excitedly, leading Darcy back towards the spaceship. 

Bucky watched her go, his heart breaking at the sight of her reuniting with her fella. She’d mentioned Bruce a few times, but he hadn’t realised they had been an item. Maybe, since he’d apparently disappeared on her, it had been too painful for her to talk about. Bucky left Steve and Thor to organise the SHIELD agents that had descended to deal with the alien incursion, and left Darcy to her reunion. 

In the weeks that followed Bucky hardly saw Darcy at all. She was spearheading talks with the Norwergian government to establish New Asgard within their borders and spent the rest of her time managing the needs of the refugees who had set up a temporary camp in the field where they landed. She was also fending off demands for the arrest of Thor’s brother, who apparently was more hated and feared than the Winter Soldier was. 

In an effort to reduce her workload Bucky had offered to deal with his legal team directly, even though he hated how they talked down to him when giving him updates. But it made Darcy’s life easier so he took it on, often bringing Steve in on their conference calls to act as a buffer when he felt he was close to snapping at one of his condescending but very, very good lawyers.

Now that he had no reason to bother Darcy he saw her even less than when he first arrived, though he did hear that Bruce had dragged her out of her office once or twice for a late dinner. They never seemed as touchy feely as they had when they were first reunited and they hadn’t spent any time alone together behind closed doors (not that he’d checked security footage). Maybe they weren’t together any more - a lot can happen in two years, Bucky mused. Maybe Bruce had moved on - he was always gushing about that intimidating and frequently drunk Valkyrie woman. Or maybe, Bucky hoped against hope, Darcy had. The question was keeping him up at night, and since Darcy was too busy to be bothered with his insecurities he sought out the famous Dr Bruce Banner. 

Bucky found him a few days later, after another postponed coffee date, in one of the facilities labs, looking over some holographic schematics. 

“Sergeant Barnes, it’s nice to see you again. What can I do for you?” Bruce greeted with a smile. 

“I’m not interrupting?” he asked, gesturing at the complicated calculations.

“Not at all. It’s just a project Tony wants a second opinion on. It’s his way of saying “I missed you too,” he jested. 

Bucky bit the bullet. “It’s about Darcy.”

“What about her?” 

“I just… I feel like a real shitheel asking, but I gotta know; are you and Darcy together?”

“Together like…”

“Dating. Are you dating?”

Bruce’s eyes almost bugged out of his skull. “Did Tony put you up to this?”

“Stark and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms,” Bucky admitted.

“And Darcy never mentioned me? She said you two had been hanging out a lot before she got sidetracked with all the Asgardian refugee drama.”

“She mentioned you plenty. She just never mentioned that two of you were an item.”

“And she also never mentioned that I’m her father, I take it,” Bruce replied with a smirk.

“...What?”

“I’m her biological father. I am not dating her,” Bruce reiterated. “But I take it you want to?” he teased. 

“Uh… yes?” he winced after his brain came back online after processing this new information. “Did you not want me to? I would understand,” he murmured, gesturing vaguely at his shiny new arm as though his bloody history was written on the metal plates.

“I don’t get to have a say in the matter,” Bruce remarked, not unkindly, as he returned most of his attention back to the glowing calculations. “and I’m kind of the last guy who should be giving you grief over things you did when you weren’t in full control of yourself. Besides, you’ve probably known her longer than I have at this point.” He smiled sadly at Bucky’s confused expression. “The first time I met Darcy was when she and Jane moved into Tony’s tower. She told me I was her biological father about two weeks later. Before that moment, I hadn’t even known I had a daughter. We had maybe three months of getting to know each other, eating takeout in my lab once a week, and then Ultron happened. I quite literally disappeared off the face of the earth. I come back, and she’s all grown up and practically running the world,” he laughed. “She’s also crushing pretty hard on a certain supersoldier, in case you were wondering.”

“Yeah, well, Steve is pretty cute I guess,” Bucky mused, ducking his head to hide the blush in his cheeks behind his hair. 

Bruce smiled. “Ask her out, Sergeant.”

Bucky delivered a Mocha Frappuccino to Darcy’s office that night and asked her to have dinner with him whenever she found the time. She blushed something fierce as she said yes, and Bucky committed the image to memory. 

A month later they were officially a couple, but with Darcy’s crazy workload and his looming trial they were taking things slow. He’d only kissed her goodnight a couple of times but he’d stopped resisting the urge he had to wrap Darcy up in his arms the second she was off the clock. 

He was indulging in said urge the night of the Asgardian farewell party - the Norwegian deal had gone through pretty quickly all things considered, and Thor and the last of the Asgardians were heading out to New Asgard in the morning - when Tony Stark made his trademarked grand entrance. He had barely taken two steps out of his latest Iron Man suit when he pointed a finger in their direction. 

“What’s the murderbot doing with his murderarm around my niece?” 

“I’m not your niece, Tony,” Darcy called over everyone else's scolding.

“What are you talking about? Bruce is your bio dad, I’m his science bro; you’re totally my science niece.”

Darcy giggled. “That’s not a thing, Tony. And to answer your totally offensive question; we’re dating.”

“No, I forbid it.”

“You don’t get to have an opinion.”

“Of course I do. Everyone loves hearing my opinions.”

“We really don’t,” Bucky heard Steve mutter into his beer. 

“I don’t want to hear them, Tony. I’m a big girl and I make my own choices.”

“You make terrible choices,” Tony mumbled petulantly. 

“I tell Pepper the same thing all the time,” she teased.

“How dare you!” Tony gasped, feigning offence. “Do I at least get to give the Russian menace the shovel talk?”

“No, no shovel talks. I don’t want you scaring him off.”

“If the Hulk didn’t scare me off, doll, nothing will.”

“Awww.” 

“That’s not the way I remember it,” Bruce chimed in.

“Shut up,” Bucky retorted over Bruce’s chuckles. “Besides, I already got the shovel talk from Valkyrie. She takes her role as angry-mom very seriously.”

“Who’s Valkyrie? Wait, did you say mom?!” Tony squawked, turning to demand answers from Bruce. 

“Hulk like angry girl,” Thor teased.

“Where is she? Is she here? I have to meet her.”

“Tony! Tony, stop. She went to New Asgard two days ago. No! Step away from the suit!”

As everyone one laughed at Bruce trying to keep Tony away from his suit Darcy leant in close, sending a shiver down Bucky’s spine as she whispered in his ear. 

“How about I say goodbye to Thor and you walk me back to my room, Sergeant?”

Bucky smiled. “Whatever you want, doll.”

#a banner reunion #darcy lewis is bruce banner's daughter #not that bucky knows that #wintershock #darcy lewis/bucky barnes #darcy lewis #bucky barnes #bruce banner #thor #steve rogers #tony stark

[visions-from-reaver]

CHAPTER VIII: Finding John

First of all I want to apologize to the people who I have had to make wait for so long for this chapter! I am so so so so sorry! I lost motivation for a while and I also had a bad case of writers block on top of it all! -low key begging for forgiveness- Anyway enjoy this next chapter!

The morning sun brought a blinding white light shining through the dusty and cracked windows. Arthur groaned and blindly searched for his hat, which was on the table next to him. He placed his worn hat over his face to try and get some more sleep when voices outside his door caught his attention.

“So what are we gonna do now, Dutch?” Arthur recognized Hosea’s tired voice.

“We get strong, we get warm, we wait and when the storm breaks we move. But we’re safe here and warm enough not to freeze to death.” Dutch said, trying to reassure the older man.

“I guess.” Hosea didn’t sound so sure and Dutch seemed to pick up on it.

“You sound doubtful, Hosea.”

“I’m not doubtful, just worried.”

Arthur stood up and moved to lean against the door frame as he listened to the two men bicker at each other. They were both sitting in old, worn out, wooden chairs in front of the fire; trying to knock the chill out of the frigid morning air.

Dutch noticed Arthur and turned to address him “What do you think, Arthur?”

Arthur sighed not expecting to be called out by the leader “Well I wasn’t on that boat so hard to say, but I trust your judgement, Dutch, always have.”

“Thank you, son,” Dutch said, seemingly pleased with Arthur’s response before turning his attention back to Hosea. “We have been shot at before Hosea I don’t feel that this is honestly anything new.”

“I hope not…”

“We had a bit of bad luck, Hosea I’ll admit that. But then the storm covered our tracks, so now we wait a bit then we go back to Blackwater and we get our money, or we get some more money and we keep headin’ west.”

“But we’re heading east!” Hosea argued back like Dutch didn’t realize it himself.

“For now, Hosea. For now. But we got this. We’re safe!” Dutch paused as he stood up from the chair and laid his hand on Hosea’s shoulder “Stay strong, Hosea, and Arthur…” The leader turned once again to face him “Well you know me, son, I am just gettin’ started, and once we get some money...well they’d better send some good men after us, ‘cause they ain’t never gonna find us...but in order to get out of here we need money.”

Arthur nodded without hesitation “Of course, Dutch.”

Dutch stepped forward and placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder “Thank you, son, for your strength. It means a lot to me...especially right now.”

“Sure.” Arthur said, “Oh, by the way, that kid from yesterday...there’s somethin’ strange about her.”

Dutch paused on his way out the door “I’m assuming something stranger than what she told us last night?” Dutch was confused, what could possibly be more strange than having someone tell you they were from the future?

“She knows about us Dutch. She knows we’re outlaws and I didn’t say nothin’ to her about that.” Arthur said a little frantically “She said she’d tell us this mornin’ but I..I jus’ don’t know.”

“So what do you suggest? That we just leave the poor girl up here to freeze? I raised you better than that, son.” Dutch’s tone was firm and condescending.

“No I ain’t sayin’ that at all I jus’...I jus’ think we should keep an eye on her. At least til’ we know for certain what’s goin’ on. I mean if…” Arthur stepped closer to Dutch so only he could hear him “If she is tellin’ the truth, and she really is from the future, then how the hell she even get here?”

“Did you ever think to ask her, Arthur? She might know about us, about who we are, but she is one girl. What could she possibly do to us?” Dutch had a point and Arthur knew it.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. Now come on, let's go talk to her.” 

The pair walked outside into the cold morning air “Ms.Grimshaw!” Dutch called to the older woman of the camp.

“Yes, Dutch?” She replied as she hurried over 

“The young girl that we brought into our care, where is she?” Dutch asked as he looked around. 

“Ms.Heather?”

“Yes.”

“She is in that building with the rest of the girls. I think she is still asleep.” Ms.Grimshaw pointed to the old schoolhouse that sat across from the cabin that Dutch, Arthur, and Hosea were currently staying in.

“Thank you, Ms.Grimshaw. Arthur, you go in there and get her, I am gonna check on the others.” 

“Sure,” Arthur responded as he headed into the smaller building and directly into a hushed conversation.

“He ain’t been seen in days, the weather hasn’t let up…” Abigail said in a worried tone.

“He’s strong, and he’s smart.” Tilly Jackson said, trying to bring comfort to the distraught woman.

“Strong at least,” Abigail said in a spiteful tone, one she used only when talking about John Marston.

Arthur made his way over to the small fire burning in the fireplace as he looked around for Heather. He saw her sleeping in the far corner of the room, alone.

“Hello, Arthur,” Abigail said, trying to get his attention.

“Abigail,” Arthur responded shivering.

“Arthur...how you doing?”

“Just fine Abigail...and you?” He could tell she wanted something from him.

“I need you to…”

Arthur sighed and lightly rolled his eyes. He knew this was coming, whenever John got into any sort of trouble he was always the one to save him or clean up his messes.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m  sorry to ask but…”

“It’s little John...he’s got himself caught into a scrape again.” Arthur lightly brushed her off.

“He ain’t been seen in two...two days,” Abigail said frantically, trying her best not to become angry with Arthur.

“Your John’ll be fine. I mean, he may be as dumb as rocks and dull as rusted iron ...but that ain’t changin’ because...he got caught in some snowstorm!”

“At least go take a look.”

Arthur turned around hearing Hosea’s voice come from the door, it annoyed him a bit, but he wouldn’t voice it.

“Javier.”

“Yes?” An annoyed answer came from a Hispanic gentleman with a strong Mexican accent, sitting across from Arthur and Abigail.

“Javier, will you ride out with Arthur...to take a look for John? You’re the two best-fit men we’ve got right now.”

“Now?” Javier asked in almost disbelief, he had only just woken up himself.

“She’s…” Hosea turned to Abigail for a moment “We’re all worried about him.”

Arthur looked over at Hosea in annoyance giving him an old fashioned ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ look.

“I know.” Javier sighed out “If the situation were reversed...he’d look for me.” He handed Arthur a sawed-off shotgun and headed out the door. 

Arthur grumbled and took in the room with a sigh “Alright, fine, but when the kid wakes up, tell her to go find Dutch. She’s got some explainin’ to do.” He then turned around and followed Javier out into the snow.

*****Two Days Prior*****

This was the biggest mistake that John Marston would probably ever make. He was lost and caught in the storm with hardly any food, on the back of some random horse he stole on the way out of Blackwater. Dutch had sent him and Micha to scout ahead of everyone else, things were fine but they got separated when the storm blew through. So now here he was, on the side of some mountain somewhere, huddled by a pathetic campfire that was hardly anything more than a few burning coals, freezing to death.

He searched in his satchel for some food, but could only find provisions for the poor stolen horse. He took a bite out of one of the oatcakes and nearly choked on how dry it was. “How can you stand to eat this stuff? It’s horrible.” He grumbled to the horse who was totally ignoring him. “Look at me, talkin’ to a horse, maybe I really am as stupid as everyone says?” It was then that he realized the situation he was in, he was going to starve out here if he didn’t find something to eat.

Arthur had tried to teach him how to hunt when he was younger but gave up pretty quickly when he obliterated a rabbit with a shotgun slug. He was around twelve at the time; hadn’t ever really been hunting. Most of the food he ate was what he dug out of the trash in the towns, or stole from the General Store when no one was looking. But now it seemed he would learn, or he would die. That, and there was another problem, there was no fresh water around him, which meant no fish, which would be the easiest thing for him to catch out here.

He ate half of another Oatcake, giving the rest to his stolen horse when he heard howls in the distance, which meant only one thing, wolves. He kicked some snow over his measly fire and mounted his horse spurring her in the opposite direction of the howls. These were going to be the longest two days of John Marston’s life.

**********

He was able to find a river, after about a day of travel. It was frigid cold, but clean and as clear as a crystal. He was able to catch a few fish with a makeshift spear made from a branch. “At least I can fish, unlike Arthur,” John said to himself as he cooked the flaky meat over the fire. It was bigger this time so it actually kept him warm, and hopefully, it would keep any predators away from him. A sound and movement in the distance caught his eye. He couldn’t exactly make out what it was, since it was dark and the only light was the burning fire, but it looked like the outline of a horse.

He quickly got to his feet, maybe someone in the gang had found him? “Hello! Is anyone there?!” Silence answered him in return “You’re goin’ crazy Marston…” The shadow came closer and his stolen horse spooked and reared. “Easy girl!” John shouted to try and calm his steed down. He looked back up to where he saw the shadow of the horse only for it to be gone. “Yep...you’ve officially lost your damn mind.” A howl rose in the distance, not too far from where he was now. A chill ran down his spine at the sound, the wolves had followed his scent and they were getting closer.

He quickly mounted his horse, not bothering to put out the fire. His horse spooked as he mounted the saddle and bolted across the river and up the side of the mountain. “Woah girl, easy!” More howls pierced the air, they were close this time, way too close. “Come on, faster!” John yelled as he spurred the mare in the side.

Snarls sounded at their backs, along with the sound of snapping jaws. John's horse squealed, bucked, and toppled over onto her side, throwing him into the snow. Pain tore through John as the wind was knocked from his lungs. As he struggled to get up he was knocked onto his back. Pain raked down the side of his face as a snarl ripped through the air and into his ear. John yelled and fought the wolf off with a struggle, when he looked over his horse was on the ground, its intestines spilled out into the snow. He clumsily got to his feet and stumbled away from the gruesome scene and up the side of the mountain.

He heard snorting behind him, thundering hooves in the snow. But that wasn’t possible, his horse was dead. John spun around to see what was running up behind him. A large black stallion slammed into him, its eyes a pure moonstone white, its hooves a deep silver, and its teeth sharp as daggers. He fell back down into the snow as the beast stood over him, facing the direction he ran from. He was too afraid to move, afraid of being trampled under this horse’s hooves. He heard the howls in the distance. The wolves, he was gonna die, he just knew it, he could feel it in his gut.

The horse above him was calm, rigid, but calm, like a guardian. He saw the wolves now, running up the hill towards him at full speed. The stallion reared onto his hind hooves. He then charged the wolves at full speed, snapping at them almost like a dog. John didn’t wait around to see what happened to the horse, he got up and continued sprinting up the side of the mountain, disappearing into the storm.

*****Present Day*****

“This way. Last I know, John was headed up the river.” Javier said as he led Arthur north up the mountain.

“For all we know...he kept riding north and never looked back,” Arthur said as he drove his stolen horse into the snowstorm. He was annoyed, annoyed that he was having to once again go and clean up one of John Marston’s messes.

“He wouldn’t leave. Not like that.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

The pair rode further up the mountain in silence, the wind, though it had calmed down considerably from the day before, was biting and tearing at their bodies and lungs. 

“Hey!” Javier called over the howling wind, “I see some smoke. Come on, let’s take a look!”

“Sure, let’s just hope it ain’t more of O’Driscoll’s boys!” Arthur responded as he spurred his mount to go just a little faster through the snow.

“Well…” Javier climbed down off his horse as they got to the smoldering campfire. “...Seems somebody left….” he stuck his hand down close to the ashes and felt they were still warm. “...recently….and they went...that way!” A pair of hoof marks left the fireside and across the river, followed by what seemed to be several considerable-sized paw prints. 

“Sure, well, come on then!” With a slight sinking feeling in his gut as he followed Javier across the river. “So, do you think it’s John?”

“You tell me. Those are horse tracks for sure, but it could be anyone. Let’s see where they lead us.”

Arthur had a burning question. He wanted to know what happened back in that town back in Blackwater. “So….you were there, Javier, what really happened on that boat?”

Javier was silent for a moment before he answered. “We had the money, it seemed fine, then suddenly they were everywhere….”

“Bounty hunters?”

“No. Pinkertons. It was crazy. Raining bullets.”

Arthur had heard tell of the Pinkertons. The Pinkerton Detective Agency. If bounty hunters and sheriffs couldn’t stop the gangs of outlaws, the Pinkertons were called in to take them down. It wasn’t peaceful either. Everyone would be killed.

“Dutch killed a girl in a….bad way. But it was a bad situation.”

“That ain’t like him, though,” Arthur exclaimed. Sure they were outlaws, criminals, but Dutch Van Der Linde never killed anyone in cold blood, never. 

They came across a large ravine, and the horses whinnied and tossed their heads.

“Easy boy, it’s okay, you’re alright.” Arthur patted the horse’s neck, trying to soothe him.

“The tracks lead around it, to the other side, see?” Javier said as he pointed in front of him. “I don’t know why he’d come all the way out here, though, especially in this weather.”

“I saw some paw prints alongside the horse tracks a ways back,” Arthur said as he guided his horse alongside the ravine.

“Do you think they are wolves?” Javier asked, concerned.

“Possibly, I don’t know of any coyotes living this far north,” Arthur replied.

“We need to hurry then. He could be hurt. He’s already been shot!” Javier called as he spurred his horse to go faster once it was safe to do so.

“He got shot during that whole mess?!”

“Yeah! So did Mac! We still haven’t heard about what happened to Sean!”

“Damn…I knew John was hurt, just didn’t know he got shot.” Arthur’s mind whirled at the new piece of information. Just because he and John had a falling out, didn’t mean Arthur wanted the man dead.

“To be honest with you, Arthur, I’m surprised we escaped at all.”

“What you mean?”

“By the time you and the boys showed up from the other side of town; we were only just holding on…”

“Damn...that was some bad business alright. I’m glad we made it out alive...for the most part anyways.”

The weather only got worse the farther up the mountain they went.

“Damn snow is comin’ in hard again!” Arthur yelled

“I know, we need to move fast!”

They reached a pass that seemed to cut the top of the mountain almost in half, the snow was much thicker here, untouched, which made it hard on their horses.

“Come on boy!” Arthur said, trying to encourage his horse. “The horses are getting tired, Javier!”

“I know, there's a lot of fresh snow here!”

The tracks they were following only moments ago were completely covered by the freshly fallen snow.

“I don’t know about this, Javier. W-We can’t follow nothin’!”

“Let's push on a little bit, we might be able to pick up the tracks again.”

The path curved up and around, cresting at a somewhat flat area that seemed to connect to the side of another mountain. Just down that path was something that neither of them wanted to see.

“Arthur...do you see that?” Javier sounded concerned as he spurred his horse into a canter “John was riding that horse when we left Blackwater.”

“Oh...thats…” Arthur didn’t even want to finish his sentence. The horse was gutted, its entrails covered in snow and ice.

“He couldn’t have gotten too much further on foot, let's see if he can hear us.” Javier pulled out his revolver and shot up into the air, the crack of the shot echoing off the sides of the surrounding mountains.

**********

John was freezing, he had barely escaped those wolves with his life intact and he now found himself huddled on a cliff edge, alone. Or at least he thought he was alone. The sudden sound of crunching snow behind him told him otherwise. He carefully turned around to face whatever was behind him, his body screaming in protest with the effort it took. There, in the cleft of the overhanging rock stood the massive stallion from earlier. It pierced him with its coal black eyes and John felt a chill go down his back. What was this beast?

His thought was cut short when he heard the distinct sound of a gunshot ring out through the howling wind. He did the first thing his mind told him to; he yelled. “HEY! OVER HERE!” He continued to yell until he heard two voices he immediately recognized. 

“Marston, you hear me? Marston!” Arthur.

“John! Where are you? Can you hear us!” Javier.

“I’m over here! On this ledge!” John called back to them. “Over here!” John yelled as he saw Javier come into view, only to watch him stop dead in his tracks.

**********

“Alright. Pipe down, Marston.” Arthur grumbled as he ran straight into Javier with a grunt. “What’chu stop for?” He asked; catching the smaller man before he could fall over.

“Arthur….what is that?” Javier said as he pointed over behind John, in the cleft of the rock face, and straight at the large black stallion.

“Holy shit...how’d you get up here?” Arthur mumbled as he stepped around Javier.

“Wait, you recognize this horse?” John called over his shoulder at Arthur.

“Yeah. I know him. He belongs to the kid.” Arthur grumbled as he stroked the horse’s muzzle.

“Kid?” John questioned “What kid?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Marston. All you need to worry about is gettin’ the hell offa this mountain.” Arthur snapped in rebuttal.

“Looks like we can go back down that way.” Javier said as he pointed to what appeared to be another path down.

“Alright then. C’mon.” Arthur gently grabbed Reaver’s makeshift bridle and tugged him forward; clicking his tongue to get the beast to follow him. “Here.” Arthur grumbled as he reached Javier “Hold him still, and for the love o’ God don’t spook him.”

Javier reluctantly held onto the bridle, keeping the stallion still as Arthur bent down and grabbed John, pulling him up and away from the cliff edge.

“Don’t die jus’ yet cowboy.” Arthur grunted as he put John on Reaver’s back.

Reaver startled and snorted, lightly rearing onto his hind legs. “Woah! Easy!” John yelled and gripped onto the rope that was used in place of reins with as much strength as he could muster up. “Where’d you say you found this horse?” 

“In a barn back where the rest of us are holed up.” Arthur murmured as he soothed the stallion, grabbing the bridle and tugging him forward along the path down the mountain.

“Has he even been broken?” Javier asked as he walked alongside them.

“No, I don’t think so. He don’t like bein’ spurred'. Bastard tried to throw me when I used ‘em.” Arthur replied.

“He don’t like wolves neither. Ran straight at them!” John exclaimed.

Arthur laughed “Y-haha! You mean to tell me a horse had to save your sorry hide from wolves?”

“I know it sounds crazy but it’s true!” John argued

“Sure! I believe you, Marston. I believe you jus’ about as much as I believed that ferry job in Blackwater was gonna work.” Arthur growled out, “I told Dutch not to send you out on the scoutin’ job once we got up in the mountains, told him you weren’t the right man for it.”

“Yeah...guess you were right on that one.” John grunted in pain.

“‘Course I was right! Jus’ look at you! You was almost wolf food! Best be glad that Abigail was worried ‘bout you, cause I wasn’t.”

“If you hate me so much just say it Arthur.” John murmured

“Alright, Marston.” Arthur quipped as he spun around to face John “I-”

“We’ve got a problem…” Javier said and pointed up to a cliff. Three wolves were staring them down, some already looked pretty mangled up, ears torn and bleeding, or favoring one leg more than the others.

“Aw shit....you two get on outta here. I’ll deal with the rest of John’s friends.” Arthur handed the reins over to Javier as he pulled his sawed-off from his holster, pulling the hammers back. “Come and get me, you bastards.” Arthur growled as the wolves charged down the hill.

Arthur aimed at the first wolf and pulled the trigger. A spattering of blood sprinkled the pure white snow as the wolf went down. The others hesitated for a moment, hackles raised, lips pulled back in a menacing snarl. 

“Well?! C’mon then! I ain’t got all day!” Arthur snarled through his teeth at the beasts.

Two more wolves lunged at him, one straight on, the other lunging at his arm. BANG! The shotgun went off again as a second wolf hit the snow in a pool of fresh steaming blood.  A cry ripped from Arthur as the other wolf latched onto his arm “Get the hell offa me!” He yelled as he hit the wolf in the head with the muzzle of the gun. The wolf let go and fell into the snow with a yelp. Arthur quickly reloaded the gun and shot the beast, only stopping to catch his breath after he made sure it stayed down like the others.

“Arthur, are you alright?!” Javier called 

“I’m fine! Just got bit, I’ll live!” Arthur called back as he made his way over to Javier and John. “Lets get outta here and get John back to the others.” 

“Sounds good to me.” Javier exclaimed as he whistled for his and Arthur’s stolen horse before mounting up and looking over his shoulder. “You okay back there John?”

“I-I don’t feel so good…” John answered

“It’s just a dog bite, you’ll be fine.” Arthur grumbled as he mounted his stolen horse.

“Knew a fella who got bit by a dog, he died two days later.” John said.

“Yeah well, that ain’t gonna happen to you. We wouldn’t get lucky enough.” Arthur mumbled the last bit to himself as he tied Reaver’s makeshift reins to the back of his horse’s saddle. “C’mon lets get a move on, we’re losin’ daylight and I’d prefer not to be stuck out here all night.”

“You and me both.” Agreed John.

“Shut up Marston.” Arthur ground out as he spurred his stolen horse forward and back towards Colter.

#OutlawLegends #ReaverBeingAGoodBoi #arthur morgan #john marston #javier escuella #abigail roberts #hosea matthews #Dutch Van Der Linde #chapter 8 #MyGodThisChapterIsLong #SorryForTheWait

[twiddlebirdlet]

https://www.wired.com/story/chris-evans-starting-point-politics/

Chris Evans Goes to Washington

The actor's new project, A Starting Point, aims to give all Americans the TL;DR on WTF is going on in politics. It's harder than punching Nazis on the big screen.

It’s a languid October afternoon in Los Angeles, sunny and clear.

Chris Evans, back home after a grueling production schedule, relaxes into his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. Over the past year and a half, the actor has tried on one identity after another: the shaggy-haired Israeli spy, the clean-shaven playboy, and, in his Broadway debut, the Manhattan beat cop with a Burt Reynolds ’stache. Now, though, he just looks like Chris Evans—trim beard, monster biceps, angelic complexion. So it’s a surprise when he brings up the nightmares. “I sleep, like, an hour a night,” he says. “I’m in a panic.”

The panic began, as panics so often do these days, in Washington, DC. Early last February, Evans visited the capital to pitch lawmakers on a new civic engagement project. He arrived just hours before Donald Trump would deliver his second State of the Union address, in which he called on Congress to “bridge old divisions” and “reject the politics of revenge, resistance, and retribution.” (Earlier, at a private luncheon, Trump referred to Chuck Schumer, the Senate’s top Democrat, as a “nasty son of a bitch.”) Evans is no fan of the president, whom he has publicly called a “moron,” a “dunce,” and a “meatball.” But bridging divisions? Putting an end to the American body politic’s clammy night sweats? These were goals he could get behind.

Evans’ pitch went like this: He would build an online platform organized into tidy sections—immigration, health care, education, the economy—each with a series of questions of the kind most Americans can’t succinctly answer themselves. What, exactly, is a tariff? What’s the difference between Medicare and Medicaid? Evans would invite politicians to answer the questions in minute-long videos. He’d conduct the interviews himself, but always from behind the camera. The site would be a place to hear both sides of an issue, to get the TL;DR on WTF was happening in American politics. He called it A Starting Point—a name that sometimes rang with enthusiasm and sometimes sounded like an apology.

Evans doesn’t have much in the way of political capital, but he does have a reputation, perhaps unearned, for patriotism. Since 2011 he has appeared in no fewer than 10 Marvel movies as Captain America, the Nazi-slaying, homeland-­defending superhero wrapped in bipartisan red, white, and blue. It’s hard to imagine a better time to cash in on the character’s symbolism. Partisan animosity is at an all-time high; a recent survey by the Public Religion Research Institute and The Atlantic found that 35 percent of Republicans and 45 percent of Democrats would oppose their child marrying someone from the other party. (In 1960, only 4 percent of respondents felt this way.) At the same time, there’s a real crisis of faith in the country’s leaders. According to the Pew Research Center, 81 percent of Americans believe that members of Congress behave unethically at least some of the time. In Pew’s estimation, that makes them even less trusted than journalists and tech CEOs.

If Evans got it right, he believed, this wouldn’t be some small-fry website. He’d be helping “create informed, responsible, and empathetic citizens.” He would “reduce partisanship and promote respectful discourse.” At the very least, he would “get more people involved” in politics. And if the site stank like a rotten tomato? If Evans became a national laughingstock? Well, that’s where the nightmares began.

It took a special serum and a flash broil in a Vita-Ray chamber to transform Steve Rogers, a sickly kid from Brooklyn, into Captain America. For Chris Evans, savior of American democracy, the origin story is rather less Marvelous.

One day a few years ago, around the time he was filming Avengers: Infinity War, Evans was watching the news. The on-air discussion turned to an unfamiliar acronym—it might have been NAFTA, he says, but he thinks it was DACA, or Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, an Obama-era immigration policy that granted amnesty to people who had been brought into the United States illegally as children. The Trump administration had just announced plans to phase out DACA, leaving more than half a million young immigrants in the lurch. (The Supreme Court will likely rule this year on whether terminating the program was lawful.)

On the other side of the television, Evans squinted. Wait a minute, he thought. What did that acronym stand for again? And was it a good thing or a bad thing? “It was just something I didn’t understand,” he says.

Evans considers himself a politico. Now 38, he grew up in a civic-minded family, the kind that revels in shouting about the news over dinner. His uncle Michael Capuano served 10 terms in Congress as a Democrat from Massachusetts, beginning right around the time Evans graduated from high school and moved to New York to pursue acting. During the 2016 presidential election, Evans campaigned for Hillary Clinton. In 2017 he became an outspoken critic of Trump—even after he was advised to zip it, for risk of alienating moviegoers. Evans could be a truck driver, Capuano says, and he’d still be involved in politics.

But watching TV that day, Evans was totally lost. He Googled the acronym and tripped over all the warring headlines. Then he tried Wikipedia, but, well, the entry was thousands of words long. “It’s this never-ending thing, and you’re just like, who is going to read 12 pages on something?” Evans says. “I just wanted a basic understanding, a basic history, and a basic grasp on what the two parties think.” He decided to build the resource he wanted for himself.

Evans brought the idea to his close friend Mark Kassen, an actor and director he’d met working on the 2011 indie film Puncture. Kassen signed on and recruited a third partner, Joe Kiani, the founder and CEO of a medical technology company called Masimo. The three met for lobster rolls in Boston. What the country needed, they decided, was a kind of Schoolhouse Rock for adults—a simple, memorable way to learn the ins and outs of civic life. Evans suggested working with politicians directly. Kiani, who had made some friends on Capitol Hill over the years, thought they’d go for it. Each partner agreed to put up money to get the thing off the ground. (They wouldn’t say how much.) They spent some time Googling similar outlets and figuring out where they fit in, Kassen says.

They began by establishing a few rules. First, A Starting Point would give politicians free rein to answer questions as they pleased—no editing, no moderation, no interjections. Second, they would hire fact-checkers to make sure they weren’t promoting misinformation. Third, they would design a site that privileged diversity of opinion, where you could watch a dozen different people answering the same question in different ways. Here, though, imbibing the information would feel more like watching YouTube than skimming Wikipedia—more like entertainment than homework.

The trio mocked up a list of questions to bring to Capitol Hill, starting with the ones that most baffled them. (Is the electoral college still necessary?) They talked, admiringly, about the way presidential debate moderators manage to make their language sound neutral. (Should the questions refer to a “climate crisis” or a “climate situation,” “illegal immigrants” or “undocumented immigrants”?) Then Evans recorded a video on his couch in LA. “Hi, I’m Chris Evans,” he began. “If you’re watching this, I hope you’ll consider contributing to my new civics engagement project called A Starting Point.” He emailed the file to every senator and representative in Congress.

Only a few replied.

In hindsight, Evans realizes, the video “looked so cheap” and either got caught in spam filters or was consciously deleted by congressional staffers. “The majority of people, on both sides of the aisle, dismissed it,” Evans says. Many “thought it was a joke.” Yet there are few doors in American life that a square jaw can’t open, particularly when it belongs to a man with many millions of dollars and nearly as many swooning Twitter fans. Soon enough, a handful of politicians had agreed to meet with the group.

On the morning of his first visit to Capitol Hill, as he donned a slick gray windowpane suit and a black polka-dot tie and combed his perfect hair back from his perfect forehead, Evans felt a wave of doubt. “This isn’t my lane,” he recalls thinking as he walked through the maze of the Russell Senate Office Building. Here, people were making real change, affecting the lives of millions of Americans. “And shit,” Evans said to himself, “I didn’t even go to college.”

“This isn’t my lane,” Evans thought as he walked through the maze of the Russell Senate Office Building.

The trio’s first stop was the office of Chris Coons, a Democrat from Delaware. “Which one is the senator?” Evans asked.

Coons, having never watched any of the Avengers movies, didn’t know who Evans was, either. But in short order, he says, he was won over by the actor’s charm and “very slight but still noticeable” Boston accent. The thing that got Coons the most, though—the thing that would lead him to pass out pocket cards on the Senate floor to recruit others, especially Republicans, to take part in the project—was how refreshing it was to be asked simple questions: Why should we support the United Nations? Why does foreign aid matter? Coons saw real value in trying to explain these things, simply and plainly, to his constituents.

“Look, I’m not naive,” Coons says. He is the first to admit that one-minute videos won’t fix what’s wrong with American politics. “But it’s important for there to be attempts at civic education and outreach,” he adds. “And, you know, his fictional character fought for our nation in a time of great difficulty.”

Evans stiffens slightly when people mention Captain America. The superhero comparison is, admittedly, a little obvious. But again and again on Capitol Hill, the shtick proved useful: Sometimes it’s better to be Captain America than a Holly­wood liberal elite who defends Roe v. Wade and wants to ban assault weapons. When Evans met Jim Risch, the Republican senator from Idaho joked about catching him up on NATO, “since he missed the 70 years after World War II.” When he met Representative Dan Crenshaw, a hard-line Texas Republican and former Navy SEAL who lost his right eye in Afghanistan, Crenshaw lifted up his eye patch to reveal a glass prosthetic painted to look like Captain America’s shield.

Eventually, Evans loosened up—at least he lost the tie. Since that first round of visits, he and Kassen have returned to Washington every six weeks or so, collecting more than 1,000 videos from more than 100 members of Congress, along with about half of the 2020 Democratic hopefuls. Evans has conducted every interview himself. Kassen, meanwhile, managed the acquisition of a video compression startup in Montreal. About a dozen of the company’s engineers are building a custom content management system for A Starting Point, which is slated to go live in February. They’re running bandwidth tests too—just in case, as Kassen worries, “everyone in Chris’ audience logs on that first day.”

“We have to do this now,” Evans says. “It’s out there. We have to finish this. Shit.”

Back in LA, Evans pulls up the site on his iPhone. He hesitates for a moment and covers the screen with his hand. It’s still a demo, he explains, in the same bashful tone he uses to tell me the guest bathroom is out of toilet paper.

On the homepage, there’s a clip of Evans explaining how to use the site and a carousel of “trending topics” (energy, charter schools, Hong Kong). You can enter your address to call up a list of your representatives and find their videos; you can also contact them directly through the site. The rest is organized by topic and question, with a matrix of one-­minute videos for each—Democrats in the left-hand column, Republicans on the right.

Early on in the development of the site, Evans and Kassen fought over fact-checking. Kassen, arguing against, was concerned about the optics: Who were they to arbitrate truth? Evans insisted that A Starting Point would only seem objective if visitors knew the answers had been vetted somehow. Ultimately he prevailed, and they agreed to hire a third-party fact-checker. They have yet to put their thousand-plus videos through the wringer, so for now I’m seeing first drafts. If they’re found to contain falsehoods, Evans says, they won’t appear on the site at all.

Kassen showed me a sampling of some of this raw material. Under “What is DACA?” I found dozens of videos, offering dozens of different starting points.

One representative, a Republican whose district lies near the Mexican border, describes the program’s recipients as “1.2 million men and women who have only known the United States as their home.” They go to school, he explains; they serve in the military; they’ve all passed background checks.

Sometimes it’s better to be Captain America than a Hollywood liberal elite who defends Roe v. Wade and wants to ban assault weapons.

Another Republican representative says, “So, DACA is a result of a really bad immigration system … We’re seeing record numbers of families crossing the border because a kid equals a token for presence in the US. All right? We have all of these people come over, we can’t process them, they’re claiming asylum. I just heard from the secretary of Homeland Security this week, about nine in 10 don’t have valid claims of asylum. Meaning they’re not political—there’s no political persecution going on. OK?”

These two responses (from politicians on the same side of the aisle, no less) illustrate some of the quandaries that Evans, Kassen, and their fact-checkers are likely to encounter. The first representative, for instance, says there are 1.2 million DACA recipients, when in fact only 660,000 immigrants are currently enrolled in the program. The higher number is based on an estimate of those who could be eligible published by the Migration Policy Institute, a Washington think tank. The “nine in 10” statistic, meanwhile, is a loose interpretation of data from 2018, which shows that only about 16 percent of immigrants who filed a “credible fear” claim were granted asylum. But this does not mean, as the representative implies, that the other claims weren’t “valid”—merely that they weren’t successful. Nearly half of all asylum claims from this time were dismissed for undisclosed reasons. These are fairly hair-splitting examples, but even the basic, definitional questions are drenched in opinion. What is Citizens United? “Horrible decision,” says a Democratic senator in his video response.

Evans doesn’t want to spend time refereeing politicians. To him, A Starting Point should act more like a database than a platform—rhetoric that rhymes with that of Facebook and Twitter, which have mostly sidestepped responsibility for their content. He’s just hosting the videos, he says; it’s up to politicians to decide how they answer the questions. There’s no comment section and no algorithmically generated list of recommended videos. “You need to decide what you need to watch next,” Kassen says.

One of the assumptions underlying Evans’ project—and it’s a very big assumption—is that the force of his fame will be enough to attract people who otherwise would have zero interest in watching a carousel of videos from their elected officials. This, by all accounts, is most people: Only a third of Americans can name their representatives in Congress, and those who can aren’t binge-watching C-Span. “Celebrities bring an extraordinary ability to get attention,” says Lauren Wright, a political researcher at Princeton and author of Star Power: American Democracy in the Age of the Celebrity Candidate. But Evans, she says, is “not taking the route that a lot of celebrities have, which is: The solution to American politics is me.” It would be one thing if Evans were guiding you through the inner workings of Congress like a chiseled Virgil. But why would someone watch a senator dryly explain NAFTA when they could watch, say, a YouTube video of Chris Evans on Jimmy Kimmel?

Without its leading man in the frame, A Starting Point begins to look uncomfortably similar to the many other platforms that have sought to fight partisanship online. A site called AllSides labels news sources as left, center, or right and encourages readers to create a balanced media diet with a little from each. A browser plug-in called Read Across the Aisle (“A Fitbit for your filter bubble”) measures the amount of time you spend on left-leaning, right-­leaning, or centrist websites. The Flip Side bills itself as a “one-stop shop for smart, concise summaries of political analysis from both conservative and liberal media.”

The underlying idea—that there would be a new birth of civic engagement if only we could wrest control of the information economy from the hands of self-serving ideologues and deliver the news to citizens unbiased and uncut—is an old one. In 1993, when the modern internet was just a gleam in Al Gore’s eye, Michael Crichton wrote in this magazine’s pages that he was sick and tired of the “polarized, junk-food journalism” propagated by traditional media outlets. (This was three years before Fox News and MSNBC came into being; he was talking about The New York Times.) What society needed, he argued, was something more like C-Span, something that encouraged people to draw their own conclusions.

But does any of it work? Not according to Wright. “We have many years of research on these questions, and the consensus among scholars is that the proliferation of media choices—including sites like Evans’—has not increased political knowledge or participation,” she says. “The problem isn’t the lack of information. It’s the lack of interest.” Jonathan Albright, director of the Digital Forensics Initiative at Columbia’s Tow Center for Digital Journalism, agrees. “All of these fact-­checking initiatives, all of this work that goes into trying to disambiguate issues or trying to reduce noise—people have no time,” he says. “Some people care about politics, but those are not the people you need to reach.”

Naturally, this sort of talk makes Evans a little nervous. But he takes refuge in what he sees as the core strengths of the concept. For one thing, he argues, snack-size videos are more accessible than text. Also, those other sites rely on a translator to interpret the issues, while A Starting Point goes straight to the source. It’s not for policy wonks. It’s for average Americans, centrists, extremists, swing voters—everyone!—who want to hear about policy straight from the horse’s mouth. (Never mind that most people hold horses in higher regard.)

Evans has all kinds of ideas for how to keep people coming back. He might add a section of the website where representatives can upload weekly videos for their constituents, or a place where policymakers from different parties can discuss bipartisan compromise. He talks about these ideas with an enthusiasm so pure and so believable that you almost forget he’s an actor. The whole point, he says, is giving Americans a cheap seat on the kinds of conversations that are happening on Capitol Hill. That’s a show that Evans is betting people actually want to see.

The worst thing that could happen isn’t that nobody watches the videos. That would suck, but Evans could deal with it. What gets him riled up most is thinking about what he might have failed to consider. What if the site ends up promoting some bizarre agenda that he never intended? What if people use the videos for some kind of twisted purpose? “One miscalculation,” he says, “and you may not get back on track.” (See: Facebook.)

Evans knows his idea to save democracy can come off a little Pollyannaish, and if it flops, it’ll be his reputation on the line. But he really, really believes in it. OK, so maybe it won’t save America, but it might piece together some of what’s been broken. A fresh start. A starting point.

“This does feel to me like everybody wins here. I don’t see how this becomes a problem,” he says, before a look of panic crosses his face, the anxiety setting in again.

[deathclaw-for-cutie]

(more) OC Interview Asks!

‘cause @nuclear-darling tagged me again to do Sid. Tagging everybody who reads this!!

Art by @baolizhu and @memaidraws respectively~

1. What is your name?

Sidney Santiago, at your service! Or Sid, if you’re short on time.

2. Do you know why are you named that?

Not really, no. I don’t remember my folks much, I was still real small when they dropped me off at Little Lamplight. Maybe they liked the alliteration. It’s pretty snappy, don’t you think?

3. Are you single or taken?

Taken between two of the handsomest ghouls this side of the Wasteland!

4. Have any abilities or powers?

I’m a salesman. A closer. I know how to make a deal, you know?

5. Stop being a Mary Sue.

What’s it to you?

6. What’s your eye color?

Black, I think, or maybe brown.

7. How about your hair color?

Dark, dark brown. Pretty thick all over, too, if you know what I mean.

8. Have any family members?

I’ve got Gob and I’ve got Charon. I dunno what to call this little thing we’ve got going, all three of us, but whatever it is, it works. Between you and me, I think they’d get on just fine if I wasn’t around, but I dunno what I’d do without either of them.

9. Oh? How about pets?

We’re saving up for a pack brahmin. Gonna haul more goods over more terrain faster, and if we ever have a lean year, we can always eat it. I hope we don’t have to eat it, though. I love brahmin.

10. That’s cool, I guess. Now tell me something you don’t like?

Ruth’s answer to this question.

11. Do you have any activities/hobbies that you like to do?

Just havin’ a good time, I guess. Seein’ what there is to see, eatin’ what there is to eat. I’ll try just about anything once. There’s just so much to do out there... when you’re not just fightin’ to survive, I mean.

12. Have you ever hurt anyone in any way before?

I guess so. I mean, I must’ve, right? I’ve burned a couple folks on some bad deals, back when I was just out for myself. But I mean, who hasn’t? You do what you gotta do. I’m not sayin’ I’m proud of it, but I’m no worse than any other waster out there.

13. Ever… killed anyone before?

What are you, a cop? Get outta here.

14. What kind of animal are you?

I like to think I’m a yao gui. Gob says I’m more of a mole rat.

15. Name your worst habits?

Maybe I like talking. Maybe I say a lot of things that aren’t 100% the truth.

16. Do you look up to anyone at all?

I look up to just about everybody. You know, on account of being so short. Real pain in the neck, I tell you.

17. Are you gay, straight or bisexual?

Men, women, who cares? Everybody needs a little love.

18. Do you go to school?

We had a little schoolhouse set up at Little Lamplight, but I never much cared for it.

19. Ever want to marry and have kids one day?

Marry, maybe. I know it doesn’t matter much, but I do like the idea of making it official. Neither of my boys have last names, so folks have taken to call us “The Santiagos” already. I sure as hell wouldn’t mind having a big ol party for it.

Dunno about kids, though. I like ‘em just fine, but the world is an extra scary place for a kid. Big Town got hit by more gangs than any other place I ever lived, ‘cause folks knew that’s where the kids lived. I don’t wanna put another person through all that.

20. Do you have any fangirls/fanboys?

Probably. I mean, have you seen these curves? I’m practically busting outta this dress here.

21. What are you most afraid of?

That big, blind, blundering rage you can’t reason with or buy your way out of. Whether its some monster or just a big tough guy losing their head, even a moment of that can undo everything.

22. What do you usually wear?

I’m on the road a lot, so big packs and big coats with lotsa pockets are a must. Always gotta keep my stock on hand, you know? But I’ve been wearing this silky old pre-War thing i found, and it’s awful comfy. Plus, I feel like I score better deals - folks don’t notice they’re paying twice the caps for a hunk of junk if they’re too busy oggling some tits.

23. What’s one food that tempts you?

A good old-fashioned squirrel on a stick. You know, it’s funny, you can find ‘em anywhere, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a live squirrel in my whole life. Kinda makes you wonder what that really is on the stick. Whatever it is is some good eatin’, though.

24. Am I annoying to you?

No? What makes you say so?

25. Well, it’s still not over!

Sounds good to me.

26. What class are you (low/middle/high)?

I’ve never gone hungry, if that’s what you’re askin’. I didn’t come from much, but I know how to bring in the caps.

27. How many friends do you have?

I’m friends with just about everybody, just ask around! People friggin love me.

28. What are your thoughts on pie?

Like the food or….you know? ;D

29. Favorite drink?

Nuka Cola Quantum. Not only is it tasty but it turns your piss into a laser lights show. Good times all around.

30. What’s your favorite place?

When I’ve been travelling all day long, and finally check into a room at an inn. Sitting down on some mattress and finally kicking off my boots. Doesn’t matter if it’s Rivet City or some unnamed hole somewhere - so long as there’s a bed.

31. Are you interested in anyone?

I’ve got Gob and Charon. And before you go giving me any looks, they’ve got each other, too - everybody’s in on it. I’m no cheat.

32. That was a stupid question…

Maybe a little.

33. Would you rather swim in a lake or the ocean?

I’m not one for swimming, but I do like a nice afternoon down by a lake. The radiation’s killer for me but heaven for my guys, so we try to go every now and then. Skip some rocks, shoot some ‘lurks, have a little cookout on the shore.

34. What’s your type?

Folks who make me feel needed. Someone who needs a little saving, you know?

35. Any fetishes?

You gotta go at it extra careful when your partners are prone to losing parts. But when they trust you enough to let you rough ‘em up a little, that’s something special.

36. Camping or outdoors?

Yeah, sure. That’s kind of my house. What about it?

#sid tag #fallout 3 oc #fallout oc #interview oc meme

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Cat and the Coffee Drinkers

Max Steele (1963)

Only the five-year-old children who were sent to the kindergarten of Miss Effie Barr had any idea what they were learning in that one-room schoolhouse, and they seldom told anyone, and certainly not grown people.

My father was sent to her when he was five years old, and thirty years later when no one had much money, I was sent to her. Even though ours was no longer a small Southern town, and even though she was already in her seventies the first time I saw her, Miss Effie had known all the children in her school a year, and often longer, before they appeared before her for lessons. My mother, with proper gloves and hat, began taking me to call on her when I was four. It was a good place to visit. The house was a large gray one with elegant white columns, and it was set well back from the same street we lived on. Until the Depression the Barrs had owned the entire block and theirs was the only house on it.

There were mossy brick steps leading up from the hitching post to the gravel walk which curved between overgrown boxwoods to the low porch with its twelve slender columns. There in the summer in the shade of the water oaks Miss Effie, dressed in black, would be sitting, knitting or embroidering while her big gray cat sat at, and sometimes on, her feet. Slow uncertain music would be coming through the open windows from the music room, where her older sister, Miss Hattie, gave piano lessons.

Miss Effie never seemed to watch a child on such visits, or offer him anything like cookies or lemonade, or say anything to endear herself to a youngster. Instead she would talk lady-talk with the mother and, hardly pausing, say to the waiting child, "You can pull up the wild onions on the lawn if you've nothing better to do." There was no suggestion in her voice that it was a game or that there would be a reward. She simply stated what could be done if one took a notion. Usually a child did.

There was no nonsense about Miss Effie. One morning in late September my mother and I were standing with eleven other mothers and children on the wide porch. Miss Effie looked everyone over carefully from where she stood with one hand on the screen door. She checked a list in the other hand against the faces on the porch to be sure that these were the children she had chosen from the forty or more who had visited her in the summer.

Apparently satisfied, or at least reconciled to another year of supplementing her income (for no Southern lady of her generation "worked"), she opened the door wide and said in her indifferent tone, "Children inside." When one mother tried to lead her reluctant son into the dark parlor, Miss Effie said, "Mothers outside." She pushed the big cat out with her foot and said, "You too, Mr. Thomas."

When the children were all inside and the mothers outside, Miss Effie latched the screen, thanked the mothers for bringing the children, and reminded them that classes began at eight-thirty and ended at noon. The tuition of two dollars a week would be acceptable each Friday, and each child as part of his training should be given the responsibility for delivering the money in an envelope bearing the parent's signature. She thanked them again in such a way that there was nothing for them to do except wander together in a group down the gravel walk.

Miss Effie then turned to us, standing somewhat closer together than was necessary in the center of the dark parlor, and said, "Since this is your first day, I want to show you everything. Then you won't be wondering about things while you should be listening."

She made us look at the Oriental carpet, the grandfather clock, the bookcases of leather-bound volumes, and the shelves on which were collections of rocks, shells, birds' nests, and petrified wood. She offered to let us touch, just this once, any of these things.

She would not let us into the music room, but she indicated through the door the imported grand piano, the red plush seat where Miss Hattie sat during lessons, the music racks, the ferns, and the window seats, which she said were full of sheet music. "You're never to go in there," she said. "I don't go in there myself."

Next, she showed us the dining room, the den, and the hallway, and then at the foot of the stairs she said, "We're going upstairs, and then you'll never go up there again." Barbara Ware, one of the three girls, began to whimper. "Don't worry," Miss Effie said. "You'll come back down. But there'll be no reason to go up again. I want you to see everything so you won't have to ask personal questions, which would certainly be the height of impoliteness, wouldn't it? I mean, if you started wanting to know, without my telling you, where I sleep and which window is Miss Hattie's, I'd think you were rude, wouldn't I? I'll show you everything so you won't be tempted to ask personal questions."

We went up the stairs, and she showed us her room and where she kept her shoes (in the steps leading up to the side of the four-poster bed), where she hung her clothes (in two large wardrobes), and where she kept her hatbox (in a teakwood sea chest). The cat, she said, slept on the sea chest if he happened to be home at night.

She then knocked on the door of Miss Hattie's room and asked her sister if we might look in. Miss Hattie agreed to a short visit. After that Miss Effie showed us the upstairs bathroom and that the bathtub faucet dripped all night and that was why the towel was kept under it.

Downstairs again, she let us see the new kitchen, which was built in 1900, and the back porch, which had been screened in only four years before, with a small door through which the cat could come and go as he liked. We were as fascinated by everything as we would have been if we had never seen a house before.

"Now, out the back door. All of you." She made us all stand on the ground, off the steps, while she lowered herself step by step with the aid of a cane which she kept on a nail by the door. "Now you've seen my house, and you won't see it again. Unless I give your mothers fruitcake and coffee at Christmas. And I don't think I will. Not this year. Do you ever get tired of fruitcake and coffee at Christmas?"

We said we did since it was clear that she did.

"Over there is the barn, and we'll see it some other time. And that is the greenhouse, and we'll be seeing it often. And here is the classroom where we'll be." She pointed with her cane to a square brick building, which before the Civil War had been the kitchen. The door was open.

She shepherded us along the brick walk with her cane, not allowing any of us near enough to her to topple her over. At the open door she said, "Go on in."

We crowded in, and when we were all through the door, she summoned us back out. "Now which of you are boys?" The nine boys raised their hands, following her lead. "And which girls?" The three girls had already separated themselves from the boys and nodded together. "All right then, young gentlemen," she said, regarding us, "let's let the young ladies enter first, or I may think you're all young ladies."

The girls, looking timid and pleased, entered. We started in after them.

"Wait just a minute, young gentlemen," she said. "Haven't you forgotten something?" We looked about for another girl. 

"Me!" she announced. "You've forgotten me!" She passed through our huddle, separating us with her stick, and marched into the brick kitchen.

Inside and out, the kitchen was mainly of brick. The walls and floor were brick, and the huge chimney and hearth, except for a closet-cupboard on each side of it, were brick. The ceiling, however, was of beams and broad boards, and the windows were of wavy glass in casements that opened out like shutters. There were three large wooden tables and at each table four chairs.

Again she had to show us everything. The fireplace would be used only in the coldest weather, she said. At other times an iron stove at one side of the room would be used. A captain's chair between the fireplace and the stove was her own and not to be touched by us. A sewing table, overflowing with yarn and knitting needles, was for her own use and not for ours. One cupboard, the one near her, held dishes. She opened its door. She would let us see in the other cupboard later. The tables and chairs and, at the far end of the room, the pegs for coats were all ours to do with as we pleased. It was, she explained, our schoolroom, and therefore, since we were young ladies and gentlemen, she was sure we would keep it clean.

As a matter of fact, she saw no reason why we should not begin with the first lesson: Sweeping and Dusting. She opened the other cupboard and showed us a mop, bucket, rags, brushes, and three brooms. We were not divided into teams; we were not given certain areas to see who could sweep his area cleanest. We were simply told that young ladies should naturally be able to sweep and that young gentlemen at some times in their lives would certainly be expected to sweep a room clean.

The instruction was simple: "You get a good grip on the handle and set to." She handed out the three brooms and started the first three boys sweeping from the fireplace toward the front door. She made simple corrections: "You'll raise a dust, flirting the broom upward. Keep it near the floor. Hold lower on the handle. You'll get more dirt. Don't bend over. You'll be tired before the floor is clean."

Miss Effie corrected the series of sweepers from time to time while she made a big red enamel coffeepot of coffee on a small alcohol stove. Each child was given a turn with the broom before the job was finished. Since the room had not been swept, she admitted, all summer, there was a respectable pile of brick dust, sand, and sweepings near the door by the time she said, "We'll have lunch now." It was already ten o'clock. "After lunch I'll teach you how to take up trash and to dust. Everyone needs to know that."

"Lunch," it happened, was half a mug of coffee each. One spoon of sugar, she said, was sufficient, if we felt it necessary to use sugar at all (she didn't), and there was milk for those who could not or would not (she spoke as though using milk were a defect of character) take their coffee black. I daresay not any of us had ever had coffee before, and Robert Barnes said he hadn't.

"Good!" Miss Effie said. "So you have learned something today."

Miriam Wells, however, said that her parents wouldn't approve of her drinking coffee. 

"Very well," Miss Effie said. "Don't drink it. And the next time I offer you any, if I ever do, simply say 'No, thank you, ma'am.' " (The next day Miriam Wells was drinking it along with the rest of us.) "Let's get this clear right this minute—your parents don't need to know what you do when you're under my instruction."

Her firm words gave us a warm feeling, and from that moment on, the schoolroom became a special, safe, and rather secret place.

That day we learned, further, how to rinse out mugs and place them in a pan to be boiled later, how to take up trash, and how to dust. At noon we were taught how to put on our sweaters or coats and how to hold our caps in our left hands until we were outside. We also learned how to approach, one at a time, our teacher (or any lady we should happen to be visiting) and say thank you (for the coffee or whatever we had been served) and how to say goodbye and turn and leave the room without running or laughing.

The next morning Robert Barnes was waiting on his steps when I walked by his house. Since he and I lived nearer to the Barrs than any of the other children, we were the first to arrive. We walked up the grassy drive as we had been told to do and along the brick walk and into the schoolhouse. Miss Effie sat in her captain's chair brushing the large gray cat which lay on a tall stool in front of her. We entered without speaking. Without looking up, Miss Effie said, "Now, young gentlemen, let's try that again—outside. Take off your caps before you step through the door, and say 'Good morning, ma'am' as you come through the door. Smile if you feel like it. Don't if you don't." She herself did not smile as we went out and came back in the manner she had suggested. However, this time she looked directly at us when she returned our "good mornings." Each child who entered in what she felt to be a rude way was sent out to try again.

Strangely enough she did not smile at anyone. She treated each child as an adult and each lesson as though it were serious task. Even though there were occasional crying scene or temper tantrums among us, she herself never lost her firm, rational approach. Sitting in her captain's chair, dressed in black from neck to toe except for a cameo, small gold loop earrings, and a gold and opal ring on her right hand, she was usually as solemn and considerate as a judge on his bench.

The third day she was again brushing the cat as we entered. She waited until we were all properly in before addressing us as a class. "This is Mr. Thomas. He's a no-good cat, and he doesn't like children, so leave him alone. I'd have nothing to do with him myself except that he happens to belong to me because his mother and grandmother belonged to me. They were no good either. But since he does belong to me and since he is here, we may as well talk about cats."

She showed us how to brush a cat, the spots under his neck where he liked to be rubbed, how he didn't like his ears or whiskers touched, how his ears turned to pick up sounds how he stretched and shut his paw pads when he was tickled on the stomach or feet, and how he twitched his tail when annoyed. "Mr. Thomas is a fighter," she said—and she let us look at the scars from a dozen or more serious fights—"and he's getting too old to fight, but he hasn't got sense enough to know that."

She looked at us where we stood more or less in a large circle around her. "Now, let's see, I don't know your names. I know your mothers, but not your names." She would, she said, point to us one at a time and we were to give our names in clear, loud voices while looking her right in the eye. Then we were to choose a chair at one of the three tables.

"I hate the way most people become shy when they say their names. Be proud of it and speak up."

When the young ladies had finished giving their names, she said that they did admirably well; they chose to sit at the same table. One or two boys shouted their names in a silly fashion and had to repeat. One or two others looked away, to decide on a chair or to watch the cat, they claimed, and so had to repeat. I did not speak loud enough and had to say my name three times. One lad refused to say his name a second time, and that day and the next she called him Mr. No-Name. On Friday he did not appear, or Monday or Tuesday, and the next week a new boy from the waiting list gave his name in a perfect fashion and took Mr. No-Name's place.

We learned about cats and names the third day then. The following day Barbara Ware and Robert Barnes distinguished themselves by claiming to like their coffee black with no sugar, just the way Miss Effie was convinced it should be drunk.

At the end of the second week we reviewed what we had learned by sweeping and dusting the room again. And each day we practiced coming in and leaving properly and saying our names in a way that sounded as though we were proud of them and of ourselves—which by then we were.

The third week, putting down the cat brush and shooing Mr. Thomas off the stool, Miss Effie said that she too was proud of the way we identified ourselves with eyes level and unblinking. "But now," she said, "I want to teach you to give a name that is not your own—without any shiftiness.

She sat with both thin hands clasping the arms of her chair and gave a short lecture. Not everyone, she said, was entitled to know your name. Some people of a certain sort would ask when it was none of their business. It would be unnecessarily rude to tell them so. But we could simply tell such people a name that had nothing whatever to do with our own. She did not mention kidnappings, but talked rather about ruthless salesmen, strangers on buses and trains, and tramps and beggars wandering through the neighborhood.

For the purpose of practice, all of the young ladies would learn to give in a courteous, convincing manner the rather dated, unconvincing name "Polly Livingstone." The boys would be, when asked, "William Johnson" (a name I can still give with much more conviction than my own). That day and the next we each gave our own names before the coffee break, and after coffee, our false names. We liked the exercises in which we went up to her, shook her hand if she offered it, and gave our false names, confronting, without staring, her solemn gaze with ours. If we smiled or twisted, we had to stand by the fireplace until we could exercise more poise. At the end of the first month Miss Effie said that she was fairly well pleased with our progress. "I have taught you, thus far, mainly about rooms. Most people spend most of their lives in rooms, and now you know about them."

She mentioned some of the things we had learned, like how to enter rooms: ladies first, young men bareheaded with their caps in their left hands, ready to offer their right hands to any extended, how to look a person directly in the eye and give one's name (real or false, depending on the occasion) without squirming, how to sweep and dust a room, and finally how to leave a room promptly, without lingering, but without running or giggling.

"What else have we learned about rooms?" she then asked, letting Mr. Thomas out the window onto the sunny ledge where he liked to sit.

"How to drink coffee," Miriam Wells said rather proudly. 

"No," Miss Effie said, "that has to do with another series which includes how to accept things and how to get rid of things you don't want: fat meat, bones, seeds, pits, peelings, and"—she added under her breath—"parents." She paused for a moment and looked pleased, as though she might wink or smile, but her angular face did not change its expression very much. "No. Besides, I'm not pleased with the way you're drinking coffee." She then said for the first time a speech which she repeated so often that by the end of the year we sometimes shouted it in our play on the way home. "Coffee is a beverage to be enjoyed for its flavor. It is not a food to be enriched with milk and sugar. Only certain types of people try to gain nourishment from it. In general they are the ones, I suspect, who show their emotions in public." (We had, I'm sure, no idea what the speech meant.) She expected us by June—possibly by Christmas—to be drinking it black. "Is there anything else we need to know about rooms?" she asked.

"How to build them," Phillip Pike said.

"That," Miss Effie said, "you can't learn from me. Unfortunately. I wish I knew."

She looked thoughtfully out the window to the ledge on which Mr. Thomas was grooming himself. "Windows!" she said. "How to clean windows."

Again the cupboard was opened, and by noon the next day we knew how to clean windows inside and out and how to adjust all the shades in a room to the same level.

When it turned cold in November—cold enough for the stove but not the fireplace—we settled down to the real work which had given Miss Effie's kindergarten its reputation: Reading. Miss Effie liked to read, and it was well known in the town and especially among the public school teachers that the two or three hundred children she had taught had grown up reading everything they could find. She assured us that even though we were only five years old we would be reading better than the third-grade schoolchildren by the end of the year.

Each morning the stove was already hot when we arrived. She would brush Mr. Thomas awhile; then when we were all in our places and warm, she would hand out our reading books, which we opened every day to the first page and laid flat before us on the tables. While we looked at the first page she began heating the big red enamel pot of coffee, and also, because we needed nourishment to keep warm, a black iron pot of oatmeal. Then Miss Effie would sit down, allow Mr. Thomas to jump into her lap, and begin reading—always from the first page in an excited tone. She would read to the point exactly where we had finished the day before, so that from necessity she read faster each day while we turned our pages, which we knew by heart, when we saw her ready to turn hers.

Then one after another we went up to her and sat on Mr. Thomas' stool by the stove and read aloud to her while those at the tables either listened, or read, or played with architectural blocks. The child on the stool was rewarded at the end of each sentence with two spoonfuls of oatmeal if he read well, one if not so well. Since we each read twice, once before coffee and once after, we did not really get hungry before we left the school at noon. Of course those who read fast and well ate more oatmeal than the others.

In addition to the reading lessons, which were the most important part of the day, we learned to take money and shopping lists to Mr. Zenacher's grocery store, to pay for groceries, and to bring them back with the change. Usually two or three of us went together to the store on the next block. At the same time three or four others might be learning to paint flowerpots or to catch frying-size chickens in the chicken yard back of the barn. 

On sunny days that winter we would all go out to the greenhouse for an hour and learn to reset ferns and to start bulbs on wet beds of rock. In March we learned how to rake Miss Effie's tennis court, to fill in the holes with powdery sand, and to tie strings properly so that later a yardman could mark the lines with lime. The tennis court was for rent in the afternoons to high school girls and boys during the spring and summer.

By Eastertime we were all proficient sweepers, dusters, shoppers, bulb-setters, readers, and black-coffee drinkers. Miss Effie herself, now that spring was almost in the air, hated to sit all morning by the stove where we'd been all winter. Usually after an hour or so of reading all aloud and at once, we would follow her into the yards and prune the first-breath-of-spring, the jessamines, the yellow bells, and the peach and pear trees. We kept the branches we cut off, and we stuck them in buckets of water in the greenhouse. Miss Effie printed a sign which said "Flowers for Sale," and we helped her tie it to a tree near the sidewalk. In addition to the flowering branches which we had forced, she sold ferns and the jonquils that we had set, which were now in bud.

All in all, spring was a busy time. And I remember only one other thing we learned. One warm May morning we arrived to find Mr. Thomas, badly torn about the ears, his eyes shut, his breathing noisy, on a folded rug near the open door of the schoolhouse. We wanted to pet him and talk to him, but Miss Effie, regarding him constantly, said no, that he had obviously been not only a bad cat but a foolish one. She believed he had been hit by a car while running from some dogs and that that was how the dogs got to him. (She and Miss Hattie had heard the fight during the night.) At any rate, he had managed to crawl under the steps where the dogs couldn't get to him anymore. At dawn she had come down and thrown hot water on the dogs and rescued him.

As soon as a boy from her cousin's office arrived (her cousin was a doctor) she was going to teach us how to put a cat to sleep, she said.

We pointed out that he already seemed to be asleep.

"But," she explained, not taking her eyes from the cat, "we are going to put him to sleep so that he won't wake up."

"You're going to kill him?" Robert Barnes said.

"You could say that."

We were all greatly disturbed when we understood that this was the last we would see of Mr. Thomas. But Miss Effie had no sympathy, apparently, for the cat or for us. "He is suffering, and even if he is a no-good cat, he shouldn't suffer."

When Barbara Ware began to whimper, Miss Effie said, "Animals are not people." Her tone was severe enough to stop Barbara from crying.

After the boy had arrived with the package and left, Miss Effie stopped her reading, went to the cupboard, and got out a canvas bag with a drawstring top. "Now if you young ladies will follow us, I'll ask the young gentlemen to bring Mr. Thomas."

We all rushed to be the ones to lift the piece of carpet and bear Mr. Thomas after her through the garden to the toolshed. "Just wrap the carpet around him. Tight. Head and all," she instructed when we reached the toolshed. After we had him wrapped securely, Miss Effie opened the package and read the label—"Chloroform." She explained to us the properties of the chemical while we rolled the cat tighter and stuck him, tail first, into the canvas bag. Miss Effie asked us to stand back and hold our breaths. She then soaked a large rag with the liquid and poured the rest directly onto the cat's head and on the carpet. She poked the rag into the rolled carpet so that it hid Mr. Thomas completely. She then drew the drawstring tight and placed the cat, bag and all, in the toolshed. She shut the door firmly and latched it. "That'll cut out the air," she said.

Back in the schoolhouse, we tried to listen as she read, without the usual excited tone, but we were all thinking about Mr. Thomas in the toolshed. "Well," she finally said, "if you will excuse me a moment, I'll go see if my cat is dead."

We watched from the windows as she walked with her cane through the garden to the toolshed. We could see her open the door and bend over the sack for a long time. At last she straightened up and locked the door again. She came back with the same unhalting gait and stood for a moment in the sun before the open door of the schoolhouse.

"When I dismiss you, you're to go straight down the drive and straight home. And if they want to know why you're home early"—she stopped and studied the ground as though she had lost there her cameo or her words—"tell them the only thing Miss Effie had to teach you today was how to kill a cat."

Without waiting for us to leave, she walked in her usual dignified fashion down the brick walk and up the back steps and into her house, shutting the kitchen door firmly behind her. I know that that was not the last day of school, for I remember helping to spread tablecloths over the reading tables, and I remember helping to serve tea cakes to the mothers who came the last day and stood on the tennis court near the table where Miss Hattie was serving coffee. But the final, definite picture I have of Miss Effie is that of her coming through the garden from the toolshed and standing in the doorway a moment to say that she had nothing more to teach us.

[glenhoweyphotographictours]

Testimonials

“I really enjoyed my photography trip with Glen. He was very knowledgeable as well as being an interesting and engaging guy. The conversations were very enjoyable. Naturally enough, the sights were spectacular and I almost felt like a fraud coming away with such good photographs. Glen is the kind of person who is prepared to go the extra distance to ensure you have a memorable trip. On top of this he edited some of my photos a couple of days later, and also shared some of the ones he took on the day, both of which I considered was part of his providing a top-class service.”

-Frank Gradwell, Wellington

 “Having been on many of Glen’s landscape workshops I find each time I learn something new. Each location is carefully planned out and is always full of surprises.

Glen’s energy and passion for landscape is inspiring. His knowledge of the area, fantastic guidance, tips and techniques are tailored to everyones needs. All of these elements combined whilst enjoying a new adventure, gives you the get up and go...especially at 5am which is one of my favourite times of the day... sunrise....then sunset brings a whole other world of magic.

Overall, Glen’s workshops no only give you the tools to create great work, but being with other like minded people, and getting out amongst it all, leaves you wanting more. I always leave feeling inspired and look forward to the next one. Well worth every penny!

Thank you Glen for sharing your passion and knowledge as I know I am richer for it!”


-Kathryn Armitage

 " I have attended many of Glen Howey's Photographic landscape workshops over the years. During this period, I have learned an enormous amount from Glen's expertise and it has given me the confidence to pursue my own love for the genre. Glen is a one-of-a-kind Landscape photographer. He is so upbeat and makes you get up and do things that you would never imagine possible; It ́s infectious. His genuine care for others and enthusiasm is beyond this world. I couldn ́t recommend him and his workshops enough "

-Yvonne Wereta

 “In the last 12 years I have been on numerous trips with Glen, both in New Zealand and Internationally, a I could not recommend more highly the photographic experiences that he offers.

He is generous with his knowledge and energy, and his upbeat personality never fails to inspire and entertain. He is completely reliable , and applies a perfectionists eye and attitube to everything he does. His knowledge of our New Zealand landscape is staggering and has been gained through 3 decades of intense exploration and dedication.

The trips I have had with Glen over the years have always been high points in my life.” 

-Debbie Rawson.

  “I had the great privilege to spend an 8 hour photo tour session with Glen Howey in the Queenstown, NZ region. Glen has a rich background in photography having taught at university in Wellington and been associated with two well known NZ photographers, Mike Langford and Jackie Ranken. He has decades of experience in travel, landscape and documentary photography and runs photo tours to SE Asia locations like Myanmar, Cambodia and Sri Lanka. Glen’s photography often focuses on the socially relevant aspects of a shoot. He was front and center for the Christ Church earthquake in 2011 and documented the tragedy in a highly acclaimed photo book. Glen is also a volunteer fireman and had been a first responder to a tragic bus accident of Chinese tourists just the day before. Despite the early 5 am departure and well understood lingering feelings about the accident, Glen’s enthusiasm for his craft and the shoot locations was infectious. It almost made the hot mug of coffee he brought for me unnecessary.

We started the morning with a drive up to Coronet Peak overlooking the entire Wakatipu Basin. The ski lift area is a favorite jumping off point for hang gliders and would be photographers. We were looking for a place to capture the sunrise. Given the cloudy morning, the amateur in me was a little disappointed by the muffled sunrise. But Glen saw colors forming through the clouds you and I wouldn’t see initially and his excitement was catching. Glen gives his photo partners plenty of rope depending on their level of experience, but offers worthwhile suggestions at just the right moments. A perfect instructive balance. I probably shouldn’t mention this since he’s busy enough as it is, but he offered to review my RAW photos from the sunrise shoot and make post processing edits and explanations for my benefit. One of those photos is a top three from all my shots during our 6+ week trip through Asia.

From Coronet Peak, we traveled along the narrow gravel road above Skippers Canyon, carefully avoiding the Shotover River jet boat crews and trailers along the way. Skippers is magic. From Gorilla Rock where Glen posed on the top for me, to a small gold mining town, capturing elevated views of the Shotover River, and finally a wooden suspension bridge leading to an old schoolhouse, Glen told stories of the Canyon’s history at each point. We stopped for a panaromic view and had “biccies” and coffee (I didn’t know coffee came in tea bags!). By the way, the panorama shot of Skippers Canyon is the full front and back cover of my 90 page photo book of our Asian trip.

The last stop was a bridge just outside Queenstown which serves as a jumping off point for the Shotover River jet boats. Capturing an image of one of the boats racing under the bridge across the teal colored waters is worth the stop.

Like all fantastic voyages, ours came to a reluctant end. It was definitely the highlight of my trip to the South Island. And if you’re a photographer with any level of experience, and your travels take you to the Queenstown area...or Southeast Asia...don’t pass on an opportunity to spend a few hours with Glen.”

-Phil Essman

  “It was my first visit to New Zealand, and I wanted to make the most of it. Typically not a user of photo guides, but a large format user recommended Glen. He was quite responsive to email inquiries, and suggested a visit to Skippers, an area just north of Queenstown. I was reluctant, as I planned to pass by that area, and who needed to see it twice? Glen stayed with his recommendation, noting I would miss this area if not guided. And he was totally correct! We went out my first evening for a few hours, then as the light fell, we both realized it needed another early AM visit - so at 6 the following morning, he picked me up and off we went. It was an area akin to Utah, the road small and winding, wide enough for his car only! I was absolutely delighted to visit, it was a tremendous highlight. There is no way I would have ever found the area, much less ventured in. Glen had good sensibility about the place, the light and where to shoot, but more importantly, knew how to let me work on my own, with some very good suggestions. A fascinating fellow he is well recommended to photographers of all skill levels. We had a good time working together!”

-Geoffrey Goldberg

  My sunset photo trip to Skippers Canyon with Glen was one of the top highlights of my trip to New Zealand. Driving along adventurous roads that I could never have accessed on my own, Glen would pull over at one lovely photographic opportunity after another. We would discuss composition ideas and lighting angles. I would take some shots, we’d evaluate how they came out, Glen would provide feedback and critique, and if I wanted, we’d try them again. Then off to the next stop! Glen had lots of photographic tips and tricks to share along with interesting tidbits about local history. I am still using the information I learned from Glen and I love the shots I took. If you have the opportunity to go out with Glen on a photo trip I highly recommend you do so!”

- Lisa K.