#[grown up cats that live outside in the town started living in the barn and having babies basically] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sihtricfedaraaahvicius · 7 months

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Strays

Note: requested by anon! thank you for your kind words, and I hope you'll like this. I had a lot of fun writing it :) (for story purposes, it's set a little after SKMD)

Warnings: F L U F F

pairing: SKMD!Sihtric x you (f)

summary: When your cat goes missing, Sihtric was determined to get him back..

wordcount: 2,3k

Masterlist

'You're coming with me.'

Sihtric couldn't stand it anymore. Your endless crying, the countless hours of waiting in front of your home, your daily calling of 'Fluffy! Fluffy, where are you?' Sihtric had enough of it.

You were heartbroken ever since your beloved cat, Fluffy, ran away a few days ago. Sihtric, the hardened warrior and your beloved husband, had gifted you the pet a few years ago so you would feel less alone, whenever he had to leave you for a couple of days to deliver messages for Uhtred, or if he had to go to battle.

The lands had been at peace for about a year now, Sihtric was a Lord, and together you lived in the great hall of Dunholm, with your furry companion. Fluffy would often leave the cosy indoors and venture outside, but he always came home again at the end of the day, until a few days ago that was. And no matter what Sihtric did or said, you were a mess.

'What if he's hurt?' you cried in your husband's arms, who was simply out of ideas of how to try and make you feel better. 'Or what if someone just stole him?'

Your mind kept making up one horror story after another, each one worse than the previous scenario you came up with.

'I'll find him,' Sihtric said, and he kissed your cheek, 'I promise, my love, I'll find him.'

And so Sihtric set out on a quest to find Fluffy, your grey cat.

Sihtric woke up the next morning, just before dawn. He got dressed, had some quick breakfast, kissed you goodbye and went on his way. All morning he searched outside for Fluffy, in Dunholm, looking at every place he could think of. He started at the stables, but figured the horses would have scared Fluffy off already. Then he searched the market square, where he'd check under and around every table with products, but to no avail. He asked a few of the residents, young and old, if they had seen the friendly cat, but no one could recall the animal as of late.

Sihtric sighed and raked his fingers through his messy hair, then he went to walk around town, checking every corner and barn, but no sign of Fluffy. He was determined to mend your broken heart and he would find Fluffy, whatever it would take. Dead or alive. He knew you needed closure on the matter, and nothing hurt him more than seeing his wife upset.

When he gifted you the cat, who was a kitten back then, he never thought it would bring you so much joy. And once Sihtric fought no battles anymore, he actually felt jealous at the attention Fluffy received from you. The endless cuddles, tickles and kisses on his soft head, your husband had watched the cat accept your love with soft purs, while he felt a certain bitterness towards the beast at times. Especially when Fluffy joined in bed in the evening, getting comfortable in between you both, which prevented Sihtric from holding you in his arms. But still, Sihtric had grown fond of Fluffy too, and he knew you'd be over the moon if he could manage to find him back.

But after having searched outside the entire day, Sihtric returned home empty-handed at nightfall, and you cried in his arms again until you fell asleep.

The next day, Sihtric woke up early again and his new routine continued. He got dressed, ate breakfast, kissed you goodbye while you were still asleep, and then he went hunting for Fluffy again. Today he was going to search inside the walls of Dunholm, where it was dark and often a little messy, and it was another exhaustive task. Hours and hours on end he looked for the cat, but once again he returned to you, empty-handed, at nightfall.

Visibly upset again after dinner, you crawled in bed with your husband. You became more concerned about Fluffy as the days were getting colder. You said he might be cold or hungry, and it broke your heart to think about it. And then Sihtric suddenly had an idea.

'What if we leave some cat food out?'

You agreed with his idea, and Sihtric placed a bowl with Fluffy's favourite food just outside the door, and after that, he joined you in bed again.

The next morning, at dawn, Sihtric opened the door and found the cat food had been taken. But he didn't realise that any animal could have taken it in the night. And you didn't have the heart to tell your sweet husband the reality of leaving food outside, so you simply played along.

'But what will you do now?' you asked.

'I have searched everywhere already, I don't know where else to look,' Sihtric sighed, 'so tonight I will put food out again, and I will wait up. Maybe Fluffy will come back again.'

You smiled at his good-hearted nature, which was what you loved most about him, and kissed his forehead before you started your day.

'I think that's a great idea,' you lied and embraced him.

And so, after another long and catless day, Sihtric sat outside in the dark, in the middle of the night. He had been there for hours already while you had been asleep. When you woke up and didn't feel Sihtric next to you, you got out of bed to check on him.

Sihtric sat outside, wrapped in his cloak as the first frost of the season made its appearance. Sihtric was sitting calm and patiently, but he was freezing underneath his cloak, and he shivered while his teeth chattered.

'Honey,' you startled him, 'please come inside. It's too cold, you'll catch a sickness.'

'N-no,' Sihtric said, taken by cold and barely able to speak, 'I m-must f-f-find Fluffy.'

You sighed and nudged his shoulder as you towered over him.

'It's okay,' you said.

'No, i-it's n-n-ot,' your husband stuttered, 'y-you m-m-miss h-h-im.'

'Yes,' you agreed, 'I do, but I don't want to miss my husband as well, because he was a fool and froze to death overnight.'

You squeezed his shoulder, but Sihtric refused to get up, as stubborn as he was.

'Honey,' you sat down next to him, 'it's okay, really. You've been up for hours, and you've searched for days…'

'I don't want to disap-point you,' he said, 'I-I promised t-to find-'

Sihtric suddenly sneezed insanely loud, which probably woke up the entire village, and you had enough.

'Sweetling,' you cupped Sihtric's cold, red cheeks, 'not a day in our married lives have you ever disappointed me. Come,' you took his nearly frozen hand, 'let's go inside. I already made you some tea.'

Sihtric followed you inside reluctantly, feeling as if he had failed you, but you weren't having any of that. You told him to sit in front of the firepit and brought him some warm tea. You slowly rubbed his shoulders as he warmed up again, and Sihtric felt conflicted, as he felt loved but defeated at the same time.

When Sihtric woke up again the next morning, only a few hours after you had dragged him inside, he saw the food he had left outside had been taken again. Sihtric cursed in his native tongue under his breath. He had sat there for hours, and not a single cat had showed up. Sihtric felt the animal was taunting him, and suddenly it felt very personal now for different reasons. Your husband didn't like to be fooled, and he was prepared to make the square.

As he had searched everywhere in Dunholm already, he suddenly figured that maybe Fluffy was staying somewhere just outside of the safe walls.

While the first snow was twirling down outside and you were still warmly asleep in bed, Sihtric got dressed again. But today he dressed up in his leather armour and he braided his hair. This was serious now, and he wrapped his warm cloak around his shoulders, pulled the hood over his head, and grabbed his leather gloves. He kissed your cheek, like every morning, and left out the door, the pouches attached to his leather belt filled with cat food. He mounted his horse and spurred the beast, then galloped through the open doors of the fort, into the lands.

You had no idea where your husband had gone when you woke up, but you heard from nearby neighbours that they had seen him leave by horse early in the day. You knew Sihtric could look after himself, for the most part at least, so he'd undoubtedly return before dinner time. And he would, empty-handed.

As Sihtric scouted the lands for any cat activity, he suddenly saw a small creature jump out of the woods after a while. He got off his horse and approached the animal, which was indeed a cat, but it was not your beloved Fluffy. Sihtric stared at the cat, who looked nothing like Fluffy, but he figured this was the best he could do as this was the only cat he had seen in days, and he took out some cat food.

'You're coming with me,' Sihtric mumbled as he neared the brown cat, and he grabbed it with his gloved hands.

He held the cat up, inspecting the animal, and it was clearly a female stray cat looking for food. Quite a big one too, Sihtric thought. And when he wanted to hold the cat closer to his chest and return to his horse, the cat suddenly clawed at his face and hissed. Sihtric dropped the cat with a yelp and brought his hand up to his face while the cat ran off as fast as she could, towards the walls of Dunholm nonetheless. Sihtric cursed and saw the blood on his glove after he just wiped his cheek.

Then he gave up and returned home again…

Sihtric was too ashamed to tell you how he got that scratch on his face, so he lied and said he couldn't remember how he got it. And when you went to bed, Sihtric placed food outside again, and he waited.

Hours passed, but this time your husband had lit a torch to keep warm by, and to see any possible cat activity in the dark. And just when he wanted to give up, at the crack of dawn, he suddenly saw that same cat appear who had scratched him in the face, the day before.

She slowly tiptoed over to the food, as Sihtric sat completely still. But as his luck had it, he had to sneeze, and loud too. He probably woke up the entire village again and also scared the poor cat, who ran off, and Sihtric jumped up. He ran after the cat as if he was on a witch hunt; torch in hand, eyes wild and focused. Like a mad man he chased after the cat, running all through town, until the cat hid in the stables.

Sihtric approached slowly and quietly, and when he hung the torch on the wall, he suddenly heard meowing. But not just one meow, no, multiple at the same time. Confused, and surprised, Sihtric peeked into the corner of the stable, and there, hidden from view, he found a whole nest of kittens. Stray kittens. And the cat who had scratched him and was chased just yet, was clearly the mother.

'Gods,' Sihtric whispered at the sight of at least six kittens.

And then, out of nowhere, Fluffy appeared from behind a bucket, and he ran up to Sihtric. It took him a few long seconds, but then it clicked.

'Oh,' Sihtric chuckled as he picked Fluffy up, 'so you had a wild night some time ago, huh?' he petted the cat, 'well, at least you're a good dad. But it's time to go home now.'

Sihtric looked at the kittens and mother cat again, but then turned on his heels with Fluffy in his arms. He couldn't wait to see your face when he'd bring back your beloved cat, but before he could take another step, the kittens started to meow again. And Sihtric's heart broke a little.

He looked over his shoulder to the kittens, and then back at Fluffy in his arms, who looked up at him with big, adorable eyes. And Sihtric just couldn't tear the cat family apart like that.

'Fine,' Sihtric sighed as he looked around the stable for a basket, 'but you'll be the one to explain this back home.'

As if Fluffy understood what Sihtric said, he meowed. And Sihtric found a large handmade basket just outside the stables. He took off his cloak, shivered at the cold air, and draped the warm fur in the basket. He approached the nest and crouched down. And as if mother cat understood that Sihtric only wanted to help, because she knew just like he did that they would not survive the winter outside, she allowed him to pick up each kitten. Sihtric placed the kittens in the basket, one by one, and he felt a smile tug at his lips with each little cat he held in his hands. And mother followed into the cosy basket on her own, wanting to protect her young.

Sihtric got back up on his feet and walked home, one hand carrying a basket full of kittens and their mother, while he carried Fluffy under his other arm, keeping him pressed against his chest.

Sihtric knocked on the door early in the morning after he hid the basket from view, and you nearly screamed when you found Fluffy in your husband's arms. You took the cat and twirled around with him in your arms, and you only stopped because Sihtric cleared his throat.

'Honey,' he said, 'it's not just Fluffy I found…'

He picked up the basket, pulled his fur cloak carefully away, and showed you the eight kittens with their mother.

'We're grandparents now,' Sihtric smiled, and the kittens meowed.

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#sihtric x reader #sihtric x you #sihtric kjartansson #the last kingdom #sihtric #tlk #sihtric fic #the last kingdom fic #skmd

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johnkrrasinski · 4 years

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Midnight, I’m Not Leaving

full masterlist

Pairings: Biker!Bucky Barnes x female!reader (AU)

Word count: 1,995

Warning: fluff!!!! just a lot of feelings tbh.

Summary: you had your whole life planned out; work hard, move to new york and pursue your dreams... but what happens when a coquettish biker gang leader crossed your path and relentlessly asked you for a date?

a/n: this one’s written for @captain-rogers-beard‘s “Flex Your Writing Muscles” challenge. i was inspired by the prompt “a late night bike ride under the stars” and i’ve been actually thinking of writing about biker!bucky for awhile!! so yeah, it was a perfect coincidence. please leave a like & comment! enjoy!

The crisp breeze felt piercing on your skin, your hair was blowing through all over your face barricading your sight, the soft hum of the engine that you had grown fond of reverberated in your ears, like midnight jazz cruising through the streets of Sunset Boulevard.

Bucky’s sturdy material of leather felt nice against your palm as you inhaled his musky scent, the smell soothed your nerves. But again, Bucky Barnes always soothed your nerves.

You had been dating the town’s most infamous bad boy slash biker gang leader, Bucky Barnes for over two months now. You were a persevering small-town girl who valued your independence and was determined to get out of this mundane place.

You wanted to migrate to the big city, preferably the Empire State, where you can be whoever you want to be, and there’s a seat for you and your big ambitions on the dining table. Not like this small-minded, incommodious small town where everyone seems to have a thing of sticking their noses in places they don’t belong and the most ��noble” job you can have is being a waitress.

You didn’t have any desire in fulfilling this small town’s dreams for you by being a waitress but you had to fill in your bank account if you really wanted to leave and run to the big city. So you took a part-time job at a local bakery store, owned by Mrs. Potts, called “Potts’ Boulangerie,” where you get paid quite generously for someone who only works as a part-time waitress.

Life in Islesbury was anything but exciting and extraordinary during most days.

But all that changed since, a rainy afternoon, when the fearsome, James Buchanan Barnes, the leader of the notorious biker gang, “The Howling Commandos.” The bell above the door dinged as Bucky with his two most trusted men, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson tried to fit their massive figures into the moderate-sized door that would fit the average people.

Bucky set his foot first as Sam then Steve trailed along. They were soaked with the droplets of rain that were clouding over the tranquility of Iselsbury but they didn’t seem to mind one bit. There was only you at that moment since Wanda wasn’t feeling too well so she worked only for half-day. The shop was a little slow too since it was raining and most people preferred to stay inside, and Wednesdays aren’t exactly the most casual day to stop by at the bakery store.

To say you weren’t a tad intimidated by the sight of these menacing men would be a deceit. You had heard the rumours, the small crimes that they did, the various members that had gone in and out prison, and the bars that they owned and ruled over. But you put on your professional facade anyway, and you did your job.

They immediately sat at the last table in the corner, where Bucky leaned against the window, whilst Sam and Steve sat next to each other at the opposite of his direction. You heard one of them say, “damn, it’s really coming down.”

You carefully walked over to them with your notepad and pencil, and you raise your voice meekly, “can I get you guys anything?” Bucky instantly turned his head and took a good look at you, shamelessly eyed you up and down. “Well, hello there, gorgeous.” Bucky winked.

You were taken aback by his blunt move. The fuck did he just call you? You weren’t an escort who was prying on your next potential client and on your way to seduce him. “Excuse me?” All the civility in you dissolved, your offence was on palpable.

“Whoa, what’s the matter, doll face?”

“Don’t call me that. I’m here to take your order, not to escort you.”

“Calm down, doll. I ain’t saying that at all. I’m just stating the obvious.”

“Well, you better keep your mouth to yourself because I don’t like those nicknames and if you’re not going to make an order, then I suggest you leave.”

“Well, this is a public place, ain’t it? Anyone can be here whenever they want as long as the sign on the door says open.”

He was right. You shouldn’t be rude to a customer, but again, you weren’t going to let him or anyone walk over you. But you tried to regain your composure and tried to act decently again, “fine, what would you like to order, sir?”

“Sir… I like that. I’ll take one cup of espresso, please, darling.” He winked at you and grinned a Cheshire cat smile. “Be cool, he’s a customer. Be cool, he’s a customer. Be cool, he’s a customer.” You reminded yourself. “Just serve his orders and you won’t have to deal with him ever again… At least for today.”

“Alright. What about you?” You directed your attention to Steve and Sam.

“Americano, please.” You noted down Sam’s order. “And you?” You moved to Steve. “Just black ma’am. Thank you.” You noted that down also.

“I’ll be right back with your orders.” You immediately walked away and went back to the kitchen where you were going to make their coffees. Only after a few steps away from them, you heard the faint, yet bold voice of Bucky. “Feisty... Think I like this one.”

Since that fortunate day, Bucky never stopped bothering you, even though you persisted on rejecting him, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He kept on visiting you at the bakery store, annoying you whilst you were busy taking customers’ orders or helping Wanda out in the kitchen. He even went as far as insolently knocking on your door at night whilst you were having a movie night with your parents in the living room.

“What the hell? What are you doing here?!” You spoke in a hushed tone, but you glared at him. How the fuck did Bucky find your resident?

“Wanted to see you, doll. Thought you’d give me a different answer if I had visited you at your place rather than the shop.” He leaned into the frame of the door. Meanwhile, your mother in the background was not making the situation any easier, “who is that, honey?”

“Nobody…”

“What? Is it a false address?”

“Yeah…”

Amidst the turmoil of trying to get rid of Bucky and convincing your mother, you didn’t notice that Bucky was audaciously eyeing you up and down for you were clad in nothing but a white tank top and pyjama shorts with a thin cardigan cloaking you as an outer.

“Never seen you in something so scanty before, you look better like this.” There is that presumptuous smirk again.

You realized he wasn’t going to leave anytime soon for the persistent douche he was, so you shut the door behind you and stepped outside to your porch. “What the hell? You can not just come into my house uninvited! And most importantly, how did you even know where I live?!”

“I have eyes in the sky and ears all over town.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes.

“If you want me to leave, you gotta say yes to a date. Just one date, doll.”

“No.” You resolutely gritted.

“Fine, then I’ll just stand here all night, maybe even flaunt my singing skill and wake the entire neighbourhood, until you say yes.” He started singing a song that you didn’t know, like a drunken teenage boy at a bar. He didn’t even hesitate in turning up his volume and it immediately made you panic.

“Shh! Okay, fine. I’ll go on a date with you. Just please, stop causing a scene. My parents will call the cops on you if they saw you here.”

“Of course, still the uptight rich people, I see.”

“You gotta leave. Now.” You started pushing him, even though he barely moved an inch for he was stronger and bigger than you.

“7 PM, tomorrow. I’ll pick you up on my bike.”

“Okay, go!” You shoved him mildly to get him off your veranda.

He yielded then began moving to where he parked. He hopped on his bike and revived the engine as took one last glance at you, “can’t wait to see you all dressed up for me, doll.” He winked and geared on the asphalt road.

And the rest was history.

And now, here you were, two months later, sitting on the back of his bike, with your chest pressed against his broad back, as he cruised through the open road under the glow of the moon.

You hugged Bucky tighter as he sped up. The feel of his warmth against you relinquished all the burden and the mundanity of the small-town life were omitted.

“Where are we going?” You gritted.

“You’ll see. If I tell you now, it ain’t going to be a surprise.” His tone detonated, trying to overpower the din of the wind.

Typical Bucky. Even after you were his for two months, he was still coming up with inventive ways to impress you. It’s the little things and modest ways he did that pulled you into him like a magnet. The sugarcoated words he effortlessly spoke, the kisses his ingenious lips left on you and the iniquitous way he touched you when you were making passionate love… It captivated you like a firework show.

Bucky took you that night to a secluded hill, in the outskirts of town where there were barely any people passing by. You had snuck out earlier, cautiously not to jolt your parents up as Bucky noiselessly waited for you outside. You felt like recalcitrant teenagers recklessly in love. And maybe you were at that moment.

“Let’s go on a ride tonight, doll. I’ll be here by midnight. Be ready, princess.” He urged you on the phone earlier.

The midnight was besieged by stillness and nothing but the sonances of crickets. Bucky lifted the seat of his bike and retrieved the plaid picnic blanket from inside.

He placed it on the lawn and he laid down with you in his arms. You placed your head on his chest as you curled up to him and fitted your entire height in the blanket.

“Look at those stars…” Bucky pointed at the sprinkled constellation adorning the royal blue sky. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, they are.” You paused. For a moment there was only the sound of you and Bucky’s slow breathing and steady heartbeat humming in your ear. Then you filled in the silence with the sentimentality of your childhood your mind recalled. It’s really difficult not to open up when you are this close to him.

“When I was a little girl, I used to pretend that those stars would follow me wherever I go like they were my little guardian angels. And whenever I’m sad or afraid, I’d look outside my window and feel safe.”

“You still do that?” He breathed into your hair as he played with some of the strands. He tenderly caressed the back of your head with his indurated fingers that you had memorized every inch of.

“Of course not.” You slightly chuckled in disbelief at his question.

“Good, cause as long as you got me, you don’t ever have to feel sad or afraid again, doll.”

“Is that a promise?”

“It’s an oath. And I’ve got a lifetime to prove my words to you.”

You thanked your lucky stars that night, as they watched over you and Bucky like the angels taking over the form of flickering stellar in the sky. You always thought you knew where your future was heading and had your plans laid out immaculately in front of you until Bucky came along like a whirlwind sweeping away all your scribbled notes and took your hand to walk through every second with him.

And for the first time in forever, you weren’t rushing to be in another place or calculating your next move. For the first time, you think you were content enough to stay.

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yourdeepestfathoms · 3 years

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pegasus grounded (part one)

[horse racing au]

———————————

...and they’re off!

“Lawrence will you stop cringing and HELP ME?”

Barbara’s partner peeked into the barn, his face pale and expression disgusted, then immediately yanked himself back out.

“Oh, that is so gross! I didn’t sign up for this!”

“You didn’t sign up for ANYTHING! I am letting you LIVE in MY HOUSE for FREE! So get your ass OVER HERE and HELP ME!”

Standing against the far wall of the barn, Adam, Barbara’s husband, and Lydia, their young farmhand, stood by, watching the exchange go down. Lydia was holding any tools that might have been needed. The barn cat, Hemlock, came strolling by, took one glance at the scene, then bounded out.

“Are they…?” Lydia’s words trailed off as she scratched the top of her head. “Does this…?”

“Oh, yeah,” Barbara said, looking over at her. “This is our process!” And then, shrilly, “LAWRENCE!!!”

“You have your ARM in a horse’s VAGINA!! You never said anything about THAT when I came to live with you!”

“I’ll stick my arm up YOUR VAGINA if you don’t get over here!”

“I don’t have a vagina!!”

“I DON’T CARE!!” Barbara then quieted her voice and stroked the fur of Latte, the foaling horse she was assisting, “Shh, Shh, Shh. It’s okay, sweetie. You’re okay… LAWRENCE I SWEAR TO GOD!!”

“Okay! Okay! I’m coming!”

Beetlejuice dragged himself over to the fallen horse and did his best to not look at the hooves sticking out of the mare’s vagina.

After some time went by, Barbara was pulling on the foal’s front legs, sticky and wet with birthing fluid and covered in the placenta. She was doing her best to be gentle, yet firm enough to pull out the baby, but the mare continued to let out louder whinnies. Adam gripped tightly to his shirt as he watched. They had already lost three dams that season. They couldn’t take losing another.

Despite its name, The Netherworld was one of the most successful horse ranches in all of America. In terms of the equine community, Barbara and Adam Maitland were basically famous. They had bred several winning foals from the finest mares and the strongest stallions. People came from miles just to bid on one of their colts or fillies. All the horses on their farm were like family, and losing them was like a shot straight to the heart.

“Come on, girl. I can’t do it alone. Push.” Barbara said encouragingly, pulling out more of the baby.

“Come on, Latte, push. You can do it.” Beetlejuice said to the mother. The horse’s wild, tired eyes looked up at him.

And then, as if she was actually listening, she began to push harder. The foal’s head slipped out a second later, followed by the rest of the upper body.

“Hey! She’s doing it!” Beetlejuice exclaimed. “Oh, that is disgusting. But she’s doing it!”

“Almost there,” Barbara murmured as she got a hold of the foal’s middle.

After a few minutes, the foal was finally out. A spew of birthing fluids and placenta followed, and Beetlejuice was darting out of the barn, causing Barbara to laugh as she peeled off the soaked glove she had on her arm.

“Good work, Beej!” She called.

“Urrg…” Beetlejuice groaned from outside.

“You okay, love?”

“Fine,” Beetlejuice replied, then grumbled, “Like you care…”

Barbara laughed again and then looked back down at the baby. The new foal looked just like its mother. Under all that goo was a beautiful, chestnut-colored mustang, with a sweet little patch of white on its nose. She just about swooned when she saw those large, gleaming brown eyes look up at her.

“It’s a filly,” Barbara called to Adam, who was taking deep breaths of relief.

“Oh, she’s perfect,” Adam said, walking over slowly. “I was so worried for a moment there. You know, after Misty and Prancer and Baylock…”

“Hey,” Barbara cupped his cheeks, making him look at her. “That isn’t going to happen. We aren’t going to lose anymore.”

Adam nodded.

The filly began to gather her surroundings, looking around to see where she was while her mother licked and nuzzled her from above. After a moment, she slowly began to stand on her long legs, wobbling and tumbling down a few times, making Lydia laugh a bit before she finally started to get the hang of it. She clumsily tottered her way over to her mother and instantly began to nurse.

“Can’t believe you made birth your profession,” Beetlejuice said as he entered again.

“What do you think doctors do?” Adam looked at him.

“I--” Beetlejuice shut his mouth. “Shut up.”

Adam laughed. Barbara shook her head, then looked over at Lydia.

“What did you parents say about tonight?”

“They said yes,” Lydia said.

“Awesome!” Adam looked excited. “FINALLY, we can show you proper horse racing! Barbara, go get changed! Hurry!”

None of them blamed him for his energy. Horses were everything to them, and there was no better way to pass the time than watching horse races. This would be Lydia’s first time watching one firsthand since she was employed by them.

Lime Rock Raceway was a huge, towering stadium, filled with sharply-dressed patrons, colorful slot machines, and expensive fine wine. Barbara, her two partners, and Lydia got to watch the races from the highest point, where the whole track was stretched out before them, eager for their attention. They discussed their bets on the contenders in the next race as they waited.

“That one.”

Beetlejuice scoffed.

Barbara did not. She continued to stare down at the horses filing onto the muddy racetrack. The one that had caught her eye was at the back of the pack, head held low, ears flicking all over as if it heard something nobody else did. She checked the number.

“Beside The Dying Fire,” Adam said, having already looked. “Jockey’s name is Jeopardy.”

“What a curious name,” Barbara mused. “Must be a nickname.”

“I sure hope so,” Beetlejuice snorted. “Or else his parents must hate him.”

“Why are they always men?” Lydia grumbled. She wasn’t having nearly as much fun as Adam had been hoping for, but Barbara didn’t blame her. Watching a horse race wasn’t for everyone.

She looked up at Barbara, asking again, “Can women not race or something?”

Barbara chuckled. “Of course they can. A lot just choose not to. It’s a very male-dominated sport.”

“That’s weird,” Lydia said, squinting down through the glass at the jockey in question. Despite how thin all the riders were, this one in particular was awkwardly small compared to his competitors. His silks were red and white with black and white stripes down the long sleeves. “Aren’t jockeys supposed to be, like, light? Wouldn’t it make more sense for women to race? It’s easier to be lightweight when you’re a woman.”

“You got a point there, kid,” Adam said.

“The weight thing is so fucking stupid. Also, no offense, Babs, but you can’t possibly think that will win?”

Barbara turned to Beetlejuice with a coolly raised eyebrow, a smile playing around her mouth. “Do you doubt me?”

Beetlejuice grinned at her. “Never.”

Nobody knew exactly where Lawrence “Beetlejuice” Shoggoth had come from. He had just shown up one day down in town, presenting himself at Yonkers Raceway with dyed green hair and barely the clothes on his back. But when he started to ride, nobody cared about that anymore. Up on that saddle, Beetlejuice was unstoppable force of speed and grace. Nothing stopped his stride, ever. The races he rode seemed to unfurl as though to a script he had written; a script that left everyone else trailing behind his broad shoulders like a wake left in water. He was the best rider Barbara and Adam had ever seen, but never got to actually become professional due to the weight limit required to be a jockey. Now, he had become more mellow, living among Barbara and Adam as a horse trainer, wanting to teach others about his methods, but still not finding the right student. Nobody he ever came across was good enough for him and his golden wonder: Sandy aka “It’s Showtime,” a magnificent black and white thoroughbred mare with bulky muscles and a knack for sprinting.

Barbara winked at him. “Exactly.”

Out in the mud, the horses were lining up at the gate. Barbara’s bet, Beside The Dying Fire, had drawn a bad position, way over on the outside. Barbara glanced over the information again. The horse was coming up to age four, stood at a staggering seventeen hands, and had terrible form. His jockey was basically a nobody, too, as scrawny and aloof as the horse. And yet, she was drawn to the stallion. There was something to look at with that dull grey horse, even if nobody else saw it.

The racers came under starter’s orders and then they broke from the gate as one at the siren’s scream. It was a small field- plenty of hooves had scratched their own trenches from the earth due to the weather. Beside The Dying Fire hunkered down the outside, ears pulled back against the driving rain. Barbara watched him gallop, watched the low, straight stride stretch and release over the sodden ground. She had grown up around horseflesh, had watched races obsessively for years; she knew a good horse when she saw one.

This was not it.

But all the same, she found herself unable to look away. There was something.

Slogging through the slippery mud, Beside The Dying Fire did not display the brilliance locked deep within him--but when the finish line passed beneath him, his nose was one of the ones in front. Barbara could see the jockey, slathered in muck all over, smiling with relief.

Barbara smiled too, which turned to a smirk as she looked at Beetlejuice. “I told you.”

“Never doubt you,” Beetlejuice said. He looked back down at the horse in question. “I’m glad I listened to you. Let’s go have a chat with this one.”

——— ——— ———

“How many times do I have to tell you? Use your goddamn whip!”

“I don’t want to! It’s mean!”

The sound of arguing echoed down the stable corridor like thunder.

“Mean? What kind of PETA shit have you been looking at? It’s a damn animal. It doesn’t know anything.”

“Peril knows a lot of things! He’s smart!”

“You’re losing us so much money.”

“I can win without hitting him. I don’t need a crop. I did good today!”

“You got third. You should have gotten first.”

“At least I wasn’t last.”

“Each day you prove that your kind doesn’t belong in racing. Not unless you use your fucking whip!”

“Well, I think I raced really well.”

“Your parents will be hearing about this.”

A grizzled man stormed past Barbara, Adam, Beetlejuice, and Lydia as they were making their way down the aisle, hissing and cursing underneath his breath. They all looked forward again to find the victim of his verbal assault: the jockey of Beside The Dying Fire.

“I think we did good,” He said to the grey giant munching on some alfalfa inside the pen he and that man had been arguing in front of.

“Jeopardy?”

Saying that name made Barbara feel a little stupid, but her call was received when the jockey just about jumped out of his skin. He whirled around, startling his horse into a stomping, huffing fit. He blinked big, doe-like eyes at Barbara and her group.

And that was when Barbara realized he wasn’t a he at all.

Beside The Dying Fire’s jockey was a girl.

Well. That probably explained what that man had meant when he said “your kind.”

She was a tiny, skinny little thing, barley 5’1, bearing no muscle at all. She was young, too, much younger than any of the jockeys Barbara had ever seen before. At most, she had to be fifteen, but by how high pitched and youthful her voice was, she could be even younger. She was completely slathered in mud from head-to-toe, face smeared with sludge and blocking most facial features, but her youth was clear and her hazel eyes were bright behind her goggles.

“Hi! Hi. Yes, hello. I’m Jeopardy.” She said, stammering slightly, and her voice was a lot higher up close, but not in an obnoxious way. It was sweet and silvery, like candy.

“You’re a girl,” Lydia said in wonder.

The jockey blinked, then looked down at herself. “Last time I checked, yes.”

Lydia laughed.

Jeopardy tried to dust herself off now that she was in the presence of other people, only to remember that she was completely covered in grime. She dropped her arms, looked back up at them, and said, “I swear, I’m not usually covered in this much mud.”

They all laughed. It was nice to see a jockey that had a sense of humor. There were too many that got cranky for asking simple questions or even breathing in the general vicinity of their horse. This girl was the complete opposite of that, and it perhaps had to do with her young age.

“Does it get in your mouth?” Lydia asked.

“Oh yeah,” Jeopardy answered. “And my nose. And my ears. ”

Lydia laughed. “How?!”

“I have no idea!” Jeopardy exclaimed. “Usually it isn’t this bad, but it was rainy today, so it kinda got everywhere. My dinner tonight is going to taste like earth.”

More laughing, and Jeopardy looked delighted. She was giving off a strong sense of loneliness, like it wasn’t normal for people to talk to her in such a friendly way.

“I’m Presley Lind,” Jeopardy— no, Presley, said. “Jeopardy is just a show name.” She then extended a hand to Barbara, only instantly rip it away when she realized how dirty her glove was. “Oh dear. Pretend I shook your hand or else my Southern Belle training will go down the drain.”

“I’m Barbara,” Barbara said. “These are Adam, Beetlejuice, and Lydia.”

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Presley said politely, smiling, and her lips were caked with drying mud. “What can I do for you all?”

“Oh, we just wanted to come down and congratulate you on your victory tonight,” Barbara said. “You were amazing.”

Presley perked up, as if it wasn’t uncommon for her to be congratulated. “Oh, really? Th-- thank you! But I didn’t really do anything. It was all this big guy!” She turned to her horse, who looked more brown than grey with all the mud sticking to his coat, and she had so much love in her eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Adam said. “What’s his name?”

“Peril!” Presley told him proudly. “Presley and Peril- it’s kind of our thing.” She reached out and patted the stallion’s freckled nose.

Barbara felt a sort of endearment fill her heart. What an adorable girl.

And then Peril snorted and spit half-chewed alfalfa and huge globs of saliva right into his rider’s face.

For a moment, Presley was frozen, then spit the muck back out onto the ground and raised her gloves hands to wipe her face off. She took off her goggles, and the rings left around her eyes were perfectly clear of grime.

“I deserved that,” Presley said. She looked at Barbara and her group. “Do not mess with this one when he’s eating.”

“Say, Presley,” Beetlejuice spoke up. “Do you have a trainer?”

“Yes, sir,” Presley said, and her manners shocked Barbara. “He was that guy yelling.”

“Does he always yell at you like that?” Adam asked, sounding slightly concerned.

Presley nodded. “Usually. He doesn’t like me or Peril very much. But he was a lot nicer today. He didn’t hit me with my crop this time!” She laughed, and then realized the others weren’t laughing with her, so she stopped and cleared her throat. “I’m-- I’m totally joking. That was a joke!”

“Well, it sounds like your guy right now is an ass, but you’re in luck,” Beetlejuice said. “Presley, I’d like to be your trainer.”

#horse racing au #ta-daaaaa!#beetlejuice the broadway musical #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice au #beetlejuice fanfiction #beetlejuice fanfic #beetlejuice fic #beetlejuice #lawrence beetlejuice shoggoth #barbara maitland #adam maitland #lydia deetz #the jockey #beetlelands #chasing pegasus

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 4 years

Text

Off Day: Four

You let yourself into the house and set your bag down on the counter with a sigh, scooping Salem off the floor as she started to wind around your legs. “Hey Porkchop, Aunt Kaity in bed already? Hm?”

You cuddle her and bury your face in her soft fur, grateful that she couldn’t ask you questions. Or pass judgment. You pad across the kitchen, still holding her like a baby in the crook of your arm and set about getting something to eat. You know you’ll probably feed a lot of it to Salem, but Kaity fusses at you when you skip meals. She was already going to be irritated when she realized that you had only take $100 as your paycheck. Not all she technically owed you. But, you had a place to sleep, food, and all you really needed was money for cat food and gas.

“How’d it go?” Kaity said, taking a seat in the kitchen, smirking when you jump.

“Christ, Kaity,” you yelp, “Don’t do that!”

“That good huh?” she said, noting your red eyes with a frown.

“About as good as I expected it to go,” you say guardedly, putting your plate down in front of Kaity and turning to make another.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Kate-”

“No. I’m serious. Who the fuck does he think he is? Did you at least hit him?”

Tears start welling up unbidden and you hug Salem a little closer, swallowing hard. You can’t bring yourself to tell her what happened. That he just wanted in your pants. That he had a chick he was already fucking around with. One that he had apparently knocked up. Kaity stopped and stood up slowly, holding her arms out for you to walk into, “Come’ere, Bubbles,” she coaxed gently.

You set Salem down gently to investigate the floor for treats and walk into her arms, burying your face in her shoulder. “Shhh,” she murmured, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry... Was he at least going bald or something?”

You laugh in spite of yourself, “No, damn it. He’s still fucking cute. The asshole.”

Kaity wipes tears away with her thumbs and kisses your cheek, “Well fuck,” she pouted, “Was anyone else at least worth flirting with?”

“Pretty sure I’m not anyone’s type, Kate.”

“Bullshit. You’re everyone’s type.”

“You’re biased, Blossom. I can prove it.”

“Fuck you. I waited up for you. Let me have this. I’m dying remember?”

You wince and shake your head, “Not allowed. Nope. Nope. We have to die on the same day remember? We promised.” Tears start welling up again and Kaity thuds her forehead against yours gently.

“It’ll be okay, Bubbles,” she soothed, “You just gotta make a new promise okay? I need you to promise you’re gonna keep going... If you don’t I’m gonna haunt your ass. Like. Exorcist shit okay? Pea Soup everywhere. Forever.”

You shake your head, “I’m not doing shit. Because we’re gonna die on the same day. Two old biddies with a bunch of dead husbands and like... suspicious amounts of money.”

Kaity kisses your cheek again but doesn’t answer. She remembers that promise. She remembers laying next to you in your hospital bed after you’d tried to slit your wrists. She’d made you promise. Promise that you weren’t gonna try to leave her again. Made you swear that you were gonna stay as long as she needed you. That you’d not go without each other.

“Fuck this,” she said, “I wanna watch Muppets and eat ice cream.”

You nod, “Okay, Kaity. Okay,” you tell her, going to get her pint down from the freezer. Anything to not have to think about being without her.

__________

Bucky let himself in through the backdoor of his ma’s house and took a deep breath. Breakfast. Sunday Breakfast especially was sacred to Winifred Barnes and she didn’t do anything by halves. Cooking enough pancakes, bacon, eggs, biscuits and gravy, anything you could want really, for an entire army. As long as Bucky could remember their house had been full for breakfast. Steve and Nat always, but now Sam, Clint, and Tony joined the mix more often than not. His sisters were gabbling with Nat and it was just so blissfully normal. Even if it all irritated his current hang over.

He made his way down the line at the breakfast bar, kissing each of his sisters on the cheek and then kissing his ma’s.

“Ah, there’s the prodigal son,” she said disapprovingly, clicking her tongue at him.

“Sorry, Ma,” he said, “I been a little busy.”

“Mhmm,” she said, passing him a plate and frowning at him.

“What, ma?”

“You know what, James Buchanan.”

“Oooo,” Steve said, “You done messed up, Buck.”

“Steven Grant,” she said not turning, “You may be a grown-ass man but I can and will drop you.”

Tony snickered and Steve snorted, “Yes, ma’am.”

“That creature,” Winifred said with a shudder, “Called the house and had the gall to tell me I’m going to be a grandmother.” She fixed her son with a level stare, “Please. Please tell me that you didn’t.”

Bucky felt his cheeks color, “Probably not,” he murmured.

“James,” she groaned.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” Nat said over her coffee cup, “Leanna Harrison is selling positive tests on the buy sell trade groups again. She’s probably not even pregnant.”

“Still,” Winnie said, “You leave that girl alone. Think about the girls.” She gestured at his high school-aged sisters, “They need good role models.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“I saw Y/N in town the other day. Remember? The cute little girl you used to have a crush on?” She said putting food on his plate.

“Yeah, Ma, I remember,” he sighed, shooting Steve a death glare when the other man choked on his juice.

‘Now that,” she said, “That’s a good girl. You should talk to her.”

“Ma,” he protested.

“What?” she said, tugging his ear, “She’s a good girl. She’d actually raise your babies. And she’s prettier.”

“Ma,” he protested louder.

“Fine, fine,” she said shoving him towards the table, “Not like I didn’t raise you better or anything.”

_________

Bucky stepped outside and lit a cigarette, taking a drag to try and calm himself down. Char was on his ass and had been every minute for the last three days. Still, he couldn’t tell her to fuck off. Not exactly. Not till he knew if this kid was his. Or even if she was really pregnant. He had his suspicions. She was really non-specific about everything, but he was hesitant to write her off. Careful not to let his own wishes override his reality.

“Bucky?” Nat said leaning on the door.

“I’ll be in in a minute,” Bucky said taking another drag and exhaling slowly.

“No, now,” she said sounding tense, “Kaity’s here.”

“Kaity?”

“She’s fucking pissed.”

He ground his cigarette out under his heel and swept it into the gravel with his heel, heading inside, “What’s she want?”

“To talk to you,” Nat said softly, “Char’s been coming by the book shop.”

Bucky sighed, “What the fuck?”

Bucky rounded the corner and felt his step shudder for a moment. Kaity looked sunken. Pale. Smaller. The pink scarf around her head covered her thinning hair but the hollows of her cheeks were stark.

“How can I help you?” he said, determined to be professional.

“You’re gonna put a muzzle on your bitch,” she said sternly, “Or I’m gonna.”

“Kate,” he said taken aback for a second.

“No,” she said, “You tell her to back the fuck back. You know Y/N ain’t chasing your ass. So you better tell her that. I got 3 months left to live and I ain’t afraid of that bimbo.”

Bucky held up his hands placatingly, “I’ll talk to her,” he said, “she shouldn’t be doing that.”

“You better,” she said, leaning heavily on her cane, “I think Y/N’s had enough to deal with, don’t you?”

The look on Kaity’s face said she knew perfectly well what all had happened and Bucky nodded, swallowing hard, “I’ll make it right,” he said, “I just need time.”

“Three hours,” Kaity said, “You call off your dog or I get mad.”

She turned and didn’t give him the chance to respond, leaving to get into the waiting car. Bucky didn’t see the driver, but he was willing to bet it wasn’t you. You probably didn’t even know she was there.”

“Muzzle for your bitch,” Clint chuckled, “That was a good one.”

“Fuck off, Barton,” Bucky said rubbing the back of his neck, pulling his phone out of his pocket to try and stop Char from making his life a bigger living hell.

Tags: @lancsnerd @stevieang @blameitonthecauseway, @thorfanficwriter

#Bucky Barnes #soft bucky #biker!bucky #biker!au #Steve Rogers #natasha romanoff #clint barton #bucky x reader

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unsettlingshortstories · 3 years

Text

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.

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b-does-the-write-thing · 7 years

Text

The Graveyard Cat

Title:

The Graveyard Cat

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7187

Notes/Summary: The spirits of those who love us never really fade away, and love can be found even in the darkest of places.

Prompt used: Pale; Hunger Never Satisfied: New, Inexperienced Witch

As the wind picked up from the east, the black-eyed-susans began to sway their heads. Growing undisturbed along the small two laned road, they grew wild save for the few being plucked by the man standing amongst them. With unfashionably long hair to his shoulders and a well worn but well cared for day coat, the man added a few more of them to the bouquet of wildflowers in his left hand. In the distance, the stalks of corn rustled against each other to add a noise of whispers to the otherwise silent scene.

In the late days of October, the entire countryside was flush with grown gold reaching for the sun. With the blue skies overhead and the stalks of maize drifting sweetly in the breeze, the scene was idyllic until a lone cloud drifted over the sun and the man lifted his eyes to the heavens. A chill fell over the land as the autumn afternoon flirted with the winds of winter.

Drawing his collar closer to his neck, Roibert Gold stood slowly so not to risk hurting his bad leg any further than necessary. The seasonal change in weather was already aggravating the old break, and the wind shift had brought the scent of rain. If he didn’t take care to get home before the storm hit, his knee would be swollen large as a melon. The last thing he needed this close to the harvest was to be bedridden though it would be his own damnable fault if he got caught out here in a rainstorm. A grown man should know better, he berated himself.

The lone Scotsman turned to the south, along the two lane road, out here somewhere between the middle of nowhere and utterly lost, until he arrived with no warning at a cemetery. It was a small plot, gated and well tended for besides the swirl of autumn leaves starting to decorate the graves. Gold reached out to push open the high high gate, but there was the rattle of iron and the scream of metal on metal instead of the usual rustle of the tall grass bending down to allow him access.

He frowned down at a small padlock, clean as a whistle and newly nestled over the weather tempered iron of the old gate. The road around him was abandoned, but the smell of fresh earth indicated a new member had joined the graveyard community. Gold could only make out a mound of soil in the right hand back corner, and belatedly remembered the miller had taken sick last week.

Some overzealous mourner had probably thought to protect their newly departed from the ravages of possible marauders, and in doing so, had locked Gold out. “Sorry Bae,” he whispered to a small gravestone just out of reach. He could not see it clearly, years of reading in the dark had not been good to his sight, but he knew the name Bailey Gold was etched with painstaking care. The years 1895-1909 were hidden under a carpet of autumn leaves, but he knew those too by heart. Gold turned with a heavy sigh, making a mental note that if the weather held, he would call upon the miller’s family tomorrow and find who had barred him from his son’s grave.

The community had changed since Bailey had died. It had grown from the four farms that had once shared this small plot to a community, dotingly called Storybrooke by the people who had began to settle closer together in a small township to the direct south of the farmlands. These newcomers left Gold alone for the most part, and he left them alone though there was the occasional spot of trouble. Nothing to do about it, especially in these days. Prohibition was the law of the land now, and everyone’s private business was now supposedly everyone's’ business.

Gold didn’t think much of that. There was a reason he lived in an old rundown house, rotted boards practically falling down around his ears. It was the home he had come to when he had arrived in the new world with his young son in tow. They had made it their own, and when his son had died, so had his interest in keeping the house. It rotted, much like he himself did but Gold didn’t mind. It stayed warm enough in the winter and the windows opened to the summer breeze while the tin roof kept out the rain and snow common in north Ohio. And if the corner front door squeaked whenever someone so much as took a step on to the property, it gave him enough time to be standing outside on the square front porch, his hand on his Remington.

Gold wouldn’t hesitate to fire it, especially considering what he had out in his dilapidated barn. An old man barely able to walk the mile to the local graveyard, alone in this world, could hardly be believed to harvest the corn on his property, but on a warm evening, the smell of barley and hops could be smelled as far south as twenty miles.

In the summer of 1925, even that was enough to get the local sheriff called on Gold a fair few times but the young Irish lawman swore he hadn’t found a drop of liquor on Gold’s property, and if Sheriff Humbert’s accent was a little stronger after a visit out to Gold’s farmhouse, no one else noticed. After all, no one drank these days, not with Prohibition.

The wind picked up but Gold stayed where he stood, looking over the gate at where his son was buried, the dead flowers from last week starting to crumble and decay. His heart twisted and if he had been a younger man, a full man, he would have leapt over the gate with ease. Instead, he walked to the far side of the small graveyard, to where a copse of trees crowded the gate and cast shadows over the graves buried along the very edge.

His son’s grave was no closer here, and Gold gave up the ghost of hope he might be able to lay flowers on his son’s grave today. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised his son as he gently laid the flowers upon the unconsecrated ground on the wrong side of the gate. “Don’t you worry, my boy, I’m here.”

“Myrow.”

Despite his frustration, a smile flickered over Gold’s tired face. “Ah, there you are, sweetheart,” he greeted as he turned his face up to the tree above him. Bright eyes gazed down at him from where a black cat crouched in the shadows of the leaves. He offered her his hand to sniff, and she crept forward enough to butt her head against it before rubbing her cheek along the length of his palm. “How is my favorite lass?” he asked with a teasing smile. “Could you not stop them from barring the gate?”

The cat meowed in response, her eyes unblinking. With a splash of white on her chest and eyes as blue as the loch of Menteith, she was a bonny thing. Gold fished his traditional offering of scraps from his coat pocket and held them up to the feline. She purred before delicately taking the offering from him, her wet nose and sharp teeth brushing against the sensitive pads of his fingers. Only when she had finished did she slip down from the tree to curl about his ankles. No one in the community had ever claimed the black beauty, and she seemed to live here at the graveyard. Gold privately thought of her as the guardian spirit of the place.

The wind increased and a branch of the closest tree reached out to snag his day coat. Gold jumped as the branch scraped along his arm like a caress, before gently disentangling himself and returning to the roadside. With one last look at where he had laid his offering, Gold started to hobble back home as the sun started its slow decline to meet the horizon. He did not notice the cat watching him as he disappeared down the road.

Everyone knew the Gold homestead. The tall house stood facing the north besides a forked black walnut tree that looked as if God himself had reached down with his almighty hand to split it asunder. Lighting hit it, legend said, but no one had dared live in the shadow of the twisted tree until Gold had came to town.

This autumn evening, the lower windows glowed with the bright light of a raging fire, and the occasional shadow passed by the window as the man himself limped from one room to another. The promised storm had arrived shortly after sunset, and the window pelted the thin glass and dripped down from the tin rooftop to land in puddles around the baseboards. The chill of the wind whistled through cracks and chinks of the walls, but Gold did not feel the cold. He clutched the barrel aged whiskey in his hands, a book forgotten in his lap as he stared into the fire.

His thoughts were in the past, with a crew headed young boy with skinned knees, a woman’s laugh and the smell of the Scottish breeze, so he did not see the shadow press up against the window. It lingered there for a long moment before a rumble of thunder broke the melancholy sound of the rain. By the time Gold tore his gaze out of the past, the shadow had melted away and the window black and empty once more.

The fire crackled and popped, and Gold moved to stir the embers lest it die away when something scratched at the door. Assuming it be his imagination, Gold ignored it and moved to stir the fire. Outside, the wind howled into the cracks of the house and his mind slipped back to the graveyard and the unavoidable shiver ran down his spine at the thought of his boy out there alone in his grave on such a night.

The wind died down for a moment, the wailing ceasing just long enough for Gold to hear something scratching at the door once more. He half rose in his chair, straining to listen as his heart began to thump in time to the rain. No one would be out in this squall, no one but those with mischief on their minds. In the corner of the room, his shotgun gleamed yellow and red in the fire’s light and he collected it as the wind returned once more to drown out whatever was at his front door.

The new world did not have the banshees or the little folk, just desperate folk and those reckless fools who might think an old man an easy target. Gold made his way to the front door, the solid wood as unchanging as ever. The scratching had faded away, but the sensation of a presence had not. Something stood on the other side of the door, and it was waiting for him.

When he swung the front door open, Gold aimed his gun straight out at nothing. The night was dark and the rain came down like a curtain separating the dry corner of his porch from the wild earth just beyond. Nothing stirred in the great blackness, and Gold lowered his shotgun as he stepped out into the cold night air.

“Myrow.”

The graveyard cat jumped down from the railing beside the door to land at his feet, and Gold nearly stumbled backwards into the house as it butted its head against his bad leg. Black as pitch, it had blended so perfectly into the evening sky, he had not noticed it. Now, it purred merrily, vibrating against him as it swirled between his ankles. The door behind him had scratch marks that matched the thing’s wicked claws, gleaming ever so slightly despite the darkness.

“Wee Cheetie, you gave me a fright,” Gold scolded it, his Scottish burr heavy from the fright in his veins. The cat gave another chirp but it did not stop its sinuous motions. Careful of his aching knee, Gold bend down to collect the creature, and it went willingly into his arms. “What are you doing here, lass?”

She nestled close to his chest and began to purr again, her fur damp with rain and her claws already burying carefully into his jumper. “What are you doing out here in this, lass?” he asked her but the cat had no answer for him. With a sigh, Gold collected his shotgun and returned to the warmth of his home. He dropped the wee cheetie into his armchair as he ambled over to the icebox to collect the last of the milk. “Least you have enough sense to come in out of the rain,” he remarked as he poured the milk into a teacup. He fetched a saucer as well in case the cheetie had trouble with the lip of the cup.

When he returned to the living room with a cup and saucer, the cat had disappeared from his chair. Instead, the firelight flickered over the long pale limbs of a woman who sat curled up in it, her brown hair cascading over her shoulders as she gazed shyly up at him. Gold heard rather than felt the teacup fall from his nerveless fingers to fall upon the floor. He pivoted so that his back was to her, but it did nothing to alleviate the pace his heart was already racing or the heated flush upon his cheeks.

“Hello.”

Her voice was clear as a bell and it ran through him eliciting a shiver he was powerless to contain. HIs mouth opened on its own accord to return the soft spoken greeting, but his better sense clamped down on his tongue. He had grown up in the highlands of Scotland, and was no stranger to tales of the fae. He just had never expected one to appear in his living room in the heart of the new world.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Roibert.”

At the sound of his true name, long left behind on the shores of Scotland, Gold turned to look over his shoulder. The woman had retrieved the fallen teacup and saucer and was examining the chipped lip of it with some concern. She did not meet his eye, but held it up for him to examine. “Shall I fix it for you?”

He shook his head. “It’s just a cup,” he said and the fae smiled in delight as she lifted it to her nose to inhale. Gold swallowed roughly, frozen in place. Fae were fickle things, and while he had not offended her yet, their tempers could be set off without warning.

“Sit,” his guest said with a nod towards the loveseat tucked away into the corner. He sank into the uncomfortable seat, careful to keep his eyes averted from the pale skin glistening in the light of the fire. Outside, the wind blew against the windows until they rattled in their panes. “I thank you for your kindness,” the woman said and drew her legs up into the chair with her. Curled into the upholstery, the curves of her body were hidden by her arms and legs, but he could not unsee them.

“My home is open to you,” he said in rote. “May the fae favor it.”

At his stiff politeness, her face grew troubled. “Are you not happy to see me?” she asked him. It may have been his imagination but she sounded as if she hurt by that. “ “Does this form displease you? Would you prefer my feline form?”

Gold desperately wanted to take a long drink of his bourbon, but he had left the decanter in the kitchen.Walking a tightrope, Gold tried to find the right way to alert his guest to his discomfort without offending her . “I...I would not gaze upon your beauty with these unworthy eyes,” he said finally and was rewarded with a noise of understanding.

“Ah, I see. I sometimes forget about humans and their...morality. Is this more to your liking?”

A black robe draped over her now, the rich velvet glistening invitingly. The only splash of color was a spot of white at her breast, the same marking as her feline form. He belatedly realized she was watching him for his reaction and he tried to school his face back into a neutral mask.

Though he did not speak, her smile grew warm. “Thank you,” she said as she twirled her finger around the rim of the chipped cup. He belatedly remembered the spilled milk but the floor at her feet was clean. “I am sorry for the waste of your hospitality,” she said and her cheeks flushed. “I did not mean to alarm you.”

He shook his head. “It is I who should apologize,” he said as he bowed his head.

“Oh, now none of that,” she said with a pout. “I have been watching you Roibert Gold, and I know you not as a lickspittle.” The odd word twerked the corner of his mouth and he returned her gaze. “I am Bòidhchead,” she continued. The old word meant beauty, and in gazing upon her, the gods had not named her idly. “I have long wished to meet you like this, but ...I come before you because your son in danger.”

Gold looked down to where his arm rested on the loveseat arm and wondered if he had strayed into a dream. Did he still slumber by the fire, lulled to sleep by the taste of bourbon and the scent of the fire?

“You are not sleeping, Roibert,” she said. Her teeth were white and ever so slightly pointed. Bòidhchead stood and came to sit beside him. In her hand, there were now two filled decanters and she passed it to him with a conspirator's smile “Have you never met a witch before?” Bòidhchead asked. “Your heart is racing like a rabbit.”

His head was swimming but one thing stood out to him and he clung to it like a lifeline. “You said...Bae is in danger?”

Bòidhchead nodded gravely. “What do you know about the cat sìth?”

He racked his brain for a moment, but all he could recall was the scene of a funeral. His father had stood over his mother’s deathbed before the burial, while her sisters had sang outside the door. He had been small then, a wee bairn, forgotten in the grief of the house, but he had remembered asking one of his aunts why she sang. And her response had been, “ to keep her soul from being stolen away by the cat king.” He racked his brain for how long he had befriended the lone black cat that stalked the grounds around the graveyard. Had she been there when Bae had been buried?

“My kind are drawn to spirits,” Bòidhchead said, once more knowing exactly what he was thinking. “I speak to them and them to me. They tell me of their lives and deferred dreams and I watch over them so they will always know peace. Bailey was my first...my first guardianship.”

His heart contracted painfully. She slipped her hand in his and he marveled at how perfectly it fit in his own. The heat from her palm slid into his veins and it warmed him in ways no drink ever had. “He told me such stories. How loved he was, how strong you were, and how he worried for you on your own.”

Gold’s eyes burned but he stared into the fire. His son’s face had blurred from time to time, but here, holding the witch’s hand, he could see him clearly. “He stays behind for your sake,” Bòidhchead said softly, knowing this would be a blow. “He would not leave you alone.”

Gold had never missed a weekly walk to the graveyard, often going daily if the weather permitted it, but Gold had never realized...had not considered his son was still there, alone.

“I have long encouraged him to move to the next world,” Bòidhchead old him and her face had the shadow of guilt upon it. “But...I grew too comfortable. I did not press him, for I enjoyed his company...and your visits…”

The young witch sighed. “His spirit grew faint and wistful. His love for you kept him tethered here, but souls are not meant to remain behind on this plane. It is my duty to usher them forth into the next life but Bae would not leave you on your own. ”

Her warmth was anchoring him, though his heart squeezed in his chest as tears began to cloud his eyes. “Bae,” he murmured as his fists closed over his heart. “My boy...I don’t...I don’t understand,” he managed. “Is he...is he gone?”

Bòidhchead moved to kneel before him and she took both of his hands in her own before pressing one to her cheek. Her eyes flickered close as she leaned into it, and she inhaled deeply as if committing his scent to memory. “He’s with you always,” she said and reached out to touch his heart. “But a shadow has passed over him...and I cannot reach him now. I came...I came here tonight for your help. To save Bailey from the shadows and to deliver him to peace.”

Gold’s hand covered her own where it lay against his chest. The rain on the other side of the wall beat mercilessly against the house, but a vision of Bae alone in the graveyard came to him unbidden. His son stood as tall as he had in life, his brown hair damp with rain and his hopeful smile shadowed by the wisdom that came to a boy mature beyond his age. Bae’s voice echoed in his ear, a whispered goodbye as the fever had burned through his son’s body.

A single tear fell from his eye, and Bòidhchead murmured her distress as he bowed forward. She raised up to take his head to her breast, as if to let him cry there, curled into her embrace. “It was not your fault, Roibert,” she whispered, so assuredly that he could almost let himself believe her. “He does not blame you. It is time you cease blaming yourself.”

His fingers clutched at her shoulders and he wrenched himself away in embarrassment. “My apologies, Bòidhchead.”

HIs accent curled around the familiar word and it brought a tear stained smile to her face. “You speak your mother tongue beautifully,” she murmured as she reached up to twist a lock of his hair between her fingers. “Bae is not as skilled at it. He calls me Belle, in his mother’s tongue.”

Gold had forgotten...Bae had never had the gift for Gaelic, and his mother, a French born Sassenach, had hated the guttural language. Bae had loved his mother’s native tongue, often begging her to translate everything and everything to hear the romantic language from across the sea. When their small family had come to America, Bae’s mother had stayed on the boat with the ship’s captain and after that Bae had never spoken a word of French again.

Gold had to close his eyes again as more tears threatened to fall. “I held him in my arms as a babe and promised no harm would come to him...and then I brought him here...to his death. I held him as he died and begged God to take me instead.” The angels had been blind to Bae’s plight and God was deaf to Gold’s pained pleas. But perhaps someone else had been listening for a witch stood before him with promises of Bae’s salvation. “How can I help him now?”

“He is too far out of m y reach,” she confessed and an embarrassed flush crossed her pale cheeks. “I fear only your voice will call him back from the road he was traveled down.”

Gold had missed his son from the moment he had drawn his last breath. He had lived in a house unchanged over the years since his son had perished, had not taken a scissor to his hair or a blade to his face. He had done nothing but grieve and await his own turn but death had avoided him, too cowardly to show his countenance after his theft of a young boy.

“Will you help me?” Belle asked again and though he had no idea how a broken old man could help a witch, he nodded. “Close your eyes,” she said as she took his hand in her own.

Gold hesitated but despite her twilight entrance into his life, there was something about this Belle he could not resist. She felt evergreen, as if he had known her for an eternity. She was a piece in the puzzle that was his small life, and her presence at his side was steady and sure, a heartbeat he had never noticed was missing. He let his eyes drift close and there was the croon of words, old and ancient. With his eyes clenched tight, a flicker of lights played behind the back of his eyelids shimmered and when he opened them, he was back in his living room.

Belle had not stirred from his side, and he turned to her in consternation, but something caught his gaze out of the corner of his eye. He stood, legs shaky and uncertain, as his son smiled at him from across the room.

His face was whole and full. His eyes sparkled with mischievous joy, so different from the dying boy who had been skin and bones at the end. “Papa,” Bailey greete. Gold had forgotten his son’s voice, but at that one word, he knew the spirit before him was real. He opened his arms and Bae barreled into them, arms clasping tightly around his shoulder as Bae hid his face into his father’s embrace.

“Bae,” Gold breathed and the smell of grass and mud trickled up to him. “It’s you. It’s really you.” The spirit was flesh and bone in his arms, and Gold decided in that second he would sell his soul if it meant to stay here for a few moments more.

His son grew serious though his eyes still shimmered with barely contained emotion. “Papa, I…. I’m afraid.” Gold’s arms tightened around his son as his breath caught in his chest. As he looked around, he saw the house was the same as it had been when Bailey had lived there still, messy and cluttered as only a teenage boy could make his home. Signs of Gold’s own presence was here in the decanter upon the tabletop or the worn boots by the door. Yet, there was something else lingering.

“Bailey,” Belle said as she stepped forward.

“Belle!” the boy greeted in relief and he threw his arms around her as well. “Where did you go?” he asked her, and his voice had a note of accusation in it.

The witch blushed again, and looked nervously at where the dark staircase loomed at the front of the room. “I warned you, Bae,” she whispered even as she clutched him tighter to her as if she too feared he would disappear if she let him go. “I told you what would happen if you went down this road. I couldn’t follow after you here.”

Gold looked between them, uncertain what was happening but unable to care. He was with his son. Bailey parted from Belle and turned back to his Gold. Bailey’s face was a mixture of shame and fear. “Belle’s right, Papa,” he confessed in a tiny voice. “It’s my fault.”

“What is, Bae?” Gold asked but something began to tingle along the back of his neck.

“I was afraid of what will happen next and...I didn’t want you to be alone....”

“You mustn’t worry about me,” Gold said firmly and he cupped his son’s face in his hands, marveling at him. The ache of how strongly he missed his son seemed to be tearing him apart, but he pushed it away. He had to be strong now, he knew. He had to be strong for Bae.

There was a heavy tread on the stairs and Belle’s breath caught her in throat. “He’s coming,” she whispered and her pale complexion went white as the velvet on her breast. “My powers do not work in this place,” she said with a pointed look at Gold.

“Who is he?” Gold demanded but Bailey was hiding behind him now as well. Gold’s own fear disappeared as his son’s own terror washed over him and he took a step forward toward the corner where his shotgun sat just as it had in the house he had just left. As the heavy tread came to the foot of the stairs, Gold finished priming it and pointed it steadily at the shadow in the front of the room. He could not make out a face but the frame was somehow familiar.

The shadow lifted his hand towards them, and the fire died out with a whoosh. The spirit of his son at his back gave Gold the confidence to step forward, brandishing the weapon. Belle moved to stand beside him, though her voice shook. ‘Leave this place,” she told the shadow. “His soul is not for you.”

The shadow drew in a deep rattling breath, and Bailey whimpered behind them. Gold cocked the gun, and all hesitation left him. “Get out of my house,” he demanded. “Leave my son be.”

The shadow chuckled, the noise like the wheeze of death, before it stepped forward into the light. At his side, Belle sucked in a breath of surprise, but it was nothing to the blow in Gold’s gut. Facing him, was a mirror image of himself, eyes black as pitch and mouth sneering. “Your house?” the shadow repeated. “Your son?”

Gold lowered the gun as he gazed upon himself. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Spirits are not meant to stay on the mortal plane,” Belle said with a tilt of her jaw. Trying desperately to be brave, she did not retreat backwards away from the shadow though there was naked terror on her face. “My kind...my people protect them from evils that would consume them. Theirs is a hunger that is never satisfied...but I...I’ve never-”

The shadow laughed again, but did not move closer to them. “A kitten sìth,” it spat. “Nine lives will not be enough to save you, little cat. You and the boy are mine. You were foolish to follow him here.”

A faint touch at his elbow made him look down to find Bailey staring at the creature across them. “I didn’t want to be alone,” Bailey confessed. “It offered me...it told me I could come home and be with you…”

“And you are,” the evil said with a wave of its hand. It’s voice was high pitched and grotesque and Gold swallowed at the cruelty reflected in the sightless eyes.

“You can do this, Roibert,” Belle breathed and he looked up to find her standing between him and the shadow. “You have to convince Bailey to cross over or his spirit will be trapped here forever.”

“What lies are you telling now, sìth?” the shadow snarled. “Trying to save your own skin?”

Gold shook his head. “But-”

“I’ll handle it,” Belle said though a shiver ran down her spine. “I can distract it for a few moments or more, but you must convince Bailey it is time to move on...or we’ll all be stuck here.”

She did not wait for him to respond, but turned with a hiss back towards the shadow. In the next second, a cat leapt splitting towards the shadowy Gold, and the two tumbled out into the porch beyond the front door.

“Belle!” Bailey cried and went to move after them but Gold caught him by the arm.

He sank down to his son’s level and smiled up at him though his heart was breaking. “Bailey...my boy, I’m sorry.I’m sorry I made you feel as if you could not move on… I never...I never wanted this for you. I wanted to protect you, care for you, and I failed…”

“Papa,” Bailey muttered and he threw his arms around his neck. “Papa, this isn’t your fault.”

There was an angry howl from outside and both men turned as it was followed by the sound of a cat’s yowl of pain. “She’s not strong enough,” Bailey said and his face was worried. Gold resisted the urge to go out after the witch, but she had already told him how he could fix this and he had to stay true to it. besides, what was an old man with a limp going to do to a shadow demon?

“How do...how do you cross over?” Gold asked his son.

Bae looked behind him, and Gold sensed there was a world he could not see just beyond his son. “It’s a door of sorts...a window but it’s getting fainter,” his son confessed to him, and his voice was small and scared. “Belle says time is running out but…” His son faulted. “It’s beautiful,” he said to his father in a whisper. “It’s indescribable...but I guess it reminds me...of the sunset we spent on the cliffs in Scotland waiting for the ocean liner. All purples and oranges, blues and reds.. endless and boundless where the sky and the sea blended together with the sun….”

“It sounds beautiful, my boy,” Gold said and he was relieved Bae’s eyes were off into what he could not see. His son did not see the tear fall, nor the next one as Gold hurriedly scrubbed them away. The world around them was starting to fade, the house drifting away from them until it was just him and Bailey standing before each other. The sound of something terrible was in the back of his mind, but Gold could not remember what it was or why it mattered.

Bae turned back to him and as always, he saw right through him. With a brave smile, he took a step closer to Gold once more. “Papa, I won’t leave you alone…”

Gold had tried to be the best father possible, and he had failed miserably in a million ways but it seemed the fates had given him one last chance to do the right thing. “You have to go,” Gold said firmly. “You said it yourself, the door is closing. I won’t...I won’t have you stuck here with that...that thing for an eternity. You go on, son. I’ll see you there.”

“How do you know?” Bae asked and he was five again, scared and unsure about going across the great sea.

“I just do,” Gold said and he took his son in his arms one last time. “I’ll see you again,” he promised him, the same thing he had whispered to his son when he had drawn his last breath. “I promise.”

In the next heartbeat, the fire cracked and Gold started back to consciousness. There was a storm outside his window and a decanter of bourbon laid at his feet. The front door was open and rain poured into the living room. Gold puzzled what was going on but his head ached too fiercely to focus. As he lifted a trembling hand to his forehead, he caught sight of something lying cross the threshold, a small bundle of some kind.

He stood, and his legs faltered beneath him so he had to grab at the back of the chair to stay upright. He had dreamed of his son, and Bae’s voice still echoed in his mind. Part of him wanted nothing more than to lie back down upon the couch and disappear back into the dream, but something else urged him upwards. He had to close the door, something told him.

He made it to the opening to find the small bundle was not some inanimate object, but a feline stretched across the threshold. Her eyes were closed and head thrown back at an unnatural angle, but her chest rose and fell even as her fur stuck matted to her lithe frame. There was blood pooled beneath her and he sank down to his knees, ignoring the stab of pain as he reached trembling fingers out to the small creature.

A blue eye peeked open and a small pitiful meow followed. Gold’s mind uttered one word and he repeated it incredulously. “Belle?”

The rain whipped at his face and sank into his clothes, but he did not feel them. The cat’s eyes flickered close again, and she shuddered in a long sinuous motion until a cat no longer lay before him, but a young woman.

“He crossed over,” she managed to say though her face was contorted in pain. “His soul is at peace. You did it.”

Gold barely heard her, he was too busy searching for the wound. He found it on the nape of her neck, her hair clotted with blood. It was shallower than he had thought, but the blood ran freely into his palms as he cradled her neck. “Here,” he said and he carefully moved her head into his lap. “Shh,” he said as he tried to speak. “It’s okay, you’re going to be fine, Belle.”

There was something bitter upon his lip, and only when he sucked his lip into his mouth did he realize there were tears upon his cheeks. Belle, for now he could think of her as nothing else, reached up to wipe them from his face with a gentle hand.

“I am young for my kind,” she said to him. The bright blue light of them burned the brighter for the halo of fire lighter. “I am inexperienced and naive, and my sisters would call me foolish, but I promised Bae that you would not be alone.”

Gold shook his head, not comprehending.

“But...I admit I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” Gold repeated, certain he had not heard her correctly.

“Of you, of course,” Belle replied. “I feared your would not...be receptive to my company. That you would hate me for putting Bae in danger.”

“You saved him,” Gold said in disbelief. “You protected him when I couldn’t and you let me see him again...Belle, you saved him and I both.”

“No, you did,” she said with a faint smile. The blood was beginning to clot and he was careful not to let her hair fall back into the wound. There were bandages in the house, and he would wash the wound out with some bourbon when she was strong enough to stand. “I knew you could,” she said and her eyes traced over his face in a way that made his heart do a somersault.

“Belle,” he repeated. The utterance of it made him feel closer to his son so he said it again. “Belle.”

Her skin was soft against the rough calluses on his hands and he found himself leaning forward as if drawn to her. She smelled of the wilderness, of the rain and something long ago, and her eyes drew him towards her. He had never sought salvation for his sins before this moment, and in the back of his mind, he realized why there were so many stories warning of the dangers of the Fae.

He paused just shy of her parted lips, and her breath ghosted over him like a benediction. She trembled as he pulled back but did not move towards him. “”Let’s get you inside,” he said instead and if her eyes were wistful, he did not notice.

Within minutes, Belle had dried them both and they sat upon the floor before the fire without speaking. She was miles away and he could only sit and stare at her lest he break the silence.

The storm continued to rage outside, but it did not grieve Gold as it once had. His son was safe and warm. Bailey knew he was loved and would always be loved,a nd Gold found a sort of peace in that knowledge as well.

Belle had let him care for her wound, and he had traced his fingers through her hair to shake the debris free. He had found shallow cuts along the crown of her head and a series of shallow cuts along her ribcage where he suspected a few bones were broken, but she assured him she would be fine.

As the evening faded away into morning, Gold reflected that the little witch beside him had known him for quite a few years, and he wondered at all the things he must have said to her, the secrets he had whispered to Bailey’s grave when he thought no one else was around, and the cowardly side of him she must have seen in all those small scared moments. She had seen him for the man he truly was, a coward.

“I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you,” Belle said quietly and his heart skidded to a stop as the sneering voices in his head fell silent. “You were talking to his headstone with flowers in your lap, and despite the tears on your cheeks you were smiling as you told him some story.”

“Embarassing, I presume?” he said, and Belle’s face cracked into a smile at his teasing tone.

“He loved you so much,” Belle said as she gazed into the fire. “How could I not?”

She drew the blanket closer around her shoulders and raised her hands to the warmth of the fire. “I thought a million times of following you home..or revealing myself to you...but he was your son and I loved him as if he was my own.” She smiled sadly. “That’s the first rule of being a Cat Sith,” she admitted. “You aren’t supposed to get attached to your spirits.”

“Where will you go now?” he asked and he found he did not want to know the answer.

She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she admitted and she was beautiful in her sadness.

Caught up in his own bittersweet grief, he reached out to her and she collapsed in relief into his arms. “Stay with me,” he whispered against her ear as he combed his fingers carefully through her hair. “For as long as you want.”

Her breath hiccuped and she turned as if she had could not possible had heard him right “Stay,” he repeated. Trembling, he leaned down to brush a kiss against her lips.Inch by inch he lowered his head until her eyes fluttered shut.

“Is forever too long?” she whispered before she closed the gap between them to taste his lips. She felt like home. When his arms closed around her and her breath caught in her throat, for the first time in years, he did not feel so alone.

fin.

#rumbelle revelry #rumbelle #b does the write thing

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thesassybooskter · 7 years

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SOMEBODY'S BABY by Donna Alward: Review

Somebody's Baby by Donna Alward Series: Darling VT #3 Published by St. Martin's Paperbacks Publication Date: April 4th 2017 Genres: Contemporary Romance Pages: 293 Source: Publisher Format: eARC Goodreads Buy Online: Amazon ♥ Barnes & Noble ♥ Kobo

I received this book for free from the Publisher in exchange for an honest review. This does not affect my opinion of the book or the content of my review.

Veterinarian Rory Gallagher chose a different path from his brothers, both of whom became first responders in the lovely little town of Darling, Vermont. Rory’s always had an affinity for animals–and the ladies. Known for his impressive track record in breaking hearts, Rory never meant to hurt anyone; he’s just never been in a hurry to settle down. It’s not as if he needs to pay a visit to the town’s famed Kissing Bridge to magically find love. He’ll know The One when he sees her. . .right?

Oaklee Ferguson is the kid sister of Rory’s best friend–and, even now that she’s all grown up, remains immune to the pet-doctor’s charms. When she shows up at Rory’s clinic late one night–devastated after hitting a stray dog with her car–Rory’s so-called -bedroom eyes- are the last thing on her mind. Still, his care and kindness toward the dog, and his concern for her feelings, catches Oaklee by surprise. . .and soon the two (and rescued dog makes three!) begin to share a deep connection that neither could have ever imagined. Could it be that love has been waiting for them by the bridge all along?

Review

If there ever were a step-by-step guide for how to start a successful and lasting relationship, I imagine it would look like this: boy meets girl, they fall in love and live happily ever after, but without the baggage and hurt. Alas, there is no such thing as both Rory Gallagher and Oaklee Ferguson have learned the really hard way.

Both casualties of love gone wrong, Rory and Oaklee have reason to be wary of the emotion and have devised various methods of dealing it. For Rory, serial dating is the best way to avoid emotional entanglements and for Oaklee, keeping busy and avoiding dating is her preferred method. Until an injured dog brings them into closer contact and changes everything for them.

Rory and Oaklee have always had feelings for each other but Rory’s friendship with her older brother effectively put the kibosh on anything developing between them back in the day, but now it’s their fear of getting hurt again that stands between them and possible happiness.

Rory and Oaklee were a really adorable couple and I enjoyed every bit of their effort to get past their heartbreak and find happiness with each other. It’s obvious that their attempts to avoid being hurt again have pretty much starved them of meaningful connections with other people and they are very lonely, no matter how exciting their lives look from the outside.

It’s like watching a baby learn to walk; you wince when they fall and cheer when they succeed and I think the author did an amazing job, getting readers invested in and rooting for Rory and Oaklee to find happiness with each other. SOMEBODY’S BABY was a real joy to read and I hope we get more stories soon, especially Hannah’s.

About Donna Alward

While bestselling author Donna Alward was busy studying Austen, Eliot and Shakespeare, she was also losing herself in the breathtaking stories created by romance novelists like LaVyrle Spencer, Judith McNaught, and Nora Roberts. Several years after completing her degree she decided to write a romance of her own and it was true love!

Five years and ten manuscripts later she sold her first book and launched a new career. While her heartwarming stories of love, hope, and homecoming have been translated into several languages, hit bestseller lists and won awards, her very favorite thing is when she hears from happy readers!

Donna lives on Canada’s east coast with her family which includes a husband, a couple of kids, a senior dog and two crazy cats. When she’s not writing she enjoys reading (of course!), knitting, gardening, cooking…and is a Masterpiece Theater addict.

Website | Blog | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads

SOMEBODY’S BABY by Donna Alward: Review was originally published on The Sassy Bookster

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themanuelruello · 5 years

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Raising Old-Fashioned Kids in a High Tech World

I’m not a mommy blogger.

But you probably already knew that, huh?

It’s partially because I have little interest in telling folks how to raise their kids when I’m still trying to figure out how to raise mine, and partially because my inspiration rarely flows when it comes to that stuff.

I’ve never been one of the cool moms…

We don’t all have matching outfits for Christmas pix. (Heck, I haven’t even done a Christmas CARD in the last 5 years…)

I couldn’t plan a themed birthday party if my life depended on it.

We don’t do finger painting, homemade halloween costumes, or crafts with rainbow-colored pipe cleaners.

Fun snacks? Um, I think there’s a shriveled up string cheese in the fridge if you’re dying.

Are you picking up what I’m putting down here?

So I couldn’t help but scratch my head when recently, the random photos I’ve been posting of our kids on Instagram have been getting a lot of engagement–even more engagement than my cute cow photos (which is saying a lot).

There was the photo of the kids sitting in their homemade pasture fort made from scraps of lumber from the wood pile.

The photo of the Three Amigos heading out to the pasture with their sack lunch.

And the photo of Mesa and Bridger toting off a refrigerator box to be turned into a covered wagon, then a cabin, and then a rocket.

The comments, messages, and likes I’ve received on these posts have made me think it’s time to dig into this (apparently radical) notion a little deeper.

How We (Accidentally) Started Raising Old-Fashioned Kids

Let me just start by saying I didn’t start doing any of this on purpose.

When Christian and I bought our homestead property in 2008, we were excited at the thought of raising our future children here, but I had absolutely no preconceived notions of what that would look like.

The kids have always come along with us, no matter what we doing. Not because we had some grand parenting philosophy guiding us, but rather because there’s a serious shortage of babysitters out here. And we have busy lives with a lot of moving parts, so it just made sense to pack the kids along with us, almost always.

As Mesa (our firstborn) grew, we just did what felt natural. When I’d milk, I’d bundle her up and she’d toddle along. When I’d ride my horse in the summer, I’d stick her in her playpen in the shady barn and let her nap. Bridger (our middle child) was snuggled into our tattered jogging stroller at 5-days old so he could accompany me to the barn to check on things. And Sage (our thirdborn) has been doing everything she can to keep up with her farm-raised siblings almost since the day she came out of the womb.

It was a lot of work at the beginning (putting on tiny mittens and boots x3 is tedious by any standard), but as they’ve grown, they’ve taking on more responsibility and have become pretty darn capable, if I do say so myself.

Mesa (9) and Bridger (6) do barn chores by themselves (unsupervised) each morning. They fill water, feed the chickens, check for eggs, move the horses, and feed the cats.

They can do almost all of the watering chores in the summer, pick vegetables for me in the garden, and scoop poop out of the barn (I still have to help them dump the wheelbarrow if it’s heavy, but no complaints here.)

They have responsibilities, and I’m a stickler for starting our homeschool routine by 8am each morning, but once school and chores are done, their day is mostly their own.

Boots are shoved on feet, and off they go with a hurried “Bye mom!”

And the house is suddenly quiet.

Outside, they run and scream. They ride bikes and throw balls. They poke sticks in the big water tank and pretend they are fishing. They climb on the hay bales and slide down the sides. They coerce the barn cats from their hiding spots and cuddle them until they melt in their arms. They pile up logs and bits of scrap wood to make wagons and forts and houses. They pretend with hammers, sticks, and shovels. They visit the cows in the pasture and scratch the goats. They embark on grand adventures behind house, weaving in and out of the tree rows. They collect rocks and birds nests and random treasures. They wade in the giant pasture mud puddle after a rain and utterly cake themselves in mud.

When I call them in for supper, they tend to be absolutely filthy, exhausted, and completely content.

Living 35+ miles from town has seriously limited the amount of playdates or structured kid activities we’ve been able to partake in thus far. And if I’m being honest, that used to bother me. A lot. I worried I was doing my kids a disservice by not driving them to all the lessons and Mommy and Me activities…

But I’m starting to realize the sort of unstructured childhood we implement here on the homestead, not because it was trendy, but rather because it was the only natural option, is actually a thing.

Who woulda thought?

The Mysterious Benefit of Dirt, Dust, & Animal Hair

I’ve been absolutely fascinated with all the articles I’ve seen floating around lately with scientific “proof” of an old-fashioned childhood (even though they don’t call it that). Our grandparent’s generation never even thought to question these things, but here we are in 2019 having such revelations such as:

The New England Journal of Medicine observed the link Amish farming communities and their reduced occurrence of asthma

A study that shows a rural childhood with exposure to animals and dust can boost the immune system and reduce occurrence of mental illness

This article in the Washington Posts that highlights the increase of childhood balance issues due to lack of movement throughout the day

This post on ADDitude discussing how playing outside can decrease ADHD symptoms in kids

The post on the World Economic Forum that encourages parents to let their children to be bored to increase creativity

It’s really easy for us, in all our modern wisdom, to brush off this sort of childhood as being a thing of the past, but can we afford to merely relegate it to the history books?

In my humble opinion, no we cannot.

Yes, we live in an entirely different time with more concerns and more dangers, but for the first time in history, we have a generation of kids who aren’t outside and aren’t moving their bodies. Unstructured play, rolling around in the grass, or playing in the dirt are identified as being crucial to human health and development, we can no longer dismiss them as the optional, silly parts of childhood.

If this trend continues, where will we be?

Free Time Magic

As I watch our kids race, imagine, explore, and create, I am fascinated to watch valuable traits naturally emerge. The kind of traits that will carry them far into adulthood.

They carry themselves with confidence. They find joy in their work (most of the time…) They are creative. They have the ability to solve problems on their own (like filling and carrying a heavy chicken bucket, and coercing the escapee horses back into the right pen).

Is it sunshine and roses all the time?

Well, of course not.

Sometimes they fight. Sometimes they get hurt. And sometimes they come to the house with a scraped knees and snot running down their face.

But that just comes with the territory.

I’m not claiming to have it all figured out, not by a long shot. And I’m usually extremely hesitant to give parenting advice, because, well, my oldest is only 9 and I still have yet to determine how this whole gig will turn out.

But I am completely and utterly convinced one of the most powerful parts of a healthy childhood lies is the unstructured free time.

It’s powerful stuff.

How to Start Implementing an Old-Fashioned Childhood for Your Kids

Whenever I talk about this, naturally, the logical question that arises next is, “And how exactly does one do this?”

Here’s my best advice:

Step One: Kick them out the door and leave them alone.

Step Two: Repeat the next day.

Kind of kidding…. but not really. I realize dangers do exist. And it’s quite likely that you’ll be able to let your kid ride their bike across town (unless it’s a very small town). Of course, you’ll need to weigh the risks in your particular situation and be mindful of them.

But we do kids a disservice by scheduling them too much.

Let them play.

Limit the screens.

Don’t fear their boredom– that’s where creativity is born.

Fight the urge micro-manage them.

Let them fail.

Teach them to wonder and ask questions.

Give them hours on a summer day to hunt insects, look at clouds, and roll in the grass.

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m NOT against putting your kids in activities (we do 4-H and a weekly homeschool co-op), but when it comes to the most meaningful activities we do as a family, I’ve found that my kids light up the most when they have the chance to be a part of something bigger than themselves.

For us, growing food together is more meaningful than finger-painting. Not that there’s anything wrong with finger painting… But my kids love knowing the green beans they planted are a crucial part of our family’s meal plan come July, they argue over who gets to smash the tomatoes into the food mill when we make sauce, and Mesa beams with pride when she can rattle off the tag numbers of our beef cattle by heart.

So no… I’m not a mommy blogger, and I won’t pretend for one minute that I know everything about parenting or raising kids. But I wholeheartedly agree with Mr. Rogers when he said, “Play is the work of childhood.”

And I’ll venture to say that if we can parent like it’s 1955, our kids will be a whole lot better off.

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