#Bowen's had it a dozen times in many different ways.

[jackoshadows]

One of the ways that we know that Jon Snow has a learning arc is because quite a few times he factors in and incorporates information he has learned from his mentors - Ned, Jeor, Aemon, Mance etc. - and others like Ygritte and Sam, into his decisions.

When Jon is engaging with Northern politics, for ex. when he is advising Stannis on his campaign to win the North, he refers to his father’s advice and approach.

The map is not the land, my father often said.

My lord father said he never ate half so well as when visiting the clans.

Eddard Stark had never had any  reason to complain of the Lord of the Dreadfort, so far as Jon knew, but  even so he had never trusted him, with his whispery voice and his pale,  pale eyes. - Jon, ADwD

Or when he recalls Mance’s advice (They follow strength, they follow the man) when dealing with the Freefolk. Or when he recollects words of wisdom from Maester Aemon (Kill the boy) and Ygritte (You know nothing).

Jon is always listening and learning like here for ex:

The Old Bear unrolled a map, frowned at it, tossed it aside, opened another. He was pondering where the hammer would fall, Jon could see it. The Watch had once manned seventeen castles along the hundred leagues of the Wall, but they had been abandoned one by one as the brotherhood dwindled. Only three were now garrisoned, a fact that Mance Rayder knew as well as they did. "Ser Alliser Thorne will bring back fresh levies from King's Landing, we can hope. If we man Greyguard from the Shadow Tower and the Long Barrow from Eastwatch . . ."

"Greyguard has largely collapsed. Stonedoor would serve better, if the men could be found. Icemark and Deep Lake as well, mayhaps. With daily patrols along the battlements between." - Jon, ACoK

And then as Lord Commander:

"True enough," the small man said. "Is it just to be Icemark, then, or will m'lord be opening t'other forts as well?"

"I mean to garrison all of them, in time," said Jon, "but for the moment, it will just be Icemark and Greyguard." - Jon, ADWD

"The wildlings will remain upon the Wall," Jon assured them. "Most will be housed in one of our abandoned castles." The Watch now had garrisons at Icemark, Long Barrow, Sable Hall, Greyguard, and Deep Lake, all badly undermanned, but ten castles still stood empty and abandoned. - Jon, ADWD

By the end of ADwD, Jon has implemented decisions that Jeor and Qhorin wanted done way back in ACoK

As Lord Commander he is fully able to grasp the food situation with respect to food stores and numbers because he is trained as a steward under Marsh himself:

The black brothers set new recruits to many different tasks, to learn where their skills lay…[F]or every day spent hunting, he gave a dozen to Donal Noye in the armory…Other times he ran messages, stood at guard, mucked out stables, fletched arrows, assisted Maester Aemon with his birds or Bowen Marsh with his counts and inventories. - Jon, AGoT

There’s a reason Jeor Mormont made Jon Snow his steward instead of a ranger. He was being taught to lead instead of being taught just to fight.

#Jon Snow #Book Jon Snow

[gayleonofcuy]

A Realm of Them

The black brothers set new recruits to many different tasks, to learn where their skills lay...[F]or every day spent hunting, he gave a dozen to Donal Noye in the armory...Other times he ran messages, stood at guard, mucked out stables, fletched arrows, assisted Maester Aemon with his birds or Bowen Marsh with his counts and inventories.

-Jon, AGoT

Weese used Arya to run messages, draw water, and fetch food, and sometimes to serve at table in the Barracks Hall above the armory...But most of her work was cleaning.

-Arya, AcoK

Umma would slap a knife into her hand and point at an onion, and Arya would chop it. Umma would shove her toward a mound of dough, and Arya would knead it until the cook said stop...Umma would hand her a fish, and Arya would bone it and fillet it and roll it in the nuts the cook was crushing. She had other tasks besides helping Umma. She swept the temple floors; she served and poured at meals; she sorted piles of dead men's clothing, emptied their purses, and counted out stacks of queer coins.

-Arya, AFfC

I've always liked that Jon and Arya are two of only a few of our main characters who have done the work of ordinary people.

In a world without ~bittersweet endings~ I have an AU in my head where Jon and Arya, tired of court politics, go off on their own to a crofter's cottage, without servants, just to be by themselves.

Jon would tease Arya about always being the one who cuts the firewood, and Arya would respond, 'You know, I've always wondered how Longclaw would work as an axe.'

Arya would roll up her breeches or hike up her skirt and wade into a nearby stream to teach Jon how to be calm as still water, then quick as a snake in order to catch a fish using his bare hands. She would then laugh so much at Jon only succeeding in splashing himself that she would end up losing her own fish.

The two of them would set off at dawn for a short walk, which would then turn into a day long excursion becuase Arya kept getting distracted by wildflowers. After being roundly told off by another crofter for trespassing, they would make their way home at twilight, giggling, their hands clutching bunches of flowers.

#asoiaf #jon snow #arya stark #jonrya #jon x arya

[shireness-says]

A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (1/4)

Summary: Two people are trained from childhood for a magical competition they don't fully understand, whose stakes are higher than they imagine, all to be played out in a magical traveling circus. Falling in love complicates things. A CS AU of the book “The Night Circus”.

Rated M. ~15.2K. Also on AO3.

A/N: Presenting my contribution to the @cssns​! “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern is a favorite book of mine that I have long thought would make for an excellent CS AU. And so, I’m finally doing it. At length. 

I was incredibly lucky to be paired with @eirabach​ for this event, who created the beautiful art attached above. She has such amazing ideas for bringing this fic to life in all its atmospheric glory that I never would have thought of. Her art is also posted on her tumblr; go give it all the love it deserves!

Thanks also go to @snidgetsafan​, my ever-phenomenal beta, and @ohmightydevviepuu​, who read the book at my urging and then agreed to read my monster to make sure nothing important was left out. This fic is better for both their efforts. 

Tagging the usual suspects for now. If you want to be added to (or removed from!) this list, just shoot me a message: @welllpthisishappening​, @profdanglaisstuff​, @thisonesatellite​, @let-it-raines​, @kmomof4​, @scientificapricot​, @thejollyroger-writer​, @superchocovian​, @teamhook​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @searchingwardrobes​, @katie-dub​, @snowbellewells​

Enjoy - and let me know what you think! Next chapter will be posted whenever I get it done. 

~~~~~

The circus arrives at night.

There is never any warning of its arrival; no handbills stuck to the lampposts or announcement from some other lucky town that yours will be next. It is simply there one morning, all the black and white tents taking on a particularly mystical quality in the light of the sunrise. At the front gate is a sign:

                       Le Cirque des Rêves

                   Open sunset until sunrise

(And what a curious idea, that; a circus that is only open at night.)

The circus is a place where anything can happen, and routinely does. Those who visit leave with an awareness that no street-side carnival or traveling minstrel will ever induce such enjoyment again; everything must naturally pale in comparison. The illusionist is somehow more magical, the fortune-teller more wise, the contortionists and acrobats more daring. The world of the circus, created all in black and white and silver and lit by delicate lanterns and a great bonfire at its center, feels otherworldly - and you somehow feel that it just might be. 

In a word, the circus is magic, brought to life right in front of your eyes, and you know you will never be the same for having witnessed it. 

Our story does not begin at the circus, however; it only ends there.

———

Our story begins in the back corner of a smoky tavern, or a grimy alley, or a dimly lit dressing room of a theater, or any number of other places that exist in-between the rest of humanity, overlooked, utterly invisible in their mundanity.

(In truth, it does not matter where our story begins - only that it does.)

A woman sits in a darkened corner. More attentive observers might recognize her as the famed stage magician, Circe the Enchantress, capable of tricks beyond their wildest imagination.

(Even the most observant wouldn’t realize that all of Circe’s “tricks” are gloriously real; the human mind is excellent at not seeing things that it doesn’t want to acknowledge.)

(The most observant won’t notice the way she purposefully draws the shadows further around herself, either, just to ensure that the rest of humanity around her can’t penetrate the curtain of dark.)

Circe isn’t her real name, of course; it just sounds good on a playbill, capable of attracting people from far and wide. These days, she goes by Regina Mills, though there’s been other names before that: Corwin and King and Bowen and Smith. Names aren’t much of a concern for those as old as she, just another passing distraction when you’ve witnessed hundreds of years.

Hundreds of years don’t make the waiting any easier when the person you’re expecting can’t bother to arrive on time.

“You’re late,” she comments drily when her companion finally arrives, a slight man with a slighter limp. They may as well be a study in opposites; where Regina plays with shadow to avoid notice, he’s draped himself in a spell that causes an observer’s eyes to glance away without seeing; while Regina tries on names like hats over the decades and centuries, changing with every whim, her companion has allowed his own moniker to become lost to time, known only now to very few and only as Mr. Gold. 

“Au contraire, dearie,” he replies mildly, though the irritated glint in his eye would terrify anyone else. “I arrived exactly when I needed to. What is time to those like us, anyhow?”

“A convenient construct that keeps those you have appointments with from waiting around for any longer than they have to.” 

Mr. Gold studiously ignores the quip.  “Why did you ask me here tonight, Regina?” 

“I’m in the mood for a game,” she says, faux-casually. “It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper competition.”

“Ah yes,” her companion smirks. “If I remember right, my contestant defeated yours last time.”

“On a technicality,” Regina corrects through gritted teeth.

“In this world of absolutes, I often find a technicality is all it takes to shift the balance. And magic, true power… that’s the greatest technicality of them all.”

“I’m rather less inclined to deal in technicalities, at least where the matter of starting a new game is involved,” Regina snaps. Any minute shred of patience or humor she might have possessed is long since gone, even if her companion remains unruffled. “It really boils down to: do you want to, or not?”

“Never let it be said I turn down a challenge, dearie.” This time, it’s impossible to miss the menace behind the supposed endearment. “In fact, I’d say you were the one being… shall we say, vague about the details of this all. Do you have a venue in mind? Or are you leaving that particular bit up to me?”

Regina waves a dismissive hand. “Do as you will. You know I’m not much interested in that, anyways.”

“You never did understand the importance of setting.”

“Perhaps I simply have faith that my contestant will prevail regardless.”

That piques Gold’s interest. “You already have a candidate in mind, then?”

“And fully anticipate taking them as a student, yes. I suppose you’ll want to be there to bind them to the competition?”

“You know me well.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” Regina mutters under her breath. They both know, however, that Mr. Gold hears the words regardless. 

Carefully, the man in question stands from the table, supporting himself on a gilt-ended cane. Any limp that might necessitate such an accessory has long since been corrected; some things are more about the effect, anyways. “If there’s nothing else, Regina, I have other matters to attend to.”

“I expect you do,” Regina smirks. “After all, I’ve already spotted my player, and you’ve yet to find yours.”

“That is true,” Gold concedes with a deceptive mildness. “But remember, dearie: it isn’t about how the game starts, or when, or where. It’s about where it ends. And I have full confidence my acolyte will be able to last the distance.”

With their business concluded, both magicians fade back into the night. Pedestrians continue along the streets, occasionally interrupted by a horse and carriage, all unaware of the true nature of the beings weaving through their midst.

(Dozens of lives have been altered with this ten minute conversation, but the world at large will never know that either.)

———

Emma Swan spends a lot of time by herself.

That’s to be expected, in some ways; she’s an orphan, after all, having spent all 6 years of her life bouncing between begging in the children’s homes and begging on the streets, desperate for the help of others and receiving very little of it. 

But Emma is different, in a way that scares others and has left her to bounce around for years. Emma can do things that others can’t do, like the sparks that dance between her fingers and all the little things that sometimes move, falling off shelves and tables and everything else, whenever she’s upset. She can’t control it, not really, and in a life like hers, there are far too many opportunities to be upset. 

A lady had seen her the other day - one of the fancy ladies by the theaters, the kind that usually pretend they don’t see Emma, like her very existence might dirty their skirts. Emma hadn’t meant to - she never means for these things to happen. But the days are getting colder, and when she really starts to shiver, even with her arms curled around herself to conserve heat, sometimes the little sparks just happen. It’s like whatever this thing is is just trying to keep her warm too.

And no one should have seen her, tucked away in that corner, but the lady is already looking around with a frown on her face like she’s searching for something, and when she turns Emma’s way, it just happens. The lady’s eyes focus on Emma, drawn by those little shoots of light, even as she shoves her hands into her armpits. Emma expects gasping, or screaming, or maybe even a panicked shout for the police - it wouldn’t be the first time - but instead, the lady just tilts her head and narrows her eyes, as if she’s seen something interesting. Then she nods abruptly and leaves.

Emma doesn’t expect to see the lady again - indeed, she rather thinks she’s dodged a bullet. But a week later, she rounds the corner with a filched apple and runs straight into the lady.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” Emma mumbles, ducking her head and trying to scoot around the older woman. When the lady darts out an elegant hand to grab Emma’s arm and hold her in place, panic courses through her veins. “Please, Ma’am, I didn’t do nothing, I swear —”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” the lady snaps, tugging Emma into the mouth of an unnaturally quiet alley. “I don’t care about whatever you ‘didn’t do’. I want to talk about what you did the other day.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Emma mumbles, staring studiously at her feet.

“Of course you do - the lights, in your hands. Don’t lie to me. That’s a gift, don’t you know that?”

Emma shakes her head no.

“Your gift - it can do wonderful things. It makes you special.”

“I’m not special.”

The lady considers that for a moment before answering. “No. But you could be. I could teach you.”

Now that catches Emma’s attention. “You can? How?”

“I can do things like that too,” the lady explains with a smile that seems more smug than pleased. Sure enough, when the lady turns her hand upright, a small ball of flame burns there. Emma’s eyes practically bulge out of her head as she watches that little lick of fire - like her own, in so many ways.

“If you come with me, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” the lady says. It sounds like an order, not an offer; Emma knows how to recognize those. Still, maybe…

“Like a mother?” she asks hopefully, even if she knows that’s unlikely.

The lady scrunches her nose in a kind of instinctual disgust. It’s about as much as Emma expected. “Heavens, no. Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolds. “No, more like… you’d be my apprentice, and I’d teach you our trade.”

That seems odd to Emma; this lady, with her fancy dress and her fancy hat and her posh accent, doesn’t seem like the type who should have to work. “What’s your work?”

For the first time this whole conversation, the lady bends down to properly meet Emma’s eyes. Emma straightens a bit at the gesture, already able to tell she’s about to impart something important. “Magic,” the woman tells her with a smug, adult kind of smile.

“Magic isn’t real,” Emma says back, almost automatically. Six years in orphanages and left to her own devices have long since proved there are no fairy godmothers in this world, not for little girls like her. 

The woman straightens. “The bits of it you have dancing around your fingers right now say otherwise.”

Emma looks down in horror to see it again - the sparks that she tries so hard to hide, that give her so much trouble. For all the mad things this lady says, she’s the first to not look at the display in alarm or even fear. 

“You can make it go away?”

“I can teach you to control it,” the lady corrects, “and so much more. I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime, Emma. Don’t be such a fool as to reject that.”

And even at six, Emma is not a fool.

Emma goes with the lady, who she learns is called Regina. She never learns how Regina knew her name, but writes it off as magic.

(There are far worse fates for lost girls like her.)

———

Emma has been with Regina for a week when the strange man shows up backstage at the theater where Regina is performing.

One week isn’t a lot of time in the grand scheme of an apprenticeship, but her teacher is guiding Emma to recognize magic in the world - the way it pulls toward Emma like an odd kind of magnet and traces linger in the air for hours. Emma has learned to see the faint, radiating glow of magic around her own mentor; this man doesn’t quite have the same glow, but there’s a hum that emanates from him that she thinks might be the same thing. 

Regina introduces the man as a friend, but Emma doesn’t think that’s quite right. She’s always had a knack for recognizing lies - maybe that’s a kind of magic, she wonders now - and her benefactor isn’t quite telling the truth. Maybe that’s one of the half-lies that adults tell, when they think the truth is too difficult for a child to comprehend.

Regardless of what the man might be - friend, foe, acquaintance, something else altogether - Emma can’t help but feel uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. The sparks burst and dance around her fingertips again, entirely without her say-so - something the man quickly notices.

“You’ve found a natural talent, then?” The words are addressed at Regina, but his eyes never leave Emma.

“I told you I had someone in mind,” Regina bites back, just barely on the right side of civility. “Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t have all day.”

“Patience was never your strong suit, was it, Regina?” The man’s tone is mild, but his eyes flash with displeasure. Still, he crouches in front of Emma, granting her his full attention. Though he carries a cane, the movement doesn’t appear to pain him in the way she expects. “What do they call you, young miss?”

She doesn’t particularly want to answer, but Regina has a particular look in her eye that says that she doesn’t really have a choice. “Emma,” she finally mumbles, avoiding the man’s eyes.

“Emma,” he parrots back. “What a lovely name. May I see your hand, Emma?”

Silently, she offers it, palm facing up. Once she does so, the man slips a plain gold ring off his pinky finger, sliding it onto Emma’s own ring finger instead. Curiously, Emma looks at the bauble; it is far too loose on her small finger at first, but as she watches, the band shrinks to fit until it’s a perfect fit. It doesn’t stop though, continuing to tighten and tighten until the metal sears into her skin, burning the flesh until she cries out in pain and tears spring to her eyes. 

And then it’s over. The mysterious man lifts her hand with deceptively soft and delicate fingers, removing that awful ring from her digit to slip it back onto his own.

“You’ll do well, Emma.” The name almost sounds like an insult in his cold voice. “I wish you good fortune.”

(Emma doesn’t notice the item wrapped in a handkerchief Regina passes to the odd man, never realizes that it contains a silver ring to match the one he just used on her, too focused on rubbing at the smooth, scarred skin on her finger where the odd man’s ring just branded her and trying to chase the memory of pain away. One day, she will understand the way that this moment and that ring bound her to a future she didn’t fully understand.

But today, Emma is six, and all she knows is that her finger hurts.)

“You don’t want to do this yourself?” Mr. Gold asks, tucking the handkerchief and ring into his inner breast pocket.

“Obviously not. I’m not nearly as mistrusting as you are,” Regina replies.

(One day soon, Mr. Gold knows he will have cause to execute this binding on a student of his own. It does not matter much to him whether Regina is present for such a binding, though he thinks her a fool for her own sake. After all, knowledge is power - and there is no power greater than knowing your opponent.)

———

A strange man comes to Killian’s school on a Wednesday when he is eight, the kind of day where everything is shifting and changing.

(School is a generous word for this place, as none of the children ever leave, no homes or families to return to at the end of the day. Killian has a brother, three years older, but their mother is long dead. As for their father… as Liam says, the less said about the bastard, the better. There is a reason the two boys have found themselves in this children’s home by any other name.)

The man doesn’t say much, and explains even less. A selection of children, three boys and two girls - including Killian and Liam - are pulled from their regular classes and made to sit for an exam, only instructed to read all the instructions before beginning. The man must have money; the test is printed, each letter pressed in black ink onto the crisp page. It feels like a silly use of money, at least to Killian - he’d much rather use it at one of the concession vendors down by the river - but it’s impressive all the same. The test itself is not fully any one subject; there are translations of languages he doesn’t understand and number puzzles and a curious instruction at the end to only answer questions numbered in multiples of three. At the very end - question 57 - is a short answer question: Why do you think you are here today, and why are you taking this test?

Killian looks around the room at the other children, all diligently working on their own exams. There’s no obvious connector between the five children in the room; Liam has always been brilliant, but Killian is a middling student, and the other boy even lower than that. Some of them are known as quiet and well behaved, but some are not. Some are leaders, some are followers. There’s no obvious pattern.

As to why he’s taking this test… it’s obvious that the man must want to evaluate something, but Killian can’t begin to understand what. As far as his young brain can discern, the exam is about recognizing patterns and following directions. He couldn’t even begin to figure out why.

Killian stares at the space for his answer for what feels like hours. Even after nearly three years in this home, or perhaps because of it, he still has a strong desire to please, to give adults the answers they want to hear; in this case, he just doesn’t know what that is. Finally, as the other children start to put down their pencils, he hurriedly scrawls an answer.

Does it really matter?

After the exams are collected, the children are called in to speak with the man, one by one. None of the conversations are very long, and each trails out with a look of confusion on their face afterwards. Killian tries to catch Liam’s eye as his brother leaves the headmistress’ office, but Liam just furrows his brow and shrugs his shoulders in confusion.

The man holds Killian’s test in his hands when he finally enters the office, appearing to examine his answers. The man is perfectly ordinary in every way; neither short nor tall, thin nor fat, with hair that is not quite brown or blond or grey. The only thing that sets him apart is his clothing - the expensive suit, the perfectly shined shoes, the gold-tipped cane. 

“Does it really matter?” the man quips, diving straight in and obviously quoting Killian’s own response.

Killian swallows heavily; he wouldn’t have written that in the first place if he knew this was coming. “Sir?”

“Your answer,” he expands, as if that needs clarifying. “I’d be curious to hear why you gave that particular answer.”

Killian flushes and looks at his shoes, but the man just waits until he finally answers. “It was obvious you had a reason for having us sit that exam,” he finally explains, “and I had no idea why that was. I didn’t want to guess.”

“You could have left it blank,” the man points out. “Several of the others did. Why the question?”

Killian shrugs. “I wanted to know.” Then, when the silence stretches out between them: “Was that wrong?”

The man stares in silence for a moment longer, before shaking his head. “I would like to take you on as my student,” he declares. When Killian hesitates, his tone turns sharp. “Are you opposed to that?”

“What about my brother?” Killian asks, meeker than he’d like.

“I am only interested in taking one student.” His words are dismissive, bordering on uncaring, and Killian’s stomach plummets.

“But what will happen to him? He’s the only thing I have left.”

“I’m more interested in what happens to you, particularly in relation to my offer, than in your brother.”

In a burst of courage (or, he’ll think in later years, foolishness), Killian pulls himself together to make a fateful declaration. “I’ll go with you… but only if you send Liam - send my brother to school.”

“This is a school.”

“A good school,” Killian clarifies. “The best one. One that will let him do anything he wants when he’s grown up.”

There’s a pause as the mystery man seems to study Killian, though his face gives nothing away. Killian’s heart climbs into his throat as he waits, but he holds his ground. That seems important, somehow - like he’s engaging in some kind of unknown battle. Finally, after what seems an eternity, the odd man tilts his head in a half shrug, as if such a concession is nothing to him. Who knows; with the kind of money he obviously has, maybe it really is nothing. “We have a deal. Go get your things - we leave today.”

(Months later, after many lessons that Killian doesn’t yet understand, the man - Mr. Gold - has Killian place a ring on his finger, a loop of silver that burns a band of flesh on his thumb. A binding, Mr. Gold calls it, tying Killian to a contest that he does not yet understand.

However, it is this transaction - Liam’s education for Killian’s own - that binds him far sooner and better than magic ever could.)

——— 

Magic, Emma finds, is a thread upon the breeze - swirling around them all, lighting upon branches and settling into corners, just waiting to be noticed and harnessed. And Emma does - she feels it, and knows it, and asks it for favors. Dye the dress. Fold the sheet. Heal the dove. The magic deigns to come and wind through her fingers, grip a thread and pull and alter the world to her liking. 

Magic, she finds, is whimsy and wildness all in one, there for her to use and set free once again. Magic is power, more than she will ever wield; her role is but to borrow and return, like a toy set neatly back on a shelf. 

Magic, she finds, is a living thing all its own, and if she works very hard, she just might earn its trust.

Emma grows to enjoy a better childhood than she ever expected before Regina took her off the streets, though it is far from gentle. It is a childhood spent moving from place to place, hopping all over Europe and even to the Americas as Regina performs in theaters around the world. Regina demands nothing less than perfection in their lessons, and Emma grows used to performing the same tasks over and over until her mentor is satisfied - turning tea cups into mice and materializing all manner of objects from unseen rooms and healing her fingertips from where Regina slices the skin with a knife, each scar a supposed indication that she’s not trying hard enough.

But in time, Emma learns and she grows. At 18, Regina deems her skills honed enough to rent her out as a medium, calling upon Emma’s skills to rattle dishes and peer into people’s deepest, saddest thoughts to echo back just what they want to hear. Emma hates every moment of it - lying to people already wracked with grief, taking their money and offering them little satisfaction. She tries to comfort the bereaved as best she can in these sessions, but it’s often of little use. Emma may dread these hollow performances, but what choice does she have? As long as she’s under Regina’s tutelage and protection, Emma’s choices are not her own. 

(She may not know nearly as much about this competition as she should, but Emma longs for the beginning of the contest all the same, if only to finally crawl out from underneath Regina’s thumb.)

———

Magic, Killian finds, is a well of ink, the feeling of satisfaction deep within him when pen births onto page the perfect word, a descriptor for all the things he knew but could never say. It takes hours and years of study, but Killian learns all the ways to channel that pool - each spell, each rune, each intricate bit of charmwork. Magic is hard, but Mr. Gold says all power worth having is; besides, Killian has always been diligent. 

(The lessons are much more interesting than his regular schoolwork, anyways.)

Magic, he learns, is there, if one just knows how to look for it. Most people will go their entire lives without being aware of that; he’s special to have learned. Knowing opens a whole universe of possibility; after that, it’s all down to technique, and finding the right language to channel it. 

Magic, he finds, is a tool, and if he works very hard, he just might be able to harness it to his will. 

Killian’s childhood is a regimented one, filled with books and careful note taking, mastering the theory and principle of every bit of magic he encounters before being allowed to put it to use. As the years stack up, his head fills with runes and symbols and all manner of magical words, like another language he’s slowly become fluent in. In time, Killian learns to piece all of it together into a powerful language only known to a select few - words that can make things happen, that can alter the very world around them. The language of magic, at its very core.

Mr. Gold may be a distant mentor, not prone to affection and rarely even telling Killian he’s proud or pleased, but he keeps his word. Liam attends the best boys’ school that money can secure, impressing his teachers with his innate curiosity and intelligence and making a whole host of friends who are happy to host him on school holidays. Once a month, Mr. Gold takes Killian to see Liam, or brings Liam to see Killian, all with a transport more efficient than any train or carriage. In between, the brothers gladly fill the weeks with exchanged letters, keeping one another apprised of their lives. Killian had told Liam about this arrangement from the beginning - the magic, the competition he’ll one day engage in - and his older brother offers all the pride that Killian doesn’t receive from his mentor. It’s not the path that either anticipated following as children, but it’s a much better life than either expected. There’s a lot to be grateful for.

As Killian grows into a man and learns how to study independently, his enigmatic teacher leaves him to his own devices. Killian prefers it that way, really; though he’s always been grateful for the mysterious, once in a lifetime opportunity he’s been offered, Killian has never been close to his benefactor, not by a long shot. There’s a feeling that hangs over every interaction that he’s never been able to shake, that he owes Mr. Gold in ways he’ll never fully understand. It’s never made for an easy relationship.

Besides, he likes his independence. He is granted a little flat in a quiet and respectable part of the city, with room for a library and a pretty view of a nearby park. It’s more than an orphan like him ever imagined he could have before this opportunity fell in his lap. There are moments of loneliness, but no more than he’s grown used to in youth; besides, as adults, Liam drops by for conversation and a nightcap far more frequently. It’s a little life he’s carved out for himself, with his notebooks and spellbooks and everything in its place, even as he continues the interminable wait for a contest he still barely knows anything about.

It’s all the more surprising, then, when one day the knock at his front door reveals none other but his teacher, as neatly turned out as ever and utterly unexpected.

“Won’t you come in?” Killian asks, stepping aside in welcome. He doesn’t much expect the invitation to be accepted, but he asks all the same; he’s used to interactions with his teacher being strictly business. 

Sure enough: “That won’t be necessary. This will only be a moment.” Gold’s tone might generously be described as brusque, if Killian was in a mood to be so generous. He’s not, particularly. 

“What can I do for you, then?”

“A Mr. Jefferson Madigan will be seeking a secretary and assistant,” Gold tells him, handing over someone else’s calling card. “You will apply for that position.”

It’s an odd command; Killian’s benefactor has never cultivated much of an opinion about his life of study and leisure up to this point. But suddenly, it clicks. “Is this about the challenge?”

“Mr. Madigan and his companions will be creating a venue.” Technically, it’s neither a confirmation nor a denial, but over the years, Killian has learned to read those answers as well as any book. It’s an affirmative. “It will be to your advantage to become part of that circle.”

“I understand,” Killian nods gravely.

“Make sure that you do.”

Killian looks down to examine the address on the calling card, and by the time he looks up again, Gold is gone. His teacher does that, he’s learned - found a way to move through the world while barely leaving a mark upon it. With the conversation clearly over, Killian closes his flat door.

(All the while, a metaphorical door of possibility has been thrown wide open.)

———

Mr. Jefferson Madigan may be the man for whom the word eccentric was crafted.

The townhouse is only a townhouse in the aristocratic sense of the word, more an elaborate and enormous monolith situated in town than just a normal dwelling. The door knocker is cast in the shape of two dragons, and curtains in a variety of different and garish colors peek through the window. At the bottom of what are otherwise staid, conventional stone steps are marble statues of a rabbit and a dormouse where regal lions might usually be.

It all makes sense when the man himself opens the door. While Killian has taken care to dress neatly in a trim, dark colored suit and tie, making his best attempt at the appearance of professionalism, Madigan is a riot of colors and patterns that Killian isn’t entirely certain match, but seem fitting all the same. Behind him, the entry hall is decorated in a jewel-tone blue with golden patterns and baseboards, but that makes a little more sense now that Killian has seen the man himself.

“Are you here about the vaudeville acts? Because I’m afraid that we’re rather moved on from that idea,” he says without introduction, words tumbling one right over the other in a jumble.

“I… No,” Killian manages to stutter out. A question like that has a way of putting a man off-guard. “I was led to believe you were in need of a secretary or assistant?”

“Ah. That makes more sense.” Mr. Madigan nods as if to cement it in his head. “Have you done that kind of work before?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, that’s fine, I’ve never had a secretary before either.” By the look on his face, Madigan would be much more comfortable conducting an interview for a vaudeville actor than a secretary. “Then can you… I don’t know. Read and write and do sums? File things? I don’t think I’ve ever filed something in my life,” he mutters to himself.

“Yes, Sir. To all of it.”

“Well then good, you’re hired. Do you think I need to be filing things? It’s something I’ve never really thought about before.”

Jefferson, as he prefers to be called (“Don’t even try that Mr. Madigan nonsense, I won’t answer to it.”), is planning a circus - what Killian imagines is the venue he’s heard about for a decade and a half. And it sounds magnificent the way Jefferson describes it - something otherworldly. More an entire sensory experience than just a show, spanning dozens of tents and food stands and performers scattered across the grounds. The way he envisions it, the endeavor is more experience than anything else - simultaneously a performance space and a theater and a zoo and a venue for all kinds of edible delicacies. Perhaps carnival would be the better word, but Jefferson insists on circus. 

“There’s a sense of mystery to the word, Killian,” he decrees while jotting down what is doubtless another half-baked idea on the back of a receipt. “Anyone can hold a carnival, but a circus… marvelous, magical things happen at the circus. It will look better in the papers anyways.”

(Killian will need to do so much filing to keep all this in order.)

It quickly becomes obvious that Jefferson is primarily an ideas man - and while his ideas are spectacular in so many ways, he needs assistance in bringing those ideas to life. It’s immediately obvious why he needs an assistant; for a man who spends so much of his time with his head in the clouds, lost in ideals and fanciful imagining, it’s hard to manage the practicalities of the day-to-day implementation. 

There are investors of course, men who flit in and out of the planning at will as if just to make sure that their money is actually being used properly. Killian isn’t fully surprised to see his mentor is one of them; doubtless, that’s how he knew to direct Killian to Jefferson’s door in the first place. He doubts that anyone else truly remembers the man, however; Killian has long since learned to recognize the cloak of forgetability his teacher likes to draw around himself. 

(There are different kinds of power, Killian has learned over the years - the kind that comes from everyone knowing what you can do, and the kind that comes from no one knowing what you can do.)

Killian learns that he is a late addition, comparatively speaking; a small collection of people have already been met on the matter, creating a small stack of roughly sketched plans that he’s sure will inevitably grow by the day. Jefferson holds a reputation, Killian has learned, for a series of elaborate late-night soirées known only as Midnight Dinners, famously exclusive events with over a dozen exotic courses and unmatched entertainments. Jefferson is a producer by trade, an entertainer in every bit of his being, and these private entertainments may be the pinnacle of his accomplishments.

(Or may have been, at least; Killian has a feeling that this circus he envisions may surpass anything else.)

The circus is born at one of these dinners - an intimate one, with only five attendees, handpicked by Jefferson as the men and women necessary to bring his vision to life. The vaguest outline was sketched that first night, tacked to the walls in the emerald green study Jefferson has set aside especially for the circus and its plans. Already, there is a stack of opened envelopes on a side table, filled with ideas the other attendees simply couldn’t hold onto until the next meeting.

They’re an interesting collection, certainly. Madame Constance Blue is a former opera singer who’s found a second career in fashion. Her eye for color and aesthetic is fabled as being unmatched - a talent she brings to this endeavor to create a cohesive environment that looks like another world on the outskirts of the city. Elsa and Anna Frost are a pair of sisters, socialites who have tried a little bit of everything, from a stint in the ballet and art school to a time as librarians they will only speak about after great persuasion. Where Madame Blue may create a visual environment for the circus, the Misses Frost are experts on the feel - all of the rest of those details from the positioning of signage to the very scents in the air, those details that so few consider but still manage to sell or doom an experience. Their little group, most meetings, is rounded out by Mr. August Booth, an architect and engineer by trade, who draws up marvelous plans for each tent and attraction. All of it embodies an elegant simplicity centered around a series of circles, one curve bleeding into another in a way that feels organic, nearly living. It makes the straight black and white stripes of the tents all the more striking in contrast to this world of elegant curves. One contributor’s work bleeds into the other, all with Jefferson at the helm to lend his ideas of what kinds of things should be presented, creating a venue that feels like a realization of all their dreams.

(The last attendee, Mr. Gold - who betrays no indication that he and Killian are even remotely acquainted - has no particular, obvious specialty that he lends to the endeavor. In fact, he barely seems to speak and is nearly forgotten in the rest of the bustle of the Circus Dinners. Somehow, though, even if no one can put their finger on what exactly Mr. Gold does, it is agreed that his contributions are essential, and that everything runs smoother and more productively at those few dinners he does attend.)

(He is always referred to by surname; though the other attendees are certain they were told his first name upon first introduction, they have no memory of what that moniker might be, and decide it would be rude to ask. )

With each dinner, the Circus fleshes out a little bit more, each piece carefully filed away so it can all fit together later. There are designs for the gates and August’s wonderful blueprints for the butterfly tents and lists of confections that must be offered. As time keeps churning forward, the members of their little dinner group increasingly start to travel, seeking out the perfect craftsmen and performers and creators to bring this endeavor to life. There are acrobats training in France and an intricate clock being crafted in Germany and Jefferson and Killian will be travelling to Scotland next week to see about a pair of big cat trainers as August travels to Austria to see about some trained horses.

But tonight, they’re all here for dinner, and there’s an unexpected guest at the door. A tall, slender woman, who claims to be a sword swallower.

“What’s the harm?” Jefferson asks when Killian informs him cautiously, sweeping his arm in a grand motion. The Circus Dinners are exclusive, and nearly sacred, but she’s here about the circus. And Jefferson has always been generous by nature. “Show her in, Jones, we’ll set another plate at the table.”

The woman introduces herself as Mulan - no second name, and no indication whether that’s her given name or surname. As the clock strikes midnight and the first plates are brought out, she climbs the low dais usually reserved for a pianist and begins her demonstration.

And it is so much more than just a sword swallowing act. Mulan moves with an almost supernatural grace, whirling her blades in an intricate and deadly dance. She tosses her swords and balances them on the tips of fingers and the ridge of her chin. And she does send the swords down her gullet, in ways that make Anna and Elsa and even composed August gasp. Each move blends one into another into another, beautiful in a savage way that leaves them all on the edge of their seats as she twirls and even flips. It mesmerizes their little audience, as delicate appetizers sit untouched on their plates.

At the conclusion of her display, Mulan resheathes her swords with a satisfying hiss of metal against metal before executing a dramatic bow, nearly bending in half in the process. Their audience erupts into applause; across from Killian, Jefferson springs to his feet in a standing ovation.

“Brilliant! Simply brilliant!” Jefferson darts up to the platform to shake Mulan’s hand vigorously, much to her apparent amusement. “We simply must have you for the circus. A platform out in the open in the crowds, right near the center, don’t you think, Elsa?”

“It certainly would be a shame to hide her away in a tent,” the blonde agrees. “I don’t think we’ll find anyone else to match her talent, either. Would you be comfortable with that? Performing to a passing crowd?” she addresses Mulan to finish. 

Mulan nods solemnly, though a slight smile dances in her eyes and on her lips. “My skills are not limited by venue, you’ll find.”

“Excellent!” Jefferson crows. “You know, this is exactly what the Circus should be. More than expected. Anything but mundane. Up close and pressing past anything seen before and - oh! It’s just perfect. Welcome to the Circus, Madame.”

Jefferson’s words become a mantra as they move forward - to push boundaries, to seek people and things that are more than anyone would ever imagine.

It is what may become the making of the circus.

———

Looking back, once they come to know one another better, Killian will find it fitting that he meets Belle in a used book store.

He’s taken to wandering these stores on his rare days off with a pair of notebooks in his jacket pocket - one for little bits of magical research, and the other for chronicling any ideas he might stumble across for the Circus. Over time, Killian has discovered that odd, unusual, and even historic tomes have a way of accumulating in used bookshops, overlooked and nearly lost to time. On shelves such as these, Killian has located alchemical treatises and books of magical theory and even a potions compendium that appeared to the untrained eye to be a simple accounting of folk remedies. In a way, he supposes that’s right; it just overlooks the dash of magic that’s an extra, if necessary ingredient. These old bookstores are a good source, too, of unusual and exotic attractions and obscure ideas for confections. Whenever Killian stumbles across something he hasn’t seen before that he thinks will be of use, he records it carefully in the pertinent notebook, one tucked into each of his coat pockets, before purchasing the volume or returning it to its place on the so-often messy and cluttered shelves. 

This particular day had been less than fruitful, though Killian would never call it wasted. Even if he doesn’t manage to excavate any scrap of information, the whole environment is calming - something Killian sorely needs, more often than not. He walks back to his flat at a leisurely pace, just enjoying the crisp fall day, when he suddenly realizes - 

One of his pockets is lighter than it ought to be. 

Quickly, Killian doubles back to the bookshop. This isn’t the first time this has happened - it’s all too easy to accidentally leave a little leather-bound notebook on a shelf in an environment full of other leather-bound books, and Killian does remember pulling out the notebook to record a particular line of a spell he’d remembered he had already recorded just as soon as his pencil had lifted off the page. A quick check of the notebook in his other pocket reveals that it is, indeed, his magic notes that are missing. It’s a mild irritant, but nothing unusual for a man with a million other things on his mind.

What is more unusual, however, is to turn the corner only to see a young woman outside the shop, paging through what appears to be his own notes with a look of marked interest on her face.

She’s pretty, Killian notes, with prim brunette curls that frame her face below a beribboned, feathered hat and a petite frame that seems dwarfed by the yellow dress beneath a neat burgundy jacket. He only spares a moment to look, however, before he intervenes for the sake of his book. If she’s half as clever as that intent crinkle in her brow suggests, it may be too late.

The young lady jerks her head to attention as Killian clears his throat, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. “I believe you have something of mine,” he comments, nodding towards the book in her hand. 

“Ah, yes.” She carefully closes the pages, handing the little notebook back to him. “You’ll be Mr. Jones, then?” Killian nods an affirmative as he takes the book back - not that it stops her string of thoughts. “I do promise that I was trying to bring it back, sir - I saw you leave it down that one aisle where the cat particularly likes to sleep - but you had already left and, I see now, most likely had turned a corner and, well, I’ve already been a little curious and I just couldn’t resist flipping through the pages and —”

“Miss, it’s fine” he smiles. “I’m just relieved to have it back. That little notebook is indispensable to me.”

“I recognize some of the symbols in there,” his companion blurts out. Killian is discovering she has a tendency to do that while nervous. “Alchemical symbols, and astrological ones. Not the rest, but… well, those are all over the pages.”

“And what would you know about alchemical and astrological symbols? Seems an unusual hobby for a proper young lady, Miss…”

“Belle French. I read a lot of books.”

“Books on alchemy and astrology?”

“Yes.” She blushes again. “I came into possession of a deck of tarot cards a few years ago. It seemed worth doing my research. The alchemical bits were an accident that expanded into a separate research project.”

“You read the tarot then? I wouldn’t have expected that of a dignified lady like yourself.”

“Only for myself,” she admits. “It’s not precisely something you can practice at the average tea party. I find myself more curious what a proper young man like yourself,” she mocks his own tone, “is doing with a notebook full of such symbols.”

“Perhaps I, too, accidentally conducted extensive research into alchemy.”

Miss French fixes him with a skeptical look. “I don’t believe that for a moment. What’s the real reason?”

Killian sighs. “That’s… rather a longer story. Best settled somewhere else, if it must be told. Would you care to join me at a bistro I know?”

That should be the end of the matter. No proper young woman would agree to such a thing.

But Miss Belle French seems to be no such proper young woman, and she says yes.

It takes a hearty sip of wine once they’re settled in Killian’s favorite Parisian-style bistro for him to muster the words to speak. “I am… a student. Of sorts.”

“A student of what?” Miss French asks around her own, more delicate sip.

Now is the moment of truth, where she believes him or she doesn’t. “Of magic.”

Miss French’s brow furrows for just a confusion. “Magic? Like the illusion acts you see at the theaters?”

“A little more than that,” he tries to explain. “It’s… well. When you read your cards, does it feel like some rote interpretation? Or like you’re channeling something, the mere conduit for the cards?”

“The latter, I suppose.”

“That’s a form of magic. A very special one, actually, one that not everyone can find. I can’t.”

“So your… magic isn’t like that then?”

“It’s more like… a secret language,” Killian tries to explain. “It’s something I can find deep within me, and speak into existence.”

His lovely companion still looks unconvinced - not that he can blame her. It’s a lot to wrap one’s head around. “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t disbelieve you,” she’s careful to say. “But you must admit, Mr. Jones, that it’s an awful lot to take in.”

Killian thinks for a moment, before settling in his mind on a way to prove it. “Is there anywhere you’ve ever wanted to go? Someplace you’ve never seen, but always wanted to?”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the beach, and see the ocean,” she replies wistfully.

“I can make that happen.”

“With your magic, I suppose?”

“Yes. Do you trust me?”

Miss French hesitates for just a moment before nodding. 

“Then take my hands, and close your eyes.”

With her soft hands in his own, Killian draws upon the words, murmuring them into the back corner of the cafe where they sit. Slowly, the dim lighting and faint smell of smoke dissipates, replaced by warm sunlight and the faint rush of the tide coming in.

Miss French opens her eyes without his asking, gasping as she takes in the illusion of an environment he’s created. Gulls circle overhead; were she to remove her shoes, she’d feel soft sand beneath her toes, stretching as far as the eye can see.

“It’s marvelous,” she breathes. “And you did all this?”

“Aye. And I can do much more.”

It’s evident that in this moment, at least, she doesn’t care about much more; she’s too enthralled with the ocean in front of her. 

“You know, Mr. Jones, I think we were meant to meet today,” she murmurs. “And I don’t even need the cards to say it.”

She becomes a friend, over time, over cups of tea and discussions of his studies and her practice with her tarot cards; the first real friend he’s ever had. Mr. Gold doesn’t approve, claiming that she’s a distraction, but Killian doesn’t much care. She makes his life better, in those hours he isn’t called away by the circus. And as the planning rolls on, turning into reality, she lends a listening ear every step of the way. 

Neither of them can predict how much will change with the hiring of the illusionist.

———

It’s been years of this - the constant preparing for something she doesn’t fully understand, of being tested, being pushed to what Emma believes are her very limits before discovering that she still has more to give, to bleed, to learn. A sense of anticipation hangs over her entire life, such as it is, and she doesn’t even know what she’s waiting for, or how long it will take to get here. Regina has told her time and again to be patient, that things will become clearer in time, that this isn’t something frivolous, you foolish girl, you can’t rush it, but Emma has never been one for patience. She is 24, and it has been 18 years, and there is still no sign of whatever this competition is, or will be.

Until one day, a neat envelope appears on the dressing table in Emma’s room in the ostentatious flat she has shared with Regina since the very beginning whenever they’re in London.

It would be in your best interest to present yourself at the below address on June the 19th.

The missive isn’t signed, but Emma doesn’t need a signature anyways; it’s evident in the neat gilt letters on the crisp cream-colored parchment that this message is from the man with the cane. Mr. Gold, half a memory whispers, though he’s done his very best to remove himself from memory. There is no postmark, and no messenger; it is clear to Emma that this card has appeared without the intervention of a human hand. Not that the man she suspects would need such mundane means to deliver a message. Emma has grown up surrounded by and steeped in magic, and she has long since learned to recognize true power - and even though she was only a child the single time she met the man with the gold-tipped cane, she’d felt even then the magic clustered all around him like metal filings to a magnet. To a man like that, delivery of this message would be the easiest thing in the world. 

There’s a newspaper clipping too, Emma realizes as she slowly moves to find and show her teacher. It’s an advertisement, seeking an illusionist, with the address of a modest theater at which she should apply.

Seeking an extraordinary individual to marvel and amaze, the cramped newsprint proclaims. An unmatched opportunity to become part of an unprecedented entertainment spectacle.

“What have you got there?” Regina asks when Emma enters their parlor, examining every inch of the message and its attached advertisement. The words are closer to a demand than an inquiry, but Emma isn’t particularly surprised; these kinds of interactions have always been her teacher’s modus operandi. 

“A note. I found it on my dressing table.” Carefully, Emma passes the documents to Regina for the other woman’s examination. As Regina reads the words, a devious kind of smile inches its way across her face. 

“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asks Emma with that same odd smile. It only widens when Emma shakes her head in the negative. “It means we’ve reached the beginning.”

And with those six words, the next phase of Emma’s life begins.

———

Killian thought he knew what to expect - but he never expected her.

They’d placed advertisements in all the major papers, seeking an illusionist for the circus - a magician. Jefferson, for all his endless inspiration and imagination, has never realized that the most fitting candidate for this particular job has been silently at his side for the past two years, through every bit of planning. Jefferson never realizes that there’s a reason that this has all come together unnaturally smoothly, as if aided by unseen forces.

Jefferson, for all his endless imagination, will never believe that humans are capable of anything more than illusion, will never believe that true magic is possible.

(That’s for the best, really; Mr. Gold just needs a pawn to create a venue, and Killian… well, Killian just wants, nay, needs to limit the collateral lives disrupted for the purposes of this competition.)

Attending the auditions as Jefferson’s personal secretary to record any decisions ultimately made, Killian expects a long parade of conmen, of charlatans and fakers and all the normal cast of characters that pass for magicians in a world that refuses to see the truth. And he gets them in spades, with card tricks and pretty assistants and poorly behaved rabbits who are more interested in exploring the legs of the mezzanine chairs than disappearing into hats. Maybe those kinds of displays would be good enough for most undertakings; the public will be expecting the normal sort of “magic” displays, after all. 

But this is for the circus - and the circus must be more than that. 

(It’s for exactly that reason that Killian draws a tricky bit of magic about himself that he picked up from his mentor years ago - a charm to smother any traces of magic about him, to make him seem so ordinary that strangers’ eyes don’t bother to linger. He may expect a long line of fakes, but on the off chance this attracts someone of more genuine talent… Killian isn’t taking any chances.)

Killian never even sees her coming. It’s their last appointment of the day after a chain of disappointments, and frankly, he’s ready for a cup of tea, or perhaps a glass of something stronger. But then the young man who works at the theater is clearing his throat to announce the next applicant, and Killian looks up —

And it’s her. 

The woman before him is beautiful - collected, quiet, but with a confidence that shows in her bearing, in the straightness of her spine and the sure look on her face. She wears an emerald green dress with a black velvet jacket with trailing sleeves, and she looks a picture - possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She looks more suited to fashionable tea rooms, or strolling along the street to perhaps visit an acquaintance, or any of those other ordinary things women of means and unnatural beauty do with their days. It’s obvious, though, that ordinary is the last word that could be used to describe her. Even from across the room, he can sense the magic that clings to her skin like traces of ink - true magic, not the facsimiles he’s suffered through all day. 

He knows immediately that this woman - whoever she may be - is the opponent he’s been anticipating for 18 years, since he was only 8 years old, and the knowledge simultaneously exhilarates and terrifies him.

(Even if he’s been working for two years to help bring this competition, this circus to life, it suddenly feels real to see his competitor across from him, flesh and blood and blond curls.)

(He has no business forming an attachment, but she already fascinates him on a level far more personal than professional.)

“Your name?” Killian hears Jefferson ask, as if from a distance. That’s not the reality of this situation, really; his employer sits in the seat right in front of Killian’s own, barely two feet apart. It’s hard to focus on anything else, though, with an angel standing in front of them all. 

“Emma Swan,” she answers. Her voice isn’t loud, but it’s sure, and with its own particular melody. “I understand you’re looking for an illusionist.”

“We are indeed, Miss Swan. And do you believe you’re the man - my pardon, woman for the job?” Jefferson wears what Killian has learned is his most charming smile, and Killian feels an unwarranted flash of irritation. Can’t he see this creature isn’t for him? Isn’t some simpering young girl to melt at his attentions?

(It’s a relief to see that, while Miss Swan does smile back, it’s only a smirk of seeming amusement. She’s here for other things, they both know, even if Jefferson doesn’t.)

“That’s for your judgement, isn’t it?” As Emma poses the question, she carefully strips out of her jacket, only to toss it carelessly towards a chair. As the fabric sails through the air, however, it miraculously turns into a raven, circling the room before landing back in one of the investors’ laps, abruptly a stack of folded velvet once more. Miss Swan may make it look easy, nearly thoughtless, but it’s evident to Killian that she’s performed a very impressive piece of magic - and evident to all those less observant as well. The amused little smirk returns as Miss Swan calmly folds her hands atop the green satin of her dress. “But I believe so, yes.”

What follows is exactly the impressive spectacle of magic they’d hoped to find, but Killian never believed they would.

The gentlemen’s handkerchiefs turn into doves, which fly to perch at the edge of the stage. The delicate flowers of the wallpaper peel from the walls to beautiful, fragrant life. At one point, their chairs all lift to hover a foot above the ground. One trick flows into the next, and into the next again, all conducted by the extraordinary Miss Swan with graceful hands and barely any appearance of effort. It feels like the entire audience, small though it might be, holds its breath as the magician completes her display, conjuring her crisply folded jacket back into a raven. In a flurry of feathers, the bird dives towards its mistress as the audience watches anxiously, only to reappear as a drapery once again on the pale, delicate arms of the enchanting Miss Swan. 

Ahead of Killian, Jefferson and the other producers explode into a flurry of applause - a well earned ovation, in his not-so-humble opinion. That was… spectacular. Amazing. Magical.

“Bravo, Miss Swan!” Jefferson calls, jumping nimbly up the stairs at the front of the stage to shake her hand. “I think you’re just the thing we’ve been looking for. Won’t she look lovely, Constance?”

“She’ll make a statement, certainly,” Madame Blue replies. This might be the closest Killian has seen the formidable woman to satisfaction. “We’ll have to plan the wardrobe carefully, of course. Something… striking. A bit out of the ordinary, with outer layers to remove. That trick with the jacket was extraordinary,” she finally addresses the subject of their discussion. “I imagine you’ll want to incorporate it.”

“I had planned to in some form, yes,” Miss Swan confirms. “Is there a particular… concern you have about my clothing?”

“Please don’t mistake us, Miss Swan,” Jefferson hurries to assure her. “You look absolutely lovely. We’re trying to create an entire atmosphere in this endeavor, you see. An entire circus, all in black and white and silver. Including its members. Madame Blue, here, is an invaluable help in creating that.”

“I see,” Miss Swan nods. “So I suppose you’re thinking something more like this?” 

As she speaks, they’re treated to one final trick, as the green of her skirts flees at the touch of a finger, changing to pearly skirts that slowly give way to an ink black hem. As with every display of her magic, it’s graceful, effortless; more than that, as her dress completes its transformation, skirts widening to a dramatic sweep in the process, she looks like the very essence of everything they want the circus to be. 

Killian gapes. Madame Blue nods approvingly. Jefferson beams.

“Splendid! Oh, absolutely marvelous. Never tell me how you do that. Yes, that will do very nicely indeed, Miss Swan. You’re hired.”

As if anyone else would ever do.

———

Killian shows up at Liam’s door that night, to the small but comfortable apartment a junior banker shouldn’t yet be able to afford on his salary.

(He’s always been sure to care for his brother, the same way his brother always cared for him.)

He must look a wreck when Liam opens the door, as his brother moves to pour them both a measure of rum without even being asked. His neat necktie has been loosened in the past hour and his hair is doubtless a riot from running his hand up the back, but Killian thinks it’s more whatever look he wears on his face that spurs Liam into action.

“I met them today. Her,” Killian finally confides once they’re both settled into the plush, if hideous armchairs in front of the fire.

“Who’s this, now?”

“My competitor.” Killian attempts a chuckle, but can’t quite manage it. “This game I’ve been prepared for for so long… the other person was always just some amorphous concept. Of course there’d be a competitor, it’s a game. But… I met her today, Liam.”

Liam takes another sip from his tumbler. “I take it that’s a bad thing?”

Killian fiddles with the scar on his thumb as he thinks, the seared band of skin the contract tying him to this competition. It doesn’t bother him, never has, really; most days, he wears a silver ring to conceal the mark from the many curious eyes in Jefferson’s winding townhome, but he’s taken the piece of jewelry off tonight. Tonight is a night for confession, for laying his myriad of confused feelings on the table, not for concealment. 

“I don’t know that it’s bad, per se,” he finally replies. “It’s just… she was never a person until today. I know I’ve been working with Jefferson and his colleagues for two years to bring the venue for this competition to life, but meeting a real, live person is something else. It made it real, in a way.”

“And you’d rather it wasn’t,” Liam infers.

Killian says nothing, ready to neither confirm nor deny that. It’s been an unexpected day, and he’s still trying to process the novelty of having a name and a face. This has been years of his life - 18 years of them - and it finally feels like the waiting is done. 

Liam tries again. “What’s she like, then?”

“Composed.” It’s too stiff a word for the vibrant creature he witnessed today, but it’s the first that comes to mind. She’d seemed perfectly composed, fully in control of everything around her. There’s more than that, though. “She was confident, mostly, in that kind of understated way where you could tell she knew exactly what she was doing without ever having to brag about it. She seemed bloody brilliant, honestly,” Killian admits.

“That sounds like an awful lot of admiration for a woman you’re supposed to view as your foe,” Liam comments with that lift of the brow Killian adopted himself years and years ago. 

“She’s beautiful,” Killian says simply. “She’s perfectly lovely, and honestly? I don’t really want to battle her.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Killian replies truthfully.

He never expected this knowledge to create more questions than answers.

(Killian is beginning to think that just may be the way of this competition; frustration and confusion at every turn.)

(As his mentor has so often says: magic comes with a price.)

———

Now that he knows his competition, it becomes obvious that Miss Swan has an advantage over Killian: while he may exist outside the Circus, maneuvering the board from afar, she’ll live right in the heart of it, manipulating things from within. After all these years, Killian still only knows that the Circus is meant to be a venue for him to test and stretch his abilities beyond anything he ever imagined until, inexplicably, one of them is crowned the winner. From his standpoint, Miss Swan will find that much easier, as she doesn’t have a distance to reckon with. Hell, he won’t even know when she makes a move, so to speak.

Unexpectedly, it is Belle who finds a solution to that. 

“I could be your spy, you know,” she proposes. They’ve long since abandoned formal last names and proper tea shops for lounging in his flat, her with a book and he with one of his notebooks or some circus plans he’s perfecting. So, too, has Belle long since been apprised of all the misty particulars of this competition.

Killian frowns. “I don’t follow.”

“Well, you need a way to hear the news of the circus, right? Everything this Miss Swan does, at least in regards to the Circus. All the little changes she might make.”

“That’s right.”

“And it’s true, too, that the Circus still needs a fortune teller.”

Realization slowly dawns. “Belle, I couldn’t ask you to —”

“You’re not asking; I’m offering,” she interrupts. “I can read my cards for visitors. You’ll be so busy with the Circus, anyways, and making your own moves in this competition, that we’ll barely see each other anymore. You can arrange that, right? To hire me as the fortune teller?”

“Of course - but Belle, are you certain?”

“Nothing is ever certain, Killian,” she scolds affectionately, good-naturedly. “But I want to help. And besides, I’ve always wanted to see the world. What better opportunity will I find, or make?”

When Killian personally vouches for Belle to Jefferson, her hiring is arranged as quickly as promised. He can’t help but feel like this is a mistake, somehow, but the benefits are undeniable. Belle packs her bags and promises to be a faithful correspondent - a promise he knows she’ll admirably fulfill.

(He tries not to think about how she’s one more life he’s tied to the Circus, one more article of collateral damage if and when this all ends.)

———

After so long in her contained world, constantly under Regina’s critical eye, Emma finds she loves the communal atmosphere of the circus. Emma’s little compartment is so much more compact than the rooms she’s grown used to over the years, but there’s a particular coziness that feels more comfortable than anything she’s known before. Maybe it’s the knowledge that this space is truly hers, without monitoring or judgement. She lines the walls with spell books and herbal manuals and silly novels, hangs cages for her doves from the ceiling, shoves a small desk in one corner and a well padded armchair in the other, and spreads a brightly pieced quilt over the bunk’s mattress. She makes it home, in a way she’d never thought she’d achieve. 

(She’s wanted a home since she was a child, went with Regina in partial hope that she’d find one, but it’s only now at the age of 24 that she’s made it with her own two hands and a good bit of magic.)

She watches the circus come together too, in staging grounds just outside of London. Each tent is carefully constructed in black and white stripes, though their height and circumference vary. The acrobats’ tents soar the highest, starting to fade into the starry skies to accommodate the trapezes and tightropes beneath the cloth surface. On the other end of the spectrum the fortune teller’s tent is barely large enough for two people and a table. 

Emma’s tent is somewhere in between. It’s not large, by any means, but there’s enough space for a clearing at the center and two rows of chairs circling all the way around the edges. It’s interactive, in a way Emma never imagined a theater could be when she was a child under Regina’s care. Then again, it’s not really a theater, is it? It’s more a… space. An arena. Truthfully, Emma isn’t sure there’s a word for the intimate feel of this arrangement. Her audience will be right there, enhancing the display in a way Emma hadn’t imagined. Then again, when you’re practicing true magic instead of illusion, you don’t need that extra separation. 

Once it’s time to eventually move on, the whole venue has been carefully constructed to fold and stow away into a series of boxcars and containers for transport. It’s all a little unbelievable, really, the ease with which something so sprawling can stow so neatly away. There’s an atmosphere at the circus, however, even amongst its members, that anything might happen, and the logistics are never questioned as the specially hired crew of workers scurry about, practicing folding and unfolding each tent into their respective boxcars. Maybe they already know that something supernatural is at work; the longer Emma spends at the circus, the more she wonders if this is the one place on Earth where magic can exist in plain sight without question.

(There’s something about the traces of magic at the folds and joints of each structure that feels familiar in a way Emma can’t quite put her finger on - like she’s encountered it before. It’s a rare trace of her competitor in an environment where she still doesn’t know their identity.)

If the circus is the first real home Emma’s ever found, then its members may be her first real family. She’s always felt… different, all too aware of how her abilities have set her apart from other people since she was a little girl. The wonderful thing that she’s discovered is that everyone is a little odd at the circus, even without magic. There are contortionists and animal tamers and acrobats and all manner of other performers, all good people who don’t fit within the bounds of conventional society. Even the vendors, the souvenir sellers and the concession dealers, are the kind of people more willing to believe in the unusual without question. It’s a welcoming, accepting, happy environment that Emma revels in.

There are individuals that Emma makes particular friends with. Ruby, who, along with her husband Graham, works with wolves , is an absolute spitfire who keeps them all entertained with her wit and predictions for the circus. Mary Margaret, who performs tricks with a flock of trained birds, and her husband David, one of the stagehands, are as sweet a couple as Emma’s ever seen and determined to spread that love to everyone else around them as well. It feels a little like they’ve adopted her as an adult child, set upon caring for her in any way they can, and Emma finds she kind of likes it. 

(There’s the fortune teller, too - Belle, a kind and quiet woman that Emma is friendly with, if not close. Somehow, Emma gets the feeling that Belle knows more about this whole thing than anyone else, but can’t put her finger on why. She’d know if the petite little brunette was her opponent, she’s sure; surely she’d sense her opponent’s own magic, the way she can always see the way her own gathers like dozens of little stray hairs about her person.)

There’s a feeling of comradery amongst the group of them, of family. They’re a stability that Emma craves in the midst of all this uncertainty, a support system even if she can’t reveal the stakes she’s facing. As simple a word as it is, they’re friends, and that’s a thing that’s been sorely lacking Emma’s entire life. 

Mulan, however, is a different story. It’s not that they’re not friends - Emma would say that they’re consistently friendly. Emma had immediately noticed the way magic had clung to the other woman in the same way that it does to herself. Here, Mulan may be a sword swallower, but she’s undeniably a powerful magician too. 

“This isn’t the first time that such a competition has been staged,” Mulan tells her over tea as her spoon stirs in sugar without apparent human hand, a thread of magic spooling and unspooling about the metal over and over again.

“So how do I win, then?” If Mulan has been in her shoes before - and indeed, the other woman’s particular brand of magic suggests she trained under Emma’s own mentor, Regina - then this could be a critical advantage for Emma.

But Mulan shakes her head. “That’s something you have to discover in your own time. I’m here merely as… an observer. Support, perhaps. But not to interfere.”

(Even as she says the words, Emma can see a sadness in Mulan’s eyes that sends a stab of foreboding through Emma’s heart.)

There’s an entire universe of possibilities contained within the wrought iron gates, different ways this all could play out. Emma feels within her heart that even if the circus hasn’t opened, the competition has already begun; after all, she’s already tied her own magic to its construction, the way it expands and contracts and travels, lending her own abilities to those enchantments someone else already set. 

There will be a chance to test that tomorrow, as all of this is folded up and moved to where the circus will celebrate its opening night in barely 72 hours’ time. It’s a delicate business, but will be worth it when the effect is finally unveiled - or at least Emma hopes it will be. It’s hard to imagine anyone not loving the circus, in all its wonder, just as much as they do, but dozens of lives are tied to the circus - now dozens of homes and salaries and futures. It’s hard not to feel a little nervous about all that is to come, for their sakes if not her own. 

Above the ticketing booths at the front gates of the circus sits an enormous cuckoo clock, with figures and designs constantly shifting, changing from black to white and back again. Emma likes to come and watch the clock in the moments she takes for herself; there’s something about the simple, elegant mechanics that calms her, shows her the beauty that can exist without magic. Her entire world will change once again once the circus opens its gates for the first time, but the clock is a reminder that change is more than inevitable - it is natural, and sometimes even good. 

As the clock ticks the minutes away overhead, Emma closes her eyes and centers herself. All around her, she can feel the energies of all the people who bring the circus to life - happy and excited and good, in a way she hadn’t known existed. All these lives in her hands, caught up in this competition without even knowing it.

And Emma will do her damndest to protect every one.

———

There’s a party, the night before the circus opens its gates for the first time, at the lavish townhouse of the circus’ proprietor. It’s perfectly in keeping with what Emma knows of the man; Jefferson - as he insists on being called, damn the proprieties - is generous by nature, despite (or perhaps because of) his eccentricities. Where anyone else would balk at the collected mass of the Circus’ players and crew showing up on their doorstep and traipsing through their halls, Jefferson welcomes them with open arms, seeming to delight in the chaos they might bring with them. 

At the Circus, they might be clad in black and white and every shade in between, but Jefferson’s halls are a riot of color tonight - and not just due to his bold decorating preferences. The circus members have truly let loose for the occasion, in a wide array of colors and patterns - green stripes and purple layered on blue and polka-dotted waistcoats, all melding together into a unique symphony of hues never seen before or since. Emma herself wears a red gown that makes her feel like a princess, with long sleeves and a scooped neckline and beading along the bust. Technically, the dress has looked far different when she started with it - a dark navy blue and rather more demure than this end result, though the cloth itself was of good quality - but she’s always had a deft hand with fabrics. It comes in handy in her small train car room, where she really only has room for a single trunk unless she gets magically creative with her storage space.

The party is, by all appearances, a roaring success. Dinner features the widest variety of options imaginable, featuring dishes seemingly from every corner of the globe. There are fountains of chocolate and tiny little bites of meat and vegetables and the most delicate pastries Emma has ever eaten in her life. After dinner, there’s music and dancing and gaming tables in the parlor. The hired band keeps playing a series of merry dance numbers, reels and jigs and the occasional waltz. It’s joyful, happiness permeating every inch of Jefferson’s brightly colored mansion that makes the whole place shine in a way that has nothing to do with any candles or oil lamps.

Personally, Emma is happier along the edges of rooms, observing everything else that goes on around her. It’s not that she’s somehow opposed to the festivities; far from it, at fact. She easily allows herself to be talked into taking turns on the dance floor with David and Ruby even a delighted Jefferson when they ask her with a smile and, in Ruby’s case, a rather insistent and intoxicated tug towards the dance floor. She knows the steps; she knows the rules. But it is hard, sometimes, after a childhood spent largely alone, to throw herself willingly into the heart of it all. It’s intimidating, in a way. At the heart of things, it’s less overwhelming to observe, a wallflower by choice.

From her own vantage point, however, it’s impossible not to notice another soul doing the same thing - sticking to the walls and to the shadows, absorbing everything while engaging with none of it. The person in question is a man - strikingly handsome, with dark hair and sharp cheekbones that make him look a little dangerous. He’s the kind of man who should have no problem finding a dance partner, if he so desired, but he waits along the edges, the same as her. What’s even more curious is that Emma has no idea who he is. Emma isn’t fool enough to claim that she’s intimate friends with each and every person in the Circus - there’s far too many for that - but she does recognize them by sight, at least. It’s an inevitable result of living and working with people in such a tight-knit environment as the Circus. This man isn’t one of them. Curiously, she still has the feeling that he’s familiar, somehow. She can’t quite put a finger on why; it’s like a whisper in her ear, that she knows him in a way she doesn’t yet understand. 

(She sees him looking, too, when he thinks she hasn’t noticed. Maybe he feels this curious deja vu as well.)

At one point, she notices Mulan speaking briefly with the mystery man - nothing more than a few words, but enough to catch her attention.

“Who is that?” Emma asks the next time Mulan passes her by, dressed in regalia that looks more like armor than a dress. It suits her, in a way something more traditional wouldn’t have. “That man in the corner?”

“By that particularly ugly bronze bust?” Emma nods. “That’s Jefferson’s personal secretary. Killian Jones. I’m surprised you haven’t met him before - he follows Jefferson everywhere, records everything. Jefferson won’t on his own.”

Maybe that’s where Emma recognizes him from; it would make sense that he’d have been at her audition, just another face in the crowd. That must account for this odd sense of familiarity.

Mulan waits patiently as Emma turns the information over in her head, as if waiting for her to ask another question. For the life of her, she can’t imagine what that might be.

“I didn’t know that,” she finally replies. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Mulan nods. “Try and have a little fun tonight. It’s not like we’ll have another chance for this for a long while.”

“I promise I am. Even without the dancing.”

“Good.”

(There’s a little tickle at the back of her neck that says Mulan isn’t sharing the whole story, but Emma doesn’t pry further. The other woman plays her cards very close to her proverbial vest; she won’t reveal anything except exactly what she deems it necessary for Emma to know.)

As Mulan slides silently back into the crush, Emma steals another glance at the corner, but the man - Killian Jones - is gone.

Not that it matters to her. After all, they’ll likely never meet again.

(It is easy to ignore the little voice that whispers Oh, but you will.)

——— 

The circus opens on a warm June night under a new moon, and it feels like anything might happen. The tents are all set, the costumes sewn, the performers placed along each neatly lined path. All that’s missing is the audience. 

At the very center of the circus is an ornately crafted fire pit, with shoots of burnished metal curling towards the sky in imitation of the flame contained within. Over time, the heat of the fire will heat and scar the metal in its own unique way, creating an ever changing statue. Tonight, in recognition of the circus’ opening night, the bonfire will be lit for the first time at precisely midnight in a ceremony for all to see. 

Tucked into the grate beneath the fire pit, carefully warded against the flame with a series of runes, is a leather-bound book that no one but Killian knows about. The volume is the circus, in a way that he’s proud to have accomplished. Between the covers are pages and pages of plans for each and every tent, ride, and attraction, with magic carved into every line. This is the way that the circus is brought to life - the way it’s assembled and disassembled, the way it operates, the way it exists. At the back is a list of everyone employed by the circus, from Mrs. Lucas who runs the dining car of the train to the day-old twins of one of their vendors, a craftsman and his wife who sell intricate animals carved out of wood so delicately and with such life that they look as if they might begin to cavort across your palm. Each name is accompanied by a single drop of their blood - something so simple, but powerful. It binds them to the circus, protects them; it’s a safeguard, in case something should ever happen.

(Killian hates to think that there might be collateral damage in all this, but it seems inevitable. Mr. Gold and Madame Mills aren’t the types to worry about the chaos they create, as long as they get what they want. This will protect the circus and all the many lives that depend upon it.)

Most significantly, Killian creates a tricky little bit of magic to link the volume under the bonfire, right in the heart of the circus, to another in his own possession. It’s still unclear, in so many ways, exactly what this so-called competition will entail, let alone how long it will last. It seems inevitable that in order for the competition to move forward, additions and changes will need to be made, ways to demonstrate each of their respective powers. A second volume, directly mirroring the first, will allow him to add attractions as the opportunity arises. 

Killian feels somehow in-between as he wanders the grounds of the circus - not one of the performers, but not quite a normal visitor ever. He’s done more to bring this to life than anyone present knows, but it doesn’t feel like a part of him in a way he might have expected. He strolls the paths, cloaked in spells that turn everyone’s attention away from his person so he can place the tome without questioning. That’s fitting, he thinks; he’s not part of the circus in any visual way, now or previously, yet he’s made more of a mark than they’ll ever know. He’s shaped this entire spectacle from the shadows, and his work is only beginning. 

It feels like something settles into place as Killian slides the book into its nook. It’s like the whole circus was just waiting for that final piece, as if a breath has been released and this can all finally begin. Something cements in that moment; some piece of ancient magic more powerful than any rune. All that’s left to do is activate that magic with the lighting of the bonfire.

(There are already firecrackers in place to set off with each tick of the clock leading to midnight, but Killian can sense the traces of someone else’s magic lingering on each charge. It seems Miss Swan has left her mark on the fire in her own way, one that will make this a night to remember for all involved. Their work has long since begun, but they both usher in a new phase with their own mark.)

Killian stays to watch the lighting of the bonfire, still cloaked in the shadows even amongst the crowds of life around him. At a few minutes to midnight, they all assemble around the pit - every performer, every visitor, every vendor. Each and every soul. It’s easy to pick out the audience from the circus members; true to their vision, those who are part of the circus are clad in black and white and silver, alternately blending into the night and reflecting like the brightest stars. They stand stark against everyone else and the usual medley of colors, like elegant wraiths. 

Killian spots, too, Jefferson across the way, and the Frost sisters, and Madame Blue and Mr. Booth, all here to mark the occasion. They’ve participated in the dress code as well, Killian is amused to see - Jefferson in a white suit decked with tiny black stars, and the ladies in varying shades of white and silver and grey. Mr. Booth’s black suit may just be his usual wear, but the silver necktie adds a certain celebratory vibe. Killian’s lips twitch in a smile to see their little group, looking with varying levels of satisfaction (or outright bouncing glee, in Jefferson’s case) on the experience they dreamed and brought to life. It’s not necessary, really, that Killian disguise himself anymore; as Jefferson’s personal secretary, it would seem natural for him to be here to witness this. Killian has ulterior motives for maintaining the cloak, however - namely, watching his opponent, the lovely Miss Swan. 

He’s a little enthralled by her, he’ll admit. Miss Emma Swan is… not what he expected in a competitor. If pressed, Killian will admit that he expected his opposing counterpart to be someone rather like himself - some young man around his age, similarly focused, similarly discreet. Miss Swan - besides being, most obviously, a young woman instead of a young man - wields her magic with an open confidence that he hadn’t expected, at least if her audition and the few times they’ve crossed paths since on circus business are any indication. Then again, it’s not like there’s as much need to hide her magic as Killian always believed; to the public, magic isn’t real after all, and she’s just a circus illusionist. 

(She’s a born performer, is what she is, and Killian looks forward to surreptitiously attending one of her shows tonight to relive the particular thrill of watching Miss Swan in action.)

(As much as Killian tells himself they’re different, there’s something in her eyes that says that’s not quite true - the look of someone who’s been left alone for too long. Maybe they are cut from the same cloth, after all. Not that it matters in situations such as these.)

Ten seconds before midnight, the firecrackers begin setting off in bright bursts of color and pattern, causing an audible gasp of awe from the assembled audience. There are swirls of blue, shoots of red, bursts of gold, all perfectly timed to the second hand of his watch. It’s the purest expression of magic made real, and even though Killian knows to watch for the way Miss Swan’s fingers twist at her side to release each round, it still leaves him in a little bit of awe and wonder. It’s displays like these that first enthralled him to the idea of magic, all those years ago when he was still just a boy; it’s nice to reclaim that even just for a moment. 

At the crescendo, a previously unnoticed archer - a trick-shot they’d hired, who can hit the smallest targets from the greatest distance - releases a single flaming arrow. It lands dead center in the bonfire pit, just above where Killian alone knows the volume containing the circus rests, and ignites it in a chasing line of flame. It roars to beautiful life, illuminating the beautiful joy and wonder on each and every face. 

And just like that - the circus is alive.

———

The circus is a wonder, unmatched by any other.

There’s something otherworldly about it, you think as you take in the sights. There’s a stark elegance and mysticism about the venue and all its players that feels unnatural, in the best way - as if you’ve stumbled out of the real world and into a fairy court, where the very air is laced with magic and anything might happen. 

Each tent is somehow better than the last, and you wander without real purpose between each, trusting fate and your heart to lead the way. Even the winding paths, paved in silvery grey pebbles, hold their own surprises, twisting and curving past all manner of performers on pedestals in the night air. There are contortionists in silver and jugglers with patterned balls and clubs, fire swallowers and concession vendors who smile at you and living statues who move so gradually as to be barely discernible to the naked eye.

It is more than an attraction, you realize as the first rays of light peak over the horizon, illuminating the intricate metalwork of the front gate clock; it’s an experience, a wonder, something that sinks into your very soul and changes you in ways you’re not yet equipped to describe.

The circus lingers in your mind and heart, and you will never be the same again.

#captain swan #cs ff #captain swan ff #cssns #A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink #my writing #magicians!cs #The Night Circus

[therealegomackey-blog]

hello and welcome,

this tumblr is a joint effort by more than a dozen different people,of multiple genders from all over the world who are being affected by this drug addeled millionaire deviant

behaviours, being anon is the most important part for us due to the sociopathic behavior of callum mackey. Callum is a 22 year old opiate addict who is a single child

from the very rich area of vancouver called "bowen island". he claims on social media to have amassed wealth from "soundcloud rap", in his raps he boasts to

have made his family rich "from selling crack", but upon further evidence we found out hes just a only child to older millionaire parents ( which is beyond sad when you put it into perspective, he asks for donations, he sells things that he never sends the product for and its all for drugs...)

after his "cyber witch hunts/attacks" on many different type of people "for not complying" with his agenda, we decided to band together, get as much proof/screenshots/information

as possible in order to take actions against callum so that people can enjoy being in a art scene without persecution from

a benzo crazed wannabe.

from the attention he amassed from when he first "took down asap bari", it was apparent to a few that he was drunk with power & attention from the action, he uses the means

of being problematic, taking advantage of todays liberal polictics ( and based on some of these screenshots, and first hand encounters callum is far from liberal, he boasted

about being ina white nationalist gang once) to "expose"but in reality, its more along the lines of exhiling anyone who might be seen as a dissenter,

below are just a few different points we would like to go overand below them is going to be our growing database of proof of callums manipulative and sociopathic tendencies

before we get into the bullets, callum is person with a house of cards identity,somethings that will show you is

hes a predator in manyways, hes loves lying and manipulation (his lyrics talk of struggling in the streets, gangwarfare,drug dealing but callum was born richer than many of us

would ever be in TWO lifetimes, so this talk of coming from poverty, guns and drugs seems to be a racial fantasy and fetishization rather than a reality whichis beyond disgusting)

he openly jokes on racial lines, and many times and time again he admits his drug addiction is debilitating and causes him

to make sociopathic choices in order to fufill his shallow desires, here are some points some of us have discussed and

thought needed to be highlights

.many times in the screenshots its indicated he's addicted to power, the way he talks about other people as if they are below him, or even endebbted to him, the way he talks

his underage "wife"highlights this enough,almost as if he gets off on how much power he has over her (yuck, shes a child)

.many times in these screenshots, he openly talks about his fetish for manipulation, using lies and persuasion to get what he wants, the biggest part of this is

is him talking about how he manipulates social media and what he says to his agenda,this is very important because in the case of the artists famous addonis and jimmy v

he went on drug fueled tirades with little to no evidence of any of the xanax fueled allegations he made to silence the voice of people who speak out against him ( eww)

.a theme that can be picked up from the information below is him having loyalty to no one but himself, he openly says condescending things about "his bestfriend"

dev's intellegence, he openly womanizes,dehumans and sexually objectifys his underage partner, which in many of the screenshots it blantly hints at the fact

he doesn't respect or value her life beyond the sex they have and the lies he tells her. hes a xanax addicted self serving maniac that people are giving the power

to state any type of truth which is beyond toxic and dangerous

.another theme that can be picked up is that, hes a compulsive liar. it seems their needs to be no outside force to trigger him to create these lies, 

he does it to satisfy his spoiled rich kid ego. do you honestly believe that

1.he ghost wrote for bladee?

2.he use to design GTB album covers and merch?

3.he ghost wrote for Robb banks

4.he wrote a song on the new currensy & wiz khalifa tape

5.he was in bmb deathrow as anything other than a subpar graphic designer?

callum mackey is a problem, hes a problem for the artists that hes leading blindly to their demise, hes a problem for the artists hes targeted and relentlessly attacked

until their voice was silenced/had no value and their careers diminshed, but most of all, by appeasing him ( there are screenshots of people other than callum below that

show they understand the allegations he makes against people are false claims but THEY ARE TOO SCARED TO SPEAK OUT BECAuSE OF RETAILIATION which is beyond sad)

we will use our voices (and anything else at our disposal) against callum mackey who calls himself "false idol" and thats what he is.

we wont stop until this toxic drug addict is making ammends with those he has hurt, and mislead and we give you the courage

TO JOIN US! help us stop "2099" "ego mackey" "mkultrarehab" anything he has his hands in, which is turning our music scene toxic

we have power in numbers, we have power in information, we have power in anonymity

#egomackey #dreamside #2099 #callum mackey #ego mackey

[tetsuwan-atom]

Got Yourself A Gun - Prologue

@appleofintelligence

It was nearing Midnight. The railway station was almost quiet, save for one train, still at one of the platforms. A three car, stainless steel electric set, making up the last train of the night. Most of the trains that ran to this station were electric. Diesels were considered banned unless either in an emergency or by special agreements for one-off occasions.

A set of footsteps would almost silently grace the platform, an individual walking alongside the train, along the whole length of the train. Blonde hair, blue eyes, grey uniform with tie. A whistle around his neck and a pair of flags in his arms, green and red. It was Bowen Chuuno.. and he was about to dispatch the last train for the night.

In recent times he had been getting accustomed to his new posting, here in Intelligence. For a brief period too, he was taking extra work with the STA, not in terms of his usual railcar driving, but on station duties, mostly in the evenings, after his work with the Ministry had finished. Most of the time of course he would go and spend as much time with Ann as possible, but when she was busy, he would end up here, working for a little bit more money.

Once he reached the end of the train, he turned around, facing the front, facing the driver. Standing on the platform with his eyes on the nearest clock. His hand would pop the whistle in his mouth, observing as the time ticked closer to departure.

When the time reached 30 seconds to departure, he would blow his whistle, loud and long, the standard departure sound for trains that weren’t of express priority, like the Super Express. This was just a normal train, the last one for the night, most likely running all stations to Lobarr in Authrum.

Then, when the time would tick to departure, he would blow the whistle again one last time, before preparing the flags in his hands, dropping the green one down to signal right away to the driver. With a wave, the driver would close the doors.. and the train would be on it’s way. The blonde would wave to the driver as the train passed him, observing it as it left the platform.. on it’s way. With that, the last train had gone.. and therefore the station would be closed for the night.

The blonde would make his way back to the station concourse, to put the flags away and his whistle back in his bag. There was still a bit to do.. paperwork, cleaning, just a few small things, while also locking doors and the like, before heading home.

One can lose track of time when performing such duties. It had been a good 15-20 minutes since then and he was at it with a broom, sweeping the concourse. Everybody else had gone home, entrusting him to lock up. There weren’t even any security guards on duty. Security cameras tended to take care of that job at this time, as did the motion sensors.

Suddenly, a sound filled his ears, the sound of movement.. like there was someone else here apart from him. That wasn’t a good sign... he was supposed to be the only person left.

More sounds of movement.. followed by... blips.. buzzings? Computer like sounds? He had heard those sounds before.... many.. many times before...With wary eyes, did he make his movements slow, but not obvious, sweeping to one of the stations walls.. slowly putting the broom to one side... and reaching for his IDND.

And he reached for it just in time...

For in that moment, out of seemingly everywhere, a dozen, maybe two dozen black-suited figures, with machine-like hands and faces, descended upon him.. all with guns, all of them firing upon him... just as he leaped out of the way, rolling to a hiding place while taking a few pot shots at some of them, all at their main weaknesses, their heads. Each successful shot to the head was met with an explosion, along with that particular individual dropping to the floor, like it had been killed.

Luckily, the place he had hid to had another hallway, a way around. He wasn’t going to leave with all those assailants still in there, no, he had to take them all out. He went right around, first at speed, but when he made it around, now behind them all, he had to be slower, sneakier, to ensure they could not hear them. They were machines, but when it came to sensing people, they were as dumb as doorknobs.

Five shots, quick succession, before another barrel roll and firing more, more heads exploding, one by one, while the others turned to start firing. Again he would be back on his knees, but this time at inhuman speed up the walls and cieling, the trail of bullets trying to catch up to him. At such speed, he fired more shots, more beings exploding into pieces. The intense, quick firefight would continue, but Bowen would not receive a single wound. He was too quick for them, he was always too quick for them. He had been dealing with them too many times already to outrun their bullets.

It came to the point where there was only four left. It almost seemed like his work was done... when out of nowhere... a grenade stopped him in his tracks. It didn’t come from any of the assailants in front of him... and it forced him to go into a different direction, to jump hard, out of the way.. and into a ticket office, just as it blew up, the resulting explosion sending smoke and debris everywhere.

When the smoke had cleared, the blonde kept himself against a wall, turning on occasion to see where the assailants were, but then another voice would fill the area... one he would also recognise.

“Give yourself up, Chuuno! You’re surrounded!”

...Bazuko..... The intelligent android that was stolen from the Ministry and converted for uses of crime by the X, a terrorist organisation bent on taking down the United Government. That would also explain the robotic assailants, for they all tend to be associated with them.

“I wouldn’t say I’m surrounded, the four is all you have left!”

“Four may be enough to ring you in, just come quietly and don’t make this harder than it already is.”

To which a swift response was met.. by him shooting another one of the assailants down.. in the same fashion... now there were three.. not including the supposed individual leading today’s suicide group. The immediate retaliation was somewhat seemingly endless gunfire, bullets flying everywhere, an immense amount of holes exposing the office. The blonde would move quickly, to strategic areas, to pick off the remaining assailants, one by one, bit by bit, little by little, whenever he had such an opportunity... until there was one left... Bazuko.

In anger, Bazuko picked up and threw another grenade, right into the office, exposing the blonde as he jumped out, another barrel roll of firing as the office exploded. This time he wasn’t aiming for Bazuko’s head, he was aiming for his hands, shoulders and legs. Such shots were again in quick succession, rendering his body parts useless pretty quickly.

Bowen waited for a few seconds, as if observing the now motionless humanoid, before rushing over to kneel beside it.

“Bazuko.. listen to me. This isn’t what you’re supposed to do. You belong with the Ministry of Science. You were created for good purposes, not some toy to be used for the proceeds of crime!”

But the humanoid wouldn’t listen.

“Your real name is Zingwell! What, don’t you remember your true purpose? Did they wipe you of your previous memories completely?”

But the humanoid would instead grin, before the blonde would sigh and place his IDND to the humanoid’s head.

“...Guess I’ll just have to take you back and have them reprogram you from scratch...”

But that got a laugh out of the humanoid, who’s eyes would open to look at the blonde.

“You don’t get it....” It sneered.

To which Bowen’s eyes would widen a bit... “What?”

The humanoid laughed again, starting right at Bowen.

“Your stupid compassion for robots makes for a good exploit.”

“.....Wh-”

BOOOOOOOOOOM!

There were no more words, for he was caught up in the explosion at point blank range, sent flying across the station, hitting the floor hard. The blonde was naive to think that Bazuko would not have been planted with a self-destruct mechanism and extra explosives to lull the male’s tendency to help others.

It took him a little bit of time, but he was able to get up.. slowly, but surely... to reach for another office and sound the alarm. A duress signal, that would bring help along the way eventually.

All he could do now is sit by the wall, with his cuts, bruises, burns and other injuries.. hoping that attention would come sooner.. rather than later.

What he had yet to realise though, in spite of all this... was that this was only just the beginning....

#appleofintelligence #WUTM #Prologue

[alvisboswell]

I need you now as I have never needed you before.

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And then when I was able to jump in, it was just chompin at the bit. I was there just last week in Rio and Sao Paulo and the excitement is obvious. Amongst the riders came one man afoot, with some big beast trotting at his heels. The Vault at the Palace International, 1104 Broad St, Durham.. I think he would be pleased if the fat man attempted some betrayal. I will have my bride back. Every morn the sun rose upon fresh corpses, with harpies drawn in blood on the bricks beside them. Two of those were so close to dead there was no hope for them, another five too weak to walk. I ask only that you spare my men.” Qarl and Tris and the rest who had survived the wolfswood were all she had to care about. 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[cathygeha]

REVIEW

Nothing Good Happens After Midnight

A Suspense Magazine Anthology

 by Jeffery Deaver, Linwood Barclay, Rhys Bowen, Heather Graham, Alan Jacobson, Paul Kemprecos, Jon Land, John Lescroart, Kevin O'Brien, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Joseph Badal, D. P. Lyle

  Thirteen authors

Thirteen stories

All take place after midnight

All were a wee bit (or more) creepy

And now I want more ;)

  I saw this and thought that it would be a good way to read the writing of well-known authors as well as a few that I had not heard of or read before. I thought for sure I would read a few and move on quickly BUT I found that each story I started was one that I could not put down before I read the very last word. The stories were all exceptionally well told and held my interest. I did not skip any of the stories as I thought I might. Thirteen authors, thirteen stories…and I highly recommend this collection for your reading pleasure!

 12:01 AM by Alan Jacobson: A serial murderer with hours to live and a kidnapped woman in the same situation…are the two related? Will she be saved? I read about Karen Vail and now want to read more

 Cell Phone Intolerant by Kevin O’Brien: Cell phones have become an addiction…one that Ed McKinnon, an inventor, would like to make a difference in.

 All Aboard by Hank Phillipi Ryan: a woman on a train overhears something and decides to use her PR fixer skills to make a difference.

 Gone Forever by Joseph Badel: A Lassiter/Martin Short Story that introduces cops I wouldn’t mind learning more about. A mass murder in a church has an impact on all there…the ending was powerful!

 Night Shift by Linwood Barclay: OMG…gob smacked. Two men talking in a bar shooting the breeze and a story is told that had me on the edge of my seat…I did NOT see what was coming!

 Midnight in the Garden of Death by Heather Graham: Would you sleep in a cemetery in tents when you were in high school? This one was…VERY good.

 The Sixth Decoy by Pascal Kemprecos: Here is was introduced to Aristotle “Soc” Socarides and now I wonder how many books might have him as the main characters. Soc is tasked with finding a “lost” art object and in so doing things get a bit…dicey.

 A Creative Defense by Jeffery Deaver: Music and murder…intriguing idea in this book and it made me wonder…and worry a bit because…what if???

 After Midnight by Rhys Bowen: Well, this started out as a fairy tale but turned into something else entirely!

 Easy Peasy by John Lescroat: This is another story with teenagers as main characters. There is a bit of an underdog feel to it with a bit of a big twist that I did not see coming.

 Tonic by D.P. Lyle: Creepy and strange and just what this collection needed to add  that extra noire to the list.

 Tonight is the Night by Shannon Kirk: Cold and cruel in a few places…this one had me going and as it was late…might revisit it later to see if I got it right or not…it was definitely dark and gritty!

 ATM by Jon Land: Brilliant way to close the anthology…with a bit of hope for Venn and he definitely deserved it!

 Did I enjoy this book? Yes

Are there authors I would like to read again? Definitely

 Thank you to NetGalley and Suspense Magazine for the ARC – This is my honest review.

 5 Stars

      Description

The sun sets. The moon takes its place, illuminating the most evil corners of the planet. What twisted fear dwells in that blackness? What legends attach to those of sound mind and make them go crazy in the bright light of day? Only Suspense Magazine knows…

 Teaming up with New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver, Suspense Magazine offers up a nail-biting anthology titled: “Nothing Good Happens After Midnight.” This thrilling collection consists of thirteen original short stories representing the genres of suspense/thriller, mystery, sci-fi/fantasy, and more.

 Readers’ favorites come together to explore the mystery of midnight. The ‘best of the best’ presenting these memorable tales, include Joseph Badal, Linwood Barclay, Rhys Bowen, Heather Graham, Alan Jacobson, Paul Kemprecos, Shannon Kirk, Jon Land, John Lescroart, D. P. Lyle, Kevin O’Brien, and Hank Phillippi Ryan.

 Take their hands…walk into their worlds…but be prepared to leave the light on when you’re through. After all, this incredible gathering of authors, who will delight fans of all genres, not only utilized their award-winning imaginations to answer that age-old question of why “Nothing Good Happens After Midnight”—they also made sure to pen stories that will leave you…speechless.

   A Note From the Publisher

JEFFERY DEAVER is an international number-one bestselling author. His novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages. He has served two terms as president of Mystery Writers of America. The author of forty-three novels, three collections of short stories and a nonfiction law book, and a lyricist of a country-western album, he’s received or been shortlisted for dozens of awards. His THE BODIES LEFT BEHIND was named Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers association, and his Lincoln Rhyme thriller THE BROKEN WINDOW and a stand-alone, EDGE, were also nominated for that prize. THE GARDEN OF BEASTS won the Steel Dagger from the Crime Writers Association in England. He’s been nominated for eight Edgar Awards. Deaver has been honored with the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention, the Strand Magazine’s Lifetime Achievement Award and the Raymond Chandler Lifetime Achievement Award in Italy. His book A MAIDEN’S GRAVE was made into an HBO movie starring James Garner and Marlee Matlin, and his novel THE BONE COLLECTOR was a feature release from Universal Pictures, starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. Lifetime aired an adaptation of his THE DEVIL’S TEARDROP. NBC television is airing the popular prime time series, Lincoln Rhyme: Hunt for the Bone Collector. His latest novel is THE GOODBYE MAN, a Colter Shaw thriller.

#Suspense Magazine #NetGalley #Alan Jacobson #Kevin O'Brien #hank phillippi ryan #Joseph Badal #Linwood Barclay #Heather Graham #Pascal Kemprecos #Jeffery Deaver #Rhys Bowen #John Lescroat #D.P. Lyle #Shannon Kirk #Jon Land

[cleanlabel]

Facing a Food and Drug Administration (FDA) investigation into whether its dog food is contaminated with a drug that is used to euthanize animals, including dogs, Smuckers announced Wednesday that it is planning to voluntarily stop selling “specific shipments” of its dog food brands.

“Out of an abundance of caution we initiated a voluntary withdrawal (not a recall) on specific shipments of Gravy Train® Kibbles ‘N Bits®, Ol’ Roy®, and Skippy® canned/wet dog food because they do not meet our quality specifications,” Smuckers spokesman Ray Hancart says in an emailed statement to ConsumerAffairs.

The announcement comes after a local ABC station in Washington D.C. hired a lab to conduct independent testing into dog food. According to the station’s findings, published last week, Gravy Train brand dog food repeatedly tested positive for trace amounts of the euthanasia drug pentobarbital.

Sixty percent of Gravy Train samples came back positive, according to the station, which reported that the FDA was responding with its own investigation.  

Smuckers blames supplier for contamination

Gravy Train is owned by Big Heart Pet Foods, a Smuckers subsidiary that produces a number of popular pet food products, including Natural Balance, Pup-Peroni, Meow Mix, and Milk Bone, to name a few.

In its statement to ConsumerAffairs, Smuckers blames the snafu on a single, unnamed supplier. “We take this very seriously and are extremely disappointed that pentobarbital was introduced to our supply chain,” Hancart says. However, he claims in the same statement that trace amounts of pentobarbital are safe for pets to consume.

“Veterinarians and animal nutrition specialists, as well as the FDA, have confirmed that extremely low levels of pentobarbital, like the levels reported to be in select shipments, do not pose a threat to pet safety,” Hancart adds via email.

“However, the presence of this substance at any level is not acceptable to us and not up to our quality standards. We sincerely apologize for the concern this has caused.”

Initial scrutiny placed on Evanger’s

The ABC affiliate had launched its investigation into Smuckers in response to concerns over a different pet food. Nikki Mael told the station that she spent her New Year’s Eve two years ago racing her five dogs to the vet. They had all suddenly become sick after she fed them Evanger’s dog food; one dog died at the vet hours later.

The company confirmed last year that its Evanger’s and Against the Grain brand “chunk beef” products were contaminated with pentobarbital and issued a recall. The company appears to have resolved the issue; ABC 7 reported that all of the Evanger’s samples they tested repeatedly came up negative for presence of the drug.

Evanger’s tells ConsumerAffairs that they have since hired a third-party to test all of their products for pentobarbital. "It was an issue where we received contaminated meat from one of our suppliers,” said an Evanger’s employee, who declined to identify the supplier or provide his own name.  

“Once we found out [about the pentobarbital contamination], there was pretty much no more communication with the supplier after that,” he added.

Pet food’s long history with euthanasia drugs

Evanger’s and Smuckers aren’t the first companies to admit that their products have been contaminated with trace amounts of euthanasia drugs. In fact, the FDA began studying the issue in 1990 after hearing reports from its own veterinarians that pentobarbital “seemed to be losing its effectiveness in dogs.”

The agency subsequently tested dozens of dog food brands for the presence of pentobarbital in 2002 and found that many came back positive, according to results posted on the FDA’s website. Besides safety, the findings also raised concerns that dog and cat food is made from the euthanized remains of other dog and cats.

FDA regulations ban the use of adulterated meat, or meat made from an animal “which has died otherwise than by slaughter,” to be used in either pet or in human food. Much like pet food companies, the agency assured consumers not to panic. It said at the time that the trace amounts of pentobarbital they found in pet food are “unlikely” to harm pets.

“The low levels of exposure to sodium pentobarbital (pentobarbital) that dogs might receive through food is unlikely to cause them any adverse health effects,” the FDA said in a 2002 announcement.

The agency also claimed it found no evidence that the food was made from rendered dogs or cats. Instead, it identified the rendered remains of cattle and horses as a likely source.

A report that an FDA scientist subsequently conducted and sent to Congress two years later found that rendered animal remains are used in a number of consumer products, such as soaps, crayons, and plastics -- as well as pet food.

Meat and bone meal accounted for approximately 6.6 billion pounds of rendered products sold, according to the scientist’s 2004 report to Congress, and poultry and pet food companies, in turn, “accounted for 66% of the domestic MBM [meat and bone meal] market.” Hog and cattle operations accounted for the remainder of the meat and bone meal market, according to the report.

Inadequate guidelines and countless unknowns

Jackie Bowen, the executive director of the Clean Label Project, a consumer advocacy group that tests human and pet food for contaminants, doesn’t agree that trace amounts of a barbiturate would pose no safety risk to pets.  

“We're talking about exposure 2-3 times a day every day of an animals life of a barbiturate that is used for anti-anxiety and euthanasia,” she tells ConsumerAffairs.

“While it may not be lethal, there are countless unknowns,” she says, such as whether dogs who need pentobarbital for anesthesia in surgery will become immune to its effects.

The Clean Label Project conducted their own lab tests into dog and cat food last year, testing 80 brands for 130 toxins such as heavy metals, lead, and pesticides. The group had been critical of long-standing guidelines issued by the Association of American Feed Control Officials for feeding pets, describing them as inadequate.

“The pet food industry is the wild west when it comes to pet food quality and ingredient quality,” Bowen tells ConsumerAffairs. Marketing materials in recent years, she adds, have “humanized” pet food, presenting some kibble brands as “natural” or “holistic” in the same way that human food is.

The Clean Label Project’s extensive pet food report card gave many of those same brands mediocre or failing grades on their pet food quality -- and Gravy Train received only one star. Smuckers has not returned follow-up questions about those results.

“The results that we saw were staggering,” Bowen says. “To put it in perspective...some of these pet food products saw [lead] levels 15 times higher than what we saw during the Flint, Michigan tragedy.”

Her group did not test the pet food brands for the presence of pentobarbital, but Bowen described ABC 7’s findings as disturbing. “In addition to being potentially unethical and objectively gross, it's also illegal,” she says.

Meanwhile, Bowen advises pet owners to avoid pet food contaminated with heavy metals by calling the company they purchase from and asking what type of independent testing they conduct. She also suggests turkey-based pet food as a cleaner source of protein.

"The cleanest protein source is turkey-based. The dirtiest is fish,” because fish bioaccumulate toxins in their fat, she says.

#clean label project

[grantplant]

They All Saw a Cat

Last week, I was innocently skimming through Emily Nussbaum’s New Yorker commentary on the Girls series finale. I stopped watching this show a while ago—I liked it, and much of the material in early seasons resonated with me, but to a point. That point, or points, were Adam, the whiplashiest character I’ve ever hate-love-hated, forcing himself on his girlfriend and then Hannah repeatedly assaulting her ear with a q-tip. But I digress. I’ve followed the cultural zeitgeist of the show and Lena Dunham herself, and I like Emily Nussbaum, so I read the review. (You can, too.)

Somewhere in the middle of the piece, in a parenthetical no less, Nussbaum asserts: (You can’t be a writer without being entitled: Why else would you think anyone wants to listen to you?)

Record scratch. Oh, god. Is that possibly possibly true? Or rather, are any of the components that make up this doozy of a declaration?  Because she’s saying 1) all writers are entitled, and 2) that the act of writing is synonymous with the belief that anyone wants to listen to us, and 3) that that unanimous and inherent entitlement is the reason why we believe that anyone wants to listen to us.

Before I put “Delete blog/set book(s) on fire” on my to-do list, I paused to think.

Couldn’t this (horrible! faulty!) logic be applied to anyone who ever created anything? A chef, or a painter, or, as my tech-minded husband said testily, “How about all the people in the world who feel sure that their app is the one that needs to be made?”

I admit, I spent five years of my life working at a nonprofit that encourages hundreds of thousands of people annually that they have a story (or perhaps dozens) to tell. This nonprofit has been likened more than once to a new breed of parent that believes and convinces their child that he or she is a special snowflake unlike any other, and is capable of—and dare I say it, entitled to--anything he or she sets his magical little mind to. (I am parent to a nine-month-old snowflake myself, and understand how terribly, seductively easy it is to adopt this mindset. No judgement here!)

I’m not now, nor was I ever, saying we’re all Pulitzer-quality yarn-spinners (Nussbaum actually is), but I genuinely do believe that we all have stories to tell that are unlike the stories that anyone else can tell. No one is exactly the same, and while that doesn’t imbue their differences with magic or the right to special treatment, it does add value to their perspective. This perspective allows each of us to experience, understand, live, and do everything differently from each other, and it also makes that uniqueness of experience unknowable to anyone else. That is, unless we decide to share it. And how do we share it, but by telling stories. That story could be painted, plated, coded, thrown on a wheel and fired in a kiln, or knit from dog hair into a dog sweater. Making something out of nothing is telling a story of some kind.

This storytelling isn’t new, btw. We are not talking about a tool for millennials to message each other disappearing videos, or broadcast their every location or opinion or achievement to the masses. People have been telling stories from the very beginning, with words and hieroglyphs and inventions and yes, novels and essays and, now, blogs and critiques and columns.

I am tickled by the thought that anyone ever looked at a cave painting drawn by one of our earliest ancestors and thought, “That entitled sonofabitch.” Maybe they did! Totally their right to feel that way, too.

As part of this snowflake-producing creative writing nonprofit, NaNoWriMo utilized the horrible, useful, sometime hilarious millennial tool for storytelling (and searching and archiving), the hashtag, specifically for a campaign called  #whyIwrite (about, you guessed it, why you/I/anyone writes). I did a quick search (thanks, hashtags!) and not a single person wrote “Because I am entitled.” (But then who, other than Emily Nussbaum, is that self-aware? I’m looking at you, caveman.) My quick-search also turned up what I and my cohorts had to say on the subject back in 2011.

“I write because so many things are better read than said. Misunderstandings are too easy in spoken communication; we talk so much and so fast and with so many interruptions! Writing is a haven where I may sit with a concept, clarifying here and editing there, until I can stand back and say, “Here. This is exactly what I mean.””

Reading this makes me realize, I guess, that I’ve gone and made a leap of my own. I am operating on the (possibly gross/horrible/faulty) logic that to write is to tell a story of some kind. And while my above answer does address why I *write* my stories instead of, for example, saying them out loud or painting them (can’t) or cooking them (sometimes I do that, too), or coding them (nope), it doesn’t ask or address exactly why I tell stories (aka create anything, written or otherwise) in the first place.

We’ll get to that in a sec, though.

Do you remember the study showing that by reading literary fiction, we humans’ emotional sensitivity is improved? The NYTimes characterized the findings thusly:

“…after reading literary fiction, as opposed to popular fiction or serious nonfiction, people performed better on tests measuring empathy, social perception and emotional intelligence ��� skills that come in especially handy when you are trying to read someone’s body language or gauge what they might be thinking.”

I don’t know what middling impact or nonimpact my nonserious nonfiction (as opposed to its serious counterparts, or literary or popular fiction) might have or not have but… this is #whyitellstories. My stories happen to be true stories, and they’re not always mine, and so I have no idea if any of it increases or promotes understanding in this often baffling and misunderstood world. If not this way, though, how else will we gain any insight into what’s happening elsewhere to other people of other belief systems and capabilities and ethnicities and everything else that makes up our own snowflakey identities?

I’m not writing to be read, or telling stories to be heard or listened to. The writing-down part is ultimately a selfish act; a putting together of disparate pieces to make something comprehensible in times of confusion. I am using the written word to make sense of, well, everything. So why do I share it? Why tell the story instead of logging it away, sussed but otherwise unconsumed? In the hopes that maybe I’m not alone in my wonderings or bafflement. That anyone else who ever felt confused or amazed or humbled or edified might see the way it happened over here, through this lens of experience, and might think that even though it was different for them, maybe it was also the same.

Even though I think hope Emily Nussbaum is wrong, there’s more than enough room for her opinion and perspective and… were we to meet over a Cinnabon or a tub of hummus, she may come to believe I am the wrong one, indeed the most entitled nonserious-nonfiction writer she ever did meet. We’re probably both right. And wrong. And there is plenty of room for both versions or some combination therein.

As I am often guilty of doing, because I ultimately believe that all of life can be explained by children’s books (which further reinforces my view on the value of storytellers, I guess) I will bring this back to a book that we, the Grant-Bowens, have been reading a lot. They All Saw A Cat is about a cat, as seen by a child, a dog, a flea, a bird, and a bat, among other animals, until, in the end, it sees itself. Each creature sees this cat differently, based on its size, perception, biology, and biases. The way the cat sees itself is the only way it could ever perceive itself in the world, unless that child, dog, flea, bird, bat, and anything else so inclined, shares the way *it* sees the cat. This not only changes the way the cat sees itself, but also the cat’s understanding of the way a child, dog, flea, bird, and bat sees things, too.

I used to think this should be required reading for all nonfiction writers, and then expanded it to all writers, period. Increasingly, I’m thinking it goes on the syllabus for life.

We all see the cat. But how do we see it? And more importantly, why do we see it as we do? If no one else pipes up to answer the question, we will only ever see it one way—our own way--and worse, never realize that there are other ways; ways we can’t even imagine.And they are all weird and surprising and beautiful, and they are all true.

The entitlement of the writer, or the solipsism a writer-free world. I know which I fear more. And so I hit ‘publish.’ Emily, send me your address and I’ll send you a book. It’s about a cat.

[seekfirstme]

The following reflection is courtesy of Don Schwager © 2021. Don's website is located at Dailyscripture.net

Meditation: What kind of ruler does the world need today? Who can establish true peace and justice for all? When the people of Israel settled into the promised land, they wanted a king to unite and rule them like the other nations around them. Their first king, Saul, failed to establish a dynasty. But when David was anointed king God established a covenant with him and promised that his dynasty would last forever. Among the Jews the most common title for the Messiah (the Hebrew word for Christ or the Anointed One) was the Son of David. The Jews looked forward to the long-expected Savior who would come from the line of David. Jesus was often addressed with that title, especially by the crowds (Mark 10:47ff, Matthew 9:27; 12:23).

Jesus, the Anointed King and Ruler of All, fulfills the promise God made with David

Why did Jesus question the Jews on the claim that their Messiah or Christ would be the son of David? After all the New Testament makes clear that Jesus himself is a direct descendant from the line of David's throne (Romans 1:3, 2 Timothy 2:8, Matthew 1:1-17, Luke 3:23-38). Jesus posed the question to make his hearers understand that the Messiah is more than the son of David. Jesus makes his point in dramatic fashion by quoting from one of David's prophetic psalms, Psalm 110:The Lord said to my Lord, Sit at my right hand, till I put your enemies under your feet.How can the son be the lord of his father? Jesus, who took upon himself our human nature for our sake, is not only the son of David, he is first and foremost the Son of God eternally begotten of the Father. The Messiah King whom God promised to send would not only come from David's line, but would be greater than any earthy ruler who came before or would come after.

Jesus claimed a sovereignty that only God can claim - a sovereignty that extends not only to the ends of the earth but to the heavens as well. But the way Jesus would establish his kingdom was far different from any of the expectations of the tiny nation of Israel. Jesus came to rule hearts and minds, not lands and entitlements. He came to free people from the worst tyranny possible - slavery to sin, Satan, and a world ruled by greed and lust for power and wealth.

Jesus, risen in glory by the power of the Holy Spirit, now reigns as Lord over all of creation

Paul the Apostle states that no one can say 'Jesus is Lord' except by the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 12:3). It is the role of the Holy Spirit to make the Lord Jesus present and known in our lives. We can accept the Lord Jesus or reject him, love him or ignore him. He will not force his rule upon us. But the consequences of our choice will not only shape our present life but our destiny as well.

Is your life submitted to the Lordship of Jesus?

What does it mean to acknowledge that Jesus is Lord? The wordlord meansruler orking - the one who is owed fealty and submission. The Lord and Master of our lives is the person or thing we give our lives over to and submit to in a full way. We can be ruled by many things - our possessions, the love of money, our unruly passions, alcohol, drugs, and other forms of addictions. Only one Lord and Master can truly set us free to love and serve others selflessly and to be loved as God intended from the beginning. When we acknowledge that Jesus is Lord we invite him to be the king of our heart, master of our home, our thoughts, our relationships, and everything we do. Is the Lord Jesus the true king and master of your heart and do you give him free reign in every area of your life?

"Lord Jesus, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of David and the Son of God. You are my Lord and I willingly submit myself to your rule in my life. Be Lord and King of my life, my thoughts, heart, home, relationships, work, and all that I do."

The following reflection is from One Bread, One Body courtesy of Presentation Ministries © 2021.

DOCTOR’S ORDERS

“I am certain that his eyes will be opened. Smear the fish gall on them. This medicine will make the cataracts shrink and peel off from his eyes.” —Tobit 11:7-8

Tobiah healed his father of blindness by applying fish gall to his eyes and peeling off the cataracts (Tb 11:12-13). Hezekiah was healed of a terminal illness when Isaiah applied a poultice of figs (Is 38:21). Paul gave Timothy medical advice to take some wine for a stomach ailment (1 Tm 5:23). The Bible approves of medicine (Wis 1:14) and commands us to hold the physician in honor (Sir 38:1).

At the same time, the Bible disapproves of putting doctors and medicine ahead of God. King Asa was condemned in Scripture for seeking physicians rather than the Lord to treat his diseased feet (2 Chr 16:12). St. Mark points out: “There was a woman in the area who had been afflicted with a hemorrhage for a dozen years. She had received treatment at the hands of doctors of every sort and exhausted her savings in the process, yet she got no relief; on the contrary, she only grew worse” (Mk 5:25-26).

Doctors have their place, but it is fourth place, after we have first prayed, repented, and worshiped (Sir 38:9-12). Medical treatment should be our last resort, not our first resort. Long-term doctor’s care, hospitalization, or medication may be depending too much on things meant to be only temporary means of God’s healing and not major parts of our lives.

Prayer:  Father, may I not be brainwashed by society but value medical technology according to Your will.

Promise:  “The majority of the crowd heard this with delight.” —Mk 12:37

Praise:  Dr. Bowen prays with his patients before he operates on them.

Reference:  (The annual 40 Hours Eucharistic Devotion and Family Campout is June 18-20. This is a wonderful way to experience the love of God and His people. Call 937-587-5464 or 513-373-2397 to register.)

Rescript:  "In accord with the Code of Canon Law, I hereby grant the Nihil Obstat for the publication One Bread, One Body covering the period from June 1, 2021 through July 31, 2021. Reverend Steve J Angi, Chancellor, Vicar General, Archdiocese of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, Ohio January 20, 2021"

The Nihil Obstat ("Permission to Publish") is a declaration that a book or pamphlet is considered to be free of doctrinal or moral error. It is not implied that those who have granted the Nihil Obstat agree with the contents, opinions, or statements

[theleaderdotinfo-blog]

The man behind the RBL District Appeal has been published at http://www.theleader.info/2018/03/25/man-behind-rbl-district-appeal/

New Post has been published on http://www.theleader.info/2018/03/25/man-behind-rbl-district-appeal/

The man behind the RBL District Appeal

Robin Hargrave is known to most of us as the man who holds up the ‘poppy collection total’ at the District North Annual Conference every January. He is currently in his final year of office as the District Poppy Appeal coordinator, a role that he has occupied sing 2011……but there is rather more to the man than many of you might first imagine because, until he moved to Spain a little over ten years ago, he was a music hall and cruise ship entertainer, working alongside a whole host of household names. Robin was first hooked on the theatre following an involuntary appearance in a Christmas Panto at the Leicester Opera House. When his family then moved down to Bristol he became a member of a local church group which saw him regularly taking centre stage as a tap dancing, banjulele playing reciter of monologues.  [caption id="attachment_19247" align="aligncenter" width="1481"] With Roy Hudd at the dinner celebrating 50 years in show business[/caption] He was captivated by variety and went along to the Empire theatre at every opportunity, doing anything he could to earn the price of a ticket. Now performing with the Mary Reynolds Juvenile Dance School, his first venture into the ‘big time’ came at the age of 12 when the Juveniles appeared live on BBC TV during Saturday Prime Time on the Charlie Chester Show. Following the divorce of his parents, the adoption of his mother’s maiden name of Brailey, Bob, as he was now known, performed his way through a multitude of concert party’s and dance troupes, even working in a local fair during the summer holidays. Having left school in 1958 with the intention of joining the Royal Navy Robin couldn’t convince his father to sign on the dotted line. In those days a mother’s signature was not enough so the only alternative was to join the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve on HMS Flying Fox. As a trainee accountant and a member of the RNVR Robin began to appear in local clubs, telling a few jokes, singing and performing magic tricks, with his first residency as the regular Sunday night compere at the Bristol Rovers Supporters club. Following some success in local clubs and at talent shows Robin was invited to [caption id="attachment_19248" align="aligncenter" width="860"] Robin Hargrave[/caption] appear at the Lord Mayors Variety Command Performance where he was billed as Bob Brailey, Bristol’s Teenage Comedian. That gave him the confidence to audition for Wally Goodman at Butlin’s where he was taken on as a Redcoat Entertainer the following year, working alongside Roger Cooke, who, with Roger Greenaway, went on to write dozens of hit songs for the likes of The Fortunes, Cliff Richard, The Hollies, Gene Pitney, Cilla Black, Andy Williams and many others.  Life after Butlin’s, and it was back to the fairgrounds as a bingo caller before moving on to manage Smethwick bingo hall with Top Rank and then back to Bristol where the round of clubs began all over again. Still serving with the RNVR Robin was also managing to get in his 17 days of annual service which included taking part in several NATO exercises. In 1971 Robin began to work for Bristol local television channel Associated Rediffusion where he presented a pub quiz programme which included an element of darts. The station unfortunately closed down and Robin then pitched his show, but without luck, to HTV. Ten years later, however, ITV Central introduced a similar show with Jim Bowen as the host. They called it ‘Bullseye’. Since those heady days Robin has also appeared in Dr Who and Northanger Abbey, for both of which he still receives royalties. He also presented Radio shows on BBC Radio Bristol where his guests included local personalities, one of which was Tony Blackburn. [caption id="attachment_19249" align="aligncenter" width="1722"] Dinner with Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson[/caption] But it was a phone call in 1977 that really did change Robin’s life. Cunard were looking for a DJ to join a world cruise in 3 days time. “My feet didn’t touch the ground as I wrapped up my affairs in Bristol and flew out to join the ship in Genoa,” said Robin. It was a career that took Robin through to 1991 during which time he rose to Senior Cruise Director, meeting and working with such personalities as Norman Collier, Max Bygraves, Hermione Gingold, Dame Alicia Markova, Reg Varney and Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson “with whom I spent many happy days in absolute hysterics.”   Robin moved out to his holiday bolt hole in Santa Pola when he finally retired in 2004. He quickly joined the RNA in which he served as Chairman and President and then The Royal British Legion of which he is currently Chairman of Gran Alacant and La Marina Branch as well as being a member of the District committee on which he is serving out his final year as Poppy Appeal coordinator. The RBL and the Poppy Appeal is something that Robin passionately supports. “When I declared the Appeal total in 2011, my very first year, the total raised was € 134,131.20. When I lifted the card at the Annual Conference at the beginning of this year, I’m delighted to say that the figure had increased to € 169,622.40.” In increasing the total to the near 170k mark Robin has built an excellent relationship with Alicante Airport as well as growing the number of ‘independents’ such as The British School and St. George's Church in Barcelona, Shankly's Bar in Salou and two branches of A Taste of Home British Supermarket in Salou and Barcelona. There are of course many more which Robin hopes to add to the list following the imminent publication of a map showing the large areas of expat population by the Embassy in Madrid. “They are such an important part of our annual appeal and I can only thank them all for the part that they play in supplementing our poppy totals. I think that they genuinely enjoy being involved and as the District coordinator I am so very pleased as I see them all work so very hard to raise the extra funding that can make such a big difference to our annual collection.” “I now look forward to handing over the mantle to Esther Navarro who will become the new coordinator following the 2018 Appeal. I know that she too is committed to the cause so during the coming months, as we work alongside each other with a number of new initiatives and ideas, I know that I am handing over to somebody who will be just as dedicated as I have been during my 7 years in post, and finally, I would like to thank everyone who continues to support a Charity which is almost 100 years of age. The funding that you provide really does makes such a big difference to those veterans who have given so much and now live with us here in Spain.” You don’t need an Armed Forces background to attend a Branch event. It is a great opportunity to make new friends. So to find a local Branch, please visit our website: www.britishlegion.org.uk/counties/spain-north. For assistance and information please either ring 676 45 17 80 or email [email protected]

#People and Places #Robin Hargrave #The Royal British Legion

[ahmedgoderich76-blog]

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[usnewsaggregator-blog]

The D.C. sportswriter who went from covering the Redskins to selling organic food

New Post has been published on https://usnewsaggregator.com/sport/the-d-c-sportswriter-who-went-from-covering-the-redskins-to-selling-organic-food/

The D.C. sportswriter who went from covering the Redskins to selling organic food

(Jen Dominic for The Washington Post)

STAUNTON, Va. — The tin of cookies emerged from behind his desk, three dozen or so. They were dark chocolate-cranberry-pumpkin-maple. The pumpkin came from real pumpkins, which Joseph White had acquired by asking businesses in this marvelous downtown whether they still needed their decorative Halloween gourds. The cookies were delightful.

If White had brought a baked treat like this to the Redskins Park media trailer — which he did, week after week, year after year, during some of the craziest moments in franchise history — “I’d have to hire two guards to keep [reporters] away,” he noted.

But his new colleagues are a bit different than the ones he left behind in Ashburn. Three dozen homemade cookies here last days, not seconds. He’s given up on the idea of throwing parties centered around food. And when White takes his employees out for dinner, he can pay with a $20 bill and get change. “These people just don’t eat,” he said of the staff at at Cranberry’s Grocery & Eatery.

There are other differences, too. The folks inside Cranberry’s aren’t glued to Twitter, aren’t surgically attached to their phones and don’t particularly care whether the Redskins opt for continuity or chaos this offseason. Which isn’t to say nothing changes here. On the day I visited the natural-food outpost now owned by White, he offered up a brand-new creation dreamed up by his staffers: Earl Grey rolls. Imagine a cinnamon roll dipped in bergamot oil, and served warm. They were delightful, too.

You might not know White’s name, but you’ve probably read his work or heard his voice. For about two decades, he was the Associated Press’s D.C. sports correspondent, the guy who asked the first question at most Redskins news conferences, the man tasked with describing Christmas Eve at FedEx Field for readers across the country. He wrote about Norv Turner and Marty Schottenheimer, about Steve Spurrier and Joe Gibbs, about Clinton Portis’s costumes and Sean Taylor’s death. He chronicled the return of baseball, the rise of Ovechkin and the fall of Arenas. He traveled to five Olympics, covered the National Spelling Bee as well as anyone has ever covered anything and was named the 2005 AP Sportswriter of the Year. Then he left, taking a sabbatical from the AP and buying a health-food store and restaurant 140 miles from Ashburn.

The sabbatical is over. White isn’t coming back.

How do you go from covering one of the NFL’s most chaotic franchises to selling local honey (“the greatest honey you’ll ever have”) and local kombucha (“you can feel the probiotics flow through you”) and an exclusive label of organic fair-trade coffee, while bragging that “there is not a drop of high-fructose corn syrup anywhere in the building”?

“After a while, you’re just ready for a new adventure,” White said as we munched on cookies and listened to classical music near a stack of local newspapers. (“7-Eleven Removes Gas Pumps to Allow for More Parking,” read one front-page headline.) “I was originally a theater person, then I became a radio person, then I became a writer, and now I do this. You move on to the next thing, because there’s another cool thing to do.”

If nothing else, I am consistent. First snow creature my store’s street. Meet Charley, the @GoCranberrys snow gnome. pic.twitter.com/8rulLjVjuE

— Joseph White Jr. (@JGatlinWhite) February 17, 2015

I’m not sure if this is a sports story. Maybe it’s a media story, or a retail story. There’s probably more than a little wish fulfillment involved. But I do know this: The sportswriting business once had an allure of authentic characters, one-of-a-kind types you wouldn’t meet elsewhere, people you couldn’t possibly forget. I’m sure they still exist, but they seem harder to find every year. And I promise you this: You would never forget Joseph White.

What other sportswriter would pull over on his way out of Redskins Park, set up his telescope on top of his car and observe the four moons of Jupiter? What other sportswriter would bike to Redskins Park — and then keep his helmet on while interviewing Mike Shanahan? What other sportswriter would produce logic puzzles for other writers to work on during rain delays? What other sportswriter would leave the baseball stadium and immediately go camping; or build an igloo; or travel to Edgar Allan Poe’s grave for an annual birthday vigil; or present his media-room pals with homemade pumpkin-mint-chocolate chip cookies, or butterscotch pie, or treats made with hand-picked mulberries, or a full barbecue feast brought back from North Carolina?

That one came after his father’s death. His dad had taught him that if he ever had spare change, he should do something nice for someone else. When he was tidying up his dad’s house, he found some spare change. So he brought back lunch for his friends.

On his last day covering the Redskins, the other reporters gave him a standing ovation.

“Joe really is one of a kind,” wrote former Skins beat writer Mike Jones, when I asked about White. “You could say that about a lot of people, but it really did apply to him, and his quirky ways were part of the reason why everybody liked him.”

“When I think of Joe, I think of a true original — a man who marches to a singular tune in his head,” The Post’s Liz Clarke wrote. “I think what has made him so beloved among fellow sportswriters is that unlike so many journalists, Joe rarely, if ever, complains and lacks the cynicism and pettiness that too often mars the profession.”

“We all find him endearing and gentle and down-to-earth,” former Washington Times writer Zac Boyer wrote, “but there’s also a quirkiness to him that warms your heart.”

“Joe will be missed because he’s simply a good guy,” wrote ESPN’s John Keim, “and because he liked to bake for us.”

If White didn’t act like everyone else, he didn’t write like us, either, glorying in the weirdest stories, the goofiest anecdotes, the most outlandish quotes. I always figured that’s why he reveled in covering every inch of the Spelling Bee, an event he has attended even after leaving the business. Turns out it was more than that.

“I felt like it was important to tell the stories of the Spelling Bee kids, because they get such a stereotype about them,” he told me. “Hey, this is an awesome kid who plays baseball and the violin and goes to public school — and these are the kids who are going to make a difference in the world. They’re going to be the doctors and lawyers and scientists and so forth, which is a whole heckuva lot more important than making a bunch of three-pointers.”

Arrived inBaltimore for the Poe Vigil w/ cookies for all and scorecards to judge the Faux Toasters. Join us! pic.twitter.com/IDreyw4jwP

— Joseph White Jr. (@JGatlinWhite) January 19, 2014

He didn’t dress like us, either. Former Redskins lineman Stephen Bowen — who called White “F-Dot” because of his Freddy Krueger attire — once stopped an interview, looked at White’s sweater and asked, “What the hell are you wearing? Is that sweater from 1989?” White thought about it, and told Bowen the sweater was probably five years older than that. He recently told a friend that there are three things left he wants to buy — a new telescope, a straight razor and a pair of cross-country skis — “and once I get those three things, I’ll own everything I want.”

It’s a lifestyle that helped open the possibilities of a new business adventure. White, now 54, previously had worked as a country-music DJ in North Carolina, and for AP radio in London. Nearly two decades covering Washington sports was a long time tilting at the same windmill. By the end, it felt like he didn’t need to use his tape recorder anymore; he had heard the same quotes in 1997, and 2001, and 2005; heard rookies saying how happy they were to be in Washington and optimistic coaches promising a fresh new era.

His brother had lived in Staunton for years, and White and his son loved visiting the arts-and-theater town. So out of nowhere, he e-mailed the owners of Cranberry’s, asking what retail niches in the active downtown district still needed filling. They told him they were ready to retire and suggested he just buy their store. Many months later, he did. He took a two-year sabbatical from the AP but knew pretty quickly that he wouldn’t be going back.

And so, on the day I visited, instead of chronicling the melancholic end of yet another playoff-free Redskins season, White was rejoicing about a delivery from Blue Ridge Bakery, and getting change from the bank (“you’re awesome!” he told the teller as he left), and singing showtunes from “South Pacific” with a customer-turned-friend, and getting ready to make posters for that week’s trivia night. (Introducing a weekly trivia night was one of his first innovations as store owner. He writes the questions himself.)

When protesters gather in front of the nearby courthouse, he brings them free coffee. When staffers need a break, he fills in behind the register. His favorite thing about the gig is meeting new people: the backpacker from Finland, the random late-night shopper who became one of his new best friends, the Amtrak travelers who hop off the thrice-weekly Cardinal Route, telling him about their adventures and listening to his.

He’s trying to launch an “Amazing Race”-style event in Staunton, and a program to offer low-income kids a meal at Cranberry’s, and a show at the adjacent Blackfriars theater. Many of his staffers are into the city’s thriving theater scene; one directed “Doctor Faustus,” and another directed “A Winter’s Tale.” He’s embraced Staunton’s Harry Potter festival; “we definitely have to order more chocolate frogs this year,” he noted. On Thursday night, he hosted a Solstice Bonfire.

The store and cafe were already successful before he arrived, and he mostly tries to stay out of his employees’ way — “all I did was just hop on a galloping horse,” he said. So he waters the plants and changes the light bulbs and designs the monthly placemats and tries to make the place feel like a home.

His mom ran a country store for more than two decades in rural North Carolina — that was his living room as a kid — and he wants Cranberry’s to have that same community-gathering-place appeal. He even made a replica of a sign that used to hang in her store. “You are a stranger here but once,” it reads. It feels like it.

“Why do I like this?” he said, repeating my question, as it snowed gently outside. (“It’s snowing!” he had shouted, when the first flakes appeared.)

“It’s a really cool place,” he finally answered. “I have really cool people working for me. I’ve got really cool customers. There’s not a day I turn that corner to come down here and look at the building and go, ‘Man, I don’t want to come to work today.’ I mean, there are times you could easily feel that way as a sportswriter — ‘Man, I don’t feel like going to practice today: It’s day 17 of training camp, I’d rather be home with my family.’ There’s not a day that I’ve come here where I was like, what did I get myself into?”

Mom used to have a sign like this in the country store she ran for 22 years. Figured I’d get one for @GoCranberrys. pic.twitter.com/ijJEWyiXf8

— Joseph White Jr. (@JGatlinWhite) February 11, 2015

He was talking about this general idea with Rob, his grocer, just the other day. They always banter about song lyrics and conspiracy theories and philosophy, and this time they were talking about how time is more valuable than money, because one is finite and the other isn’t. Why is that so easy to forget?

“You know, you don’t get moments back,” White said. “And I don’t know what the next adventure will be beyond this. Who knows?”

He’s having one now, though. Maybe stop in and see him if you’re ever in Staunton. Ask for the Earl Grey rolls.

More from the D.C. Sports Bog:

One fan’s thoughts on how the Redskins can improve the fan experience at FedEx Field

Carol Maloney leaves NBC Washington

After losing more than 80 pounds, former Redskin Will Montgomery’s ‘not scary anymore’

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