#Window Shades in Stamford

[loverofallthingsfandom]

GAYS IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM - THE OFFICE

The Scranton branch has officially absorbed the Stamford branch, and as a show of good faith, Michael calls everyone into the conference room to explain why [Oscar] being gay is okay.

WC: 734 words

Song Inspo: I Can See You by T. Swift

The staff were sitting in the conference room. A beige table was set up in the center with tan chairs inside it and around it by the three, beige walls. The fourth wall had a whiteboard, inches apart from the open door. The gray carpet was well-vacuumed and the white window shades were shut. Self-explanatory, the room made for an exciting meeting.

"Oscar is a good person." Michael spoke as he paced in front of the whiteboard. "You know, it should've matter if he's gaaayy or normal," Jim side-eyed the camera, "he's a human being, man. I...," Michael sighed and grabbed his hips, "I just don't understand how people could be so hateful."

"Michael," Kevin's deep voice rose from somewhere behind Karen. "We don't hate Oscar because he's gay... At least, not all of us." The large man mischievously glanced at Angela.

"Hmph." Angela crossed her arms, Bible in hand. "I don't support that lifestyle. It's impure, ungodly, unsanitary..."

"Unprotected- that's what he said!" Michael chuckled then caught himself. "No. No! I meant that as in unprotected because they are unprotected in this country. So anything you took from that is anti-gay. Case closed."

Dwight nodded along and took notes. Andy stroked his protruded chin and squinted with pretend intrigue. Stanley did his crossword puzzles in the far-left corner. Meredith's mouth hung agape and her eyes were red, clear signs of early intoxication. Pam looked uncomfortable between Karen and Jim but said nothing. Jim condescendingly smiled and did routine stares at the camera. Erin sat closest to Michael and the door, in clear view of Karen. While Michael went back-and-forth with Angela, Karen watched Erin doodle in her notepad. Fillipeli's cheek found her shoulder and her eyes found a tranquil lowness. Amongst all the speel and chaos, nothing seemed to matter then.

"-I refuse to give my American right to practice religion. Seriously. Whatever happened to freedom of speech? My first amendmant right-"

"Second." Dwight coughed.

Angela eyed him then returned to Michael. "If you can't afford me that right, I'll just have to pray for you." She smirked and patted her Bible.

Phyllis looked at her with terror and sadness, having the displeasure of sitting right next to the blonde woman.

"Can I ask," Karen turned around to her, "what type of Christian are you?"

"Excuse me?" Angela raised a brow.

"Catholic? Mormon? Jehovah witness? Baptist? Born-again?" Karen listed off the sects.

"I'm a devote Christian, old testament." She specified, enunciating the last part. She looked around the room with a finger up, as if expecting someone to oppose her.

"I grew up Catholic. Read the Bible every Christmas."

Angela smiled a bit, then cleared her throat, lifted her chin, looked at the floor, and raised a brow. "Favorite passage?"

"Easily Psalms 139:7." Karen scoffed. "Arguably the best passage, aside from Leviticus and Luke, of course."

Angela pouted a smile, almost holding back delight and disdain for not needing to correct Karen.

"Wow, Karen, I never pegged you for a Bible thumper." Kelly stated what the room was thinking.

"That's because sinful women like you wouldn't know a real holy woman from your left elbow, Kelly." Angela spat at her, making the Indian woman gasp.

"Ryan!" Kelly called for her boyfriend's aid, but he just shrugged.

"Invite Oscar back if you want. Invite the AID's epidemic right along with him. I don't care anymore." Angela shrugged. "As long as I have this," she held up her Bible, "and my undeniable faith, I'm safe."

"From gay people?" Jim replied. "You think the book wards off gay people?"

"I do." Angela said matter-of-factly.

"What'll happen if I say I'm gay and I touch it?" Kevin asked on top of his question. "I'm not." He addressed the room. "But it'd be funny if I was, right?" He laughed throatily.

"You'd burst into flames." Dwight answered.

"Not accurate." Andy counteracted.

"Oh, how do you know, Cornell?" Dwight looked him up and down.

"Can I see it?" Karen cut him off. "It's been so long since I've held one that wasn't mine."

"Sure, Karen. I trust my fellow God warriors." Angela sneered at Jim as she outreached her black little book to Karen. Granted, this was Angela, so she never let go, but Karen did stroke it's cover.

"Whoa. Leather. Very nice." Karen complimented her.

The scene cut to Karen's interview.

"I'm also a lesbian."

#the office #the office fanfiction #karen fillipelli #erin hannon #michael scott #angela howard #dwight schrute #jim halpert #pam beesly #wlw #erin hannon x fem!reader #erin hannon x original character #erin hannon x karen fillipelli

[theaawalker]

GAYS IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM - THE OFFICE

The Scranton branch has officially absorbed the Stamford branch, and as a show of good faith, Michael calls everyone into the conference room to explain why [Oscar] being gay is okay.

WC: 734 words

Song Inspo: I Can See You

The staff were sitting in the conference room. A beige table was set up in the center with tan chairs inside it and around it by the three, beige walls. The fourth wall had a whiteboard, inches apart from the open door. The gray carpet was well-vacuumed and the white window shades were shut. Self-explanatory, the room made for an exciting meeting.

"Oscar is a good person." Michael spoke as he paced in front of the whiteboard. "You know, it should've matter if he's gaaayy or normal," Jim side-eyed the camera, "he's a human being, man. I...," Michael sighed and grabbed his hips, "I just don't understand how people could be so hateful."

"Michael," Kevin's deep voice rose from somewhere behind Karen. "We don't hate Oscar because he's gay... At least, not all of us." The large man mischievously glanced at Angela.

"Hmph." Angela crossed her arms, Bible in hand. "I don't support that lifestyle. It's impure, ungodly, unsanitary..."

"Unprotected- that's what he said!" Michael chuckled then caught himself. "No. No! I meant that as in unprotected because they are unprotected in this country. So anything you took from that is anti-gay. Case closed."

Dwight nodded along and took notes. Andy stroked his protruded chin and squinted with pretend intrigue. Stanley did his crossword puzzles in the far-left corner. Meredith's mouth hung agape and her eyes were red, clear signs of early intoxication. Pam looked uncomfortable between Karen and Jim but said nothing. Jim condescendingly smiled and did routine stares at the camera. Erin sat closest to Michael and the door, in clear view of Karen. While Michael went back-and-forth with Angela, Karen watched Erin doodle in her notepad. Fillipeli's cheek found her shoulder and her eyes found a tranquil lowness. Amongst all the speel and chaos, nothing seemed to matter then.

"-I refuse to give my American right to practice religion. Seriously. Whatever happened to freedom of speech? My first amendmant right-"

"Second." Dwight coughed.

Angela eyed him then returned to Michael. "If you can't afford me that right, I'll just have to pray for you." She smirked and patted her Bible.

Phyllis looked at her with terror and sadness, having the displeasure of sitting right next to the blonde woman.

"Can I ask," Karen turned around to her, "what type of Christian are you?"

"Excuse me?" Angela raised a brow.

"Catholic? Mormon? Jehovah witness? Baptist? Born-again?" Karen listed off the sects.

"I'm a devote Christian, old testament." She specified, enunciating the last part. She looked around the room with a finger up, as if expecting someone to oppose her.

"I grew up Catholic. Read the Bible every Christmas."

Angela smiled a bit, then cleared her throat, lifted her chin, looked at the floor, and raised a brow. "Favorite passage?"

"Easily Psalms 139:7." Karen scoffed. "Arguably the best passage, aside from Leviticus and Luke, of course."

Angela pouted a smile, almost holding back delight and disdain for not needing to correct Karen.

"Wow, Karen, I never pegged you for a Bible thumper." Kelly stated what the room was thinking.

"That's because sinful women like you wouldn't know a real holy woman from your left elbow, Kelly." Angela spat at her, making the Indian woman gasp.

"Ryan!" Kelly called for her boyfriend's aid, but he just shrugged.

"Invite Oscar back if you want. Invite the AID's epidemic right along with him. I don't care anymore." Angela shrugged. "As long as I have this," she held up her Bible, "and my undeniable faith, I'm safe."

"From gay people?" Jim replied. "You think the book wards off gay people?"

"I do." Angela said matter-of-factly.

"What'll happen if I say I'm gay and I touch it?" Kevin asked on top of his question. "I'm not." He addressed the room. "But it'd be funny if I was, right?" He laughed throatily.

"You'd burst into flames." Dwight answered.

"Not accurate." Andy counteracted.

"Oh, how do you know, Cornell?" Dwight looked him up and down.

"Can I see it?" Karen cut him off. "It's been so long since I've held one that wasn't mine."

"Sure, Karen. I trust my fellow God warriors." Angela sneered at Jim as she outreached her black little book to Karen. Granted, this was Angela, so she never let go, but Karen did stroke it's cover.

"Whoa. Leather. Very nice." Karen complimented her.

The scene cut to Karen's interview.

"I'm also a lesbian."

#personal fave #the office #the office fanfiction #karen fillpelli #erin hannon #michael scott #angela howard #dwight schrute #jim halper #pam beesly #wlw #erin hannon x fem!reader #karen fillipeli x fem!reader #karen fillipeli x reader #erin hannon x reader #the office au #erin hannon x karen fillipeli #the office oneshot #the office imagine #the office fluff

[micsm]

Representative Work

This is a photograph of my hometown, Stamford, CT. Where I was born and raised. The photo I took was in the year 2003, around January sometime. I remember it was a Sunday morning the sun was coming up. The focus of this photograph was the round building; there were three in total. This one was building C. My family and I lived in Building A; this was our view from the seventh-floor balcony. All three buildings were the same on the outside, and all the windows had white shades so they would be uniform. The buildings were round, reminding me of looking at corn on the cob. An important detail to me is how all the balconies look identical structurally; some have white coverings. The building is a perfect cylinder.

The sun's rays appeal to me the most; I love how they make their way up and shine on different parts of the round building and the second floor, where a playground and parking lot exist. They are light blue skies with a few clouds in the distance. The rays tell me that day is just starting; the ice and snow on the ground will soon begin to melt away. A tall building is blocking the sun from shining on the cars in the parking lot. This photograph brings me back to my childhood and reminds me of my sisters and me playing in the playground with all the neighborhood children. The theme that this photograph represents is a cold wintery morning. A day after, it had just finished snowing, and the snow trucks cleaned the streets previously. The sun will be at its highest soon and may feel slightly warmer. The ice will melt on the streets, creating a slush that will eventually turn into muddy water as the cars drive through it.

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[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

Meet Me in the Pouring Rain // a Post-TFP story

when @colonialfire24 prompted me with just a select few keywords, the story practically wrote itself, though not without a little brainstorming on my part :p

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               It’s not pretty when a heart breaks. The movies had it all wrong, romanticizing such pain. Sherlock should know, as he’s watched them all in a fit of desperation with hopes that there was something he seemed to be missing that could easily be found. There was nothing. Real life was hardly ever the cliché meet-cute, fall in love, fight briefly, and have a happily ever after. In fact, it never works out that way, and Sherlock, of all people, should know this by now.

               It isn’t romantic when your psychotic sister forces your deepest confession out from the hidden alcoves of your heart. It isn’t the least bit satisfying to make the woman you love cry whilst she’s repeating those three words. Words that were once supposed to fill them with hope and happiness were now damned and forbidden. Weeks had passed, but Sherlock hadn’t a clue how long it actually had been, as he lost count after the first month. She no longer wanted him. And why should she? He was unlovable, just as he always thought himself to be.

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               Molly was beside herself, staring at the mess reflected back at her in the empty loo at the back of the pub. Her bun had fallen apart, tendrils of hair falling wherever they wanted. Lipstick the shade of dark red wine was smeared across her mouth. She was dabbing at the mascara that was running down her face from the tears she hadn’t allowed to spill until now. With a string of convulsive sobs, Molly wondered how in the hell she got here. It felt as if her whole life had been falling apart, each string unraveling. First, it was Sherlock possibly going off to his death in six months, then Mary dying at the hand of a bitter woman, Sherlock high off his tits on drugs for weeks, and then that bloody phone call where her last nerve was shot.

               Just before breaking down in a shoddy bathroom, Molly had a drink or two, eventually accepting a dance with a guy who bought her another round afterward. As a lightweight, she had been quite tipsy after her third, and somehow ended up stumbling toward a backroom with him. She hadn’t even asked his name, let alone introduced herself, and there they were snogging in a storage closet. When he had started to feel her up, she mumbled her protests, but he must have taken it as sounds of pleasure. The moment his hand found its way up under her blouse, the skin to skin contact made her push him away hard enough for him to tumble to the floor. This wasn’t what she wanted, though that’s what she thought she should want. It was love she craved. Sherlock is who she wanted.

               She cried for herself, and for Sherlock. Knowing the full story, she knew it wasn’t his fault, but the walls that quickly built themselves around her heart wouldn’t allow her to go forward with him. She wanted to be with him right now, but she resisted due to the aches in her chest that just wouldn’t let up. The movies may be wrong, but the songs were right; it’s not pretty when a heart breaks.

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               The air was crisp, and wind chilled him to the bone, but Sherlock didn’t let it keep him from roaming the streets of London. It was almost mid-October, and his mind brought up the fact that this meant Molly’s birthday was right around the corner. He could smell the scent of oncoming rain, waiting to shower the people in the streets below. Though he hadn’t spoken to Molly in a couple of months, he knew she would be getting off work soon. He wondered how she would react if she were to see him after so long. He felt so lost within the streets he knew better than the back of his hand.

               Continuing to wander, Sherlock happened upon a thrift shop that dredged up a once-happy memory. They were closing soon, and he couldn’t help but notice the striking lemon yellow chair in the window. He hadn’t a clue what possessed him to purchase it, but at least the kind woman who ran the shop agreed he could pick it up in the morning. And so, as he strolled down the street, it had begun to drizzle. Not that he minded, of course, though he could hear her voice in his head telling him he’d catch his death if he didn’t come inside from the several times he had shown up at her flat in the rain.

               Despite doing everything he could to not think about her, she was everywhere he looked. There wasn’t a damn thing in this world that didn’t remind him of Molly. Any time he’d start to button his aubergine shirt, he’d remember that it was her favourite color, and would quickly shrug it off his shoulders. Every film he’d watch, and every book he’d read would throw all kinds of reminders in his face. And now, as the rain started to pound the pavement, he found himself outside of Bart’s hospital in front of a bright red telephone booth, where Molly was dialing his number. His mobile began to ring.

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               Thank goodness for the night shift, Molly thought, her memories from the night before making her shudder. She had been able to sleep off the splitting headache that had briefly woken her up early this morning. After clocking out, and saying goodnight to Stamford, she felt she couldn’t get out of the building quickly enough. It was drizzling outside, but it wouldn’t be too bad for the walk to her flat, as it was only a fifteen minute walk from work. Taking out her phone to check the weather report, she realised it had died the moment the rain began pouring down.

               Sighing in frustration, Molly sprinted her way over to the telephone booth. Once inside, she wasn’t sure who she was going to call. A cab would probably be the best route, but something inside her screamed it had to be someone else. Before giving it another thought, her fingers reached out toward the numbers that would inevitably connect her with the only person she wanted to see. Her hand shook as she held the phone to her ear, listening to it ring. What the hell was she doing? This was crazy! She should just hang up, and pretend—

               “Hello?” Sherlock’s comforting baritone answered, filling Molly with warmth from head to toe.

               Unsure of what to say, Molly was silent for a moment. With a sigh, she spoke, her voice trembling as tears threatened to spill over again. “Hi, uh, Sherlock?”

               “Yes?” he spoke breathlessly.

               “I need to see you,” she cried.

               “Just look outside the window,” he told her, walking closer towards the booth.

               Without a second thought, Molly hung up the phone, and exited through the door into the rain. There he stood, as if no time had passed at all, looming over her as he always had.

               He then chose to ask her the words she had once asked him. “What do you need?”

               Molly was silent.

               “Tell me, Molly.”

               “I can’t,” she finally told him. “This was a mistake. I need to get home.”

               Sherlock couldn’t contain the anger that coursed through him. “Damn it, Molly! You’re shutting me out again, just like you did when I came to you months ago!”

               “Well, maybe if you’d wrap your small brain around my feelings for once, you’d understand why!” Frustrated, she brushed her hair back from her face with her hand.

               “Do you not think I had your feelings in mind when I reached out to you!? It wasn’t just for my benefit, you know. I’m sure you’d have a real reason to hate me had I not even bothered!” His throat felt raw from shouting, and he was sure hers must be in the same state as well.

               “Maybe you shouldn’t have! Why waste your time on me anyways!? It’s not like you actually love me, Sherlock! I’ve felt so alone these past few months, you have no idea!”

               “Oh, really!? You don’t think I’ve been alone just as much as you!? The reason I reached out is because we should have been healing together, Molly! Don’t you see that???”

               That’s when it hit her. Sherlock really had been just as alone as her. John was never going to be fully over blaming Sherlock for Mary’s death, and it’s not like Mycroft had experience in this particular area. They should have been healing together, but she shut him out just when he finally wanted to open himself up to her.

               “I’m not saying you didn’t deserve time for yourself, Molly,” Sherlock spoke softly, “but I wish we could’ve healed together. I wanted to be there for you, as I know that phone call must have shattered you even more than it shattered me.”

               Despite the rain pelting her face so hard, it stung her, she reached out to him, closing the gap between them. With her arms around his neck, her fingers sunk into his wet curls, she pulled him down for a searing kiss that warmed them up from the inside out. Sherlock couldn’t resist lifting her up the moment her tongue slid against his in perfect tandem. “Molly,” he moaned between kisses. Unfortunately, he tore his mouth away from hers after hearing the loud honk of a town car that had pulled up beside them.

               “I assume you two may need a ride?” Mycroft asked from inside the back of the car. Sherlock carefully set Molly down, opening the door for her. As they slid inside, the elder Holmes spoke up again. “Just in time too, as I was afraid you’d both be stuck that way for quite some time. Where shall we drop you off?”

               “Baker Street,” Molly blurted, without thinking. It must have shocked Sherlock as well, since the look on his face was full of confusion. “And step on it, would you?”

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               Curled up in his bed, in her spare set of pyjamas, Molly reveled in the feel of his arm securely around her waist. She could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck, his lips close enough to her skin that if he moved in the slightest way, it would feel as if he were kissing her. She thought of the hours they had just spent having deep conversations with the welcome interludes of snogging and gentle touches. They cried, they laughed, and loved with a love fiercer than any other.

               She sighed happily, snuggling herself closer to him. It was funny how just a few hours could change your life just like that after a rather rubbish two months. Every day since the phone call, Molly had consistently told herself that the next day would be better. For the first time since then, she could confidently say that tomorrow would truly be better. The future now held more possibilities than she once imagined. She was ready for whatever would be thrown her way, because she had someone to help her fight through her storms, just as she’d help him fight through his.

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here’s my playlist for the fic:

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AO3 | FFN | Buy Me a Coffee?

#sherlolly #my fanfiction

[inthesummerswelter]

recipe for disaster: chapter fourteen

They don’t talk about it, that early morning with Penn lying on the floor and tea spilling out of the quivering cup in her gran’s hands.

There’s more tenderness between them though, with gentle touches on the arm, hands placed comfortingly on shoulders as they soldier on together, the days getting longer as the New Year comes in on tip-toe.

They don’t talk about it, not when their positions are reversed just under a week later, and Penn is screaming into her mobile, asking for emergency services as her legs buckle underneath her at the sight of her gran, fallen and unconscious at the bottom of the stairs, a small pool of blood staining her pure white hair a sickly shade of peach.

Seeing the gurney wheeled in through the front door has her in near hysterics, utter chaos flooding the living room. She nearly forgets to slip on a pair of shoes before locking the door and rushing out into the back of the ambulance, leaving Cardy and Clove frantically dashing around the flat.

They don’t talk about it, not when Penn’s knuckles are the same sort of pale as the inside of the ambulance, a side effect of the sterile, overhead lighting and from clutching the bars of the gurney too hard. The emergency medical technician in the back drapes an arm over her shoulders, just enough to keep her from flying into the walls as the vehicle takes a sharp turn. All of the sounds come muffled, as if someone’s stuffed cotton into her ears, drowning out the wailing sirens with an eerie blanket of nothing.

She calls Zayn again, numbly, after they restrain her from bursting through the heavy swinging doors where they’ve taken her gran in to do further examination on the severity of the head wound. The reception is bad on his end, crackling with fuzz and static, but she knows that he can hear her telling him about the tacky art adorning the whitewashed walls of the waiting room.

They talk about it when Miriam Bunting gets a room to herself, condition having stabilized enough for Penn to go in and see her.

Or, Penn talks about it, really.

Gingerly holding her hand, made trickier with the tubing feeding into her body, Penn talks about it.

“You’re not scared, I know. But I am. I’m ridiculously scared. And I shouldn’t be, I know. It’s just hard. I know all these things. I know that tomorrow the sun will rise, and I know that tomorrow you’ll still love lily-of-the-valley. I know that the restaurant still exists, and that the clams are one of the most popular appetizers. But I don’t know the scariest things. Where will you go? How long will it take for you to get there? Will there be ovens and lawn chairs and Pop?”

Her voice gives out at the end, and she’s silent for a long time.

The slow beep of the heart monitor is the only other sound in the room, along with the constant whir from the air shaft, providing ventilation in the small room.

“I’m scared and I’m worried and I’m so tired. And I love you so much. I just wish we had more time.”

The monotonous drone is broken by the sound of footsteps. A nurse comes in, presumably to complete a cursory check of the patient, and Penn takes that as a cue to leave for a bit.

All the hallways look the same. She doesn’t pay attention to the signs as she wanders around, taking stairs up and down when she can to avoid groups of people clustered about.

Soon, however, she finds herself in the natal ward, standing just opposite a large pane of glass, behind which lies orderly rows of newborn babies in hospital bassinets, the nursery surprisingly busy.

There’s a digital clock right near the front, flashing the time: 12:48 a.m.

They left the flat at quarter ‘til nine in the evening.

Crossing her arms and bracing them on the small ledge in front of the glass, she watches the babies sleep, reading the name cards over and over again until her whole world consists of linking letters together.

It’s a welcome distraction, until someone nudges her shoulder and pushes something into her hand.

Ashton stands beside her, hair sticking up at odd angles, dark thumbprints of exhaustion evident underneath his hazel eyes. He’s got an old flannel on and a pair of sleep trousers, and a carry-out cup of something in his hand.

“It’s really crap tea,” he mumbles before sipping from the rim of the cardboard cup. She barely registers the cup that’s pushed into her hand seconds before, struck dumb by his presence.

How had he known…?

Pausing in the midst of blowing across the surface of the liquid in an attempt to cool it, he turns and looks at her, taking in her wide eyes and open mouth.

“Zayn,” Ashton says, shrugging his shoulders and turning away, causing the plaid pattern of the flannel to stretch and warp momentarily across the broad plane of his back. “Called me up, told me what’s been going on. Y’know, since you’ve decided to keep me out of the loop and all.”

“I -”

“Told me that I shouldn’t be coming onto private property uninvited? I know you’re hurting, Penn, but that’s no reason to push me away.”

He doesn’t look at her, staring instead through the glass at the little bassinets, one now with waving fists, an apparently unhappy occupant. They watch as a nurse bustles in and takes the newborn in hand, cradling it to her chest and swaying around in loose circle before its cries wake up the other residents.

She didn’t mean it, not really.

He had stopped by on an especially bad afternoon, and she had just, well, snapped.

“I…,” she tries again. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. It’s just me.”

“I fucking know it’s you, Penn, okay?”

Startled at the vehemence in his voice, she accidentally spills a bit of her tea, splattering the pristine tiles.

“Don’t do this to me again. You didn’t answer my calls or my texts. I may not understand exactly what you’re going through, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be there with you, helping you!”

Penn closes her eyes and gently leans over until her head hits his shoulder. It’s shaking.

“I’m so sorry. I’ve fucked everything up.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you have.”

They stand there in the hallway, waiting for nothing in particular.

Everything is quiet now, blanketed with the stillness that only after-midnight hours bring. So quiet that Penn thinks she can hear the thud of their hearts, beating together in a syncopated rhythm.

All that’s missing is a change of scenery, a change of situation. Something that’s not so utterly grim and tinged with a sort of low-budget desperation that washes out all characters on the screen into pale facsimiles of themselves.

Ashton huffs out a sigh, fingers curling into the cool metal of the ledge before finally swinging his head to look at her from underneath honeyed eyelashes.

“Hold this a sec for me?” He gestures to his cup of tepid tea, placing it in her other hand when she nods.

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting him to do - probably bend down to retie his shoe or nip off quickly to the loo, something inane like that - but she knows that it’s not this.

This being him taking three decisive steps forward, until her back hits the drywall just to the side of the large window, liquid in the cups sloshing dangerously close to the rims.

This being him bringing large hands oh so delicately up to slip a lock of hair that had escaped its pin back into place and then back down to cradle the slight curve of her waist and cup the line of her jaw, stroking the skin just behind her ear gently with a calloused fingertip.

This being him using his arms to pull her forward into his front, his chest warm and comfortingly solid.

This being him leaning forward to whisper, his lips a hairsbreadth away from touching the curve of her ear.

“It’s going to be alright. I promise. You just have to be strong a little bit longer.”

He retracts after a moment of hesitation, and, after a moment more, presses a kiss to her forehead, echoing the one on the landing between their flats that seemed like eons ago.

Taking his cup, he mumbles something about needing to see if they’re done in the room and picks up a duffel she hadn’t even noticed off the floor, trudging away back towards her gran’s wing.

Her legs give out seconds later, and she slides down the wall until she’s sitting, all folded up against the wall.

God, what is she even doing any more?

  Less than an hour later, in the dark of her gran’s room, she shifts her head on the coarse canvas of his backpack, nestling further into the nest of spare blankets the nurse on duty had given them. Penn had fallen into a sort of drowsy reverie a lot faster than she initially had thought, and consequently feels just about half-asleep right now.

Her spine bumps up against the long line of his leg, the clacking of the keys on his laptop as he types trailing off.

“‘M still a little pissed with you,” he sighs out, seconds before she feels a hand stroke the side of her head slowly.

The typing picks up again, as Ashton works to finish up a paper, the liquid-crystal of the display casting a glow onto his face for hours after.

They leave the hospital later that next day, in the sun-soaked afternoon.

Ashton comes over and makes up proper tea while Penn touches the pots and pans for what feels like the first time in ages.

   “C’mon, Gran, we’re going to be late for your appointment!”

Penn bustles around the flat, gathering up all the things that they’ll need for their routine visit to the doctor. She’s steeling herself for the day when Dr. Stamford tells them that they should just stay at the hospital until the end, that the cancer has almost completed its goal.

“We’re not going, Penelope.”

Sitting in the rocking chair positioned just close enough to the window to catch the beams of afternoon sun that stream through, Miriam Bunting watches the traffic flood by across the busy fareway.

She stops mid-stride, hand outstretched to grab her keys off the hook by the door.

“What?”

Her gran shrugs. “There’s no point to wasting time with that sort of nonsense. I’ve already phoned up the office and told them. I want to die at home.”

One would think that Penn has cried herself dry by this point, but a flood of tears still rush up unbidden to her eyes.

Illuminated by the shaft of light floating through the window, Miriam looks practically angelic already, pale skin and white housecoat near glowing.

“I’ve made other arrangements for my care for the next days and called for David and Laura. They’re on their way. And, I’ve taken the liberty of going around gathering most of your things. You should go now, Penelope.”

“Wait, what?”

Blindsided doesn’t even begin to describe it right now.

Penn reels at the news. Her gran is dying. Her parents are coming. And she’s supposed to leave her like this?

“You heard me. I don’t want you to see me like...that,” she says, making a gesture off into the air. “I don’t want your last memory of me to be that. Not like how it is with Ichiro. I always felt like we made a mistake, letting you see him in the hospital, but you were so young and so heartbroken…”

“Gran, I’m heartbroken now.”

Facing her granddaughter, there’s steel in Miriam’s eyes, an inner strength completely at odds with her wasted frame.  

“Don’t do this, Penelope. Don’t you dare do this to yourself. You can’t linger and waste your life thinking about this constantly. You have the capacity for great things, and I know you will accomplish them. You can’t linger, can’t waste your life grieving over the inevitable!”

There’s nothing she can do to change her mind, to make her let her stay until the end.

Silently, Penn nods, swiping at her eyes with her fists like a child again.

“I love you, Gran. So much.”

Motioning her closer, she gathers the younger girl in her arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you too, Penelope. Never doubt my love for you.”

After a long while, they draw apart, Penn collecting her remaining things and herding the dogs towards the door after they too have said their goodbyes. She turns to look on her gran, one last time, taking the image to memory before she forces herself to close the door.

The heavy wood hits the frame just seconds before tears start falling onto the weave of the throw rug.

Twilight has come.

   It’s déjà vu all over again for him.        

He looks up as the rain paints pictures against the cold glass of the window, and he smiles because he could use a break from the insufferable writing of his poli sci text right now. Well, from that and from all of the second-hand pain of Penn’s that he’s been toting around on his back.

Ashton doesn’t even bother stripping off his shirt this time, a long-sleeved affair with multicolor stripes. Calum likes to tell him that it makes him look like one of the permanent cast members of Sesame Street.

Opening the slider door that leads out onto the shared terrace, he curls his toes in the puddle that’s already forming under the ledge of the entrance. He closes his eyes and tilts his head up, feeling the torrent run across his face, plastering his wavy mop against his forehead.

There’s just something about the rain that’s special to him, always been special to him.

Ashton cups his hands as he strides out into the middle of the downpour, catching and releasing the water just as quickly as it hits his palms, and he heads for the edge of the small greenhouse structure constructed on the terrace. Penn keeps a few small folding chairs there, and they’re just the right material to get drenched without any damage.

Except, as he rounds the corner, it’s not just the chairs that are there.

Penn’s there, too, just standing right at the edge of the roof with a watering can in loosely wilting fingers. No umbrella, no chastising him for a reckless behavior.

Nothing.

And his heart seizes up in his chest as he realizes just how close she is to the drop-off, watches her feet begin to shift, and Ashton dashes towards Penn, feeling like he’s moving through molasses.

The only thing that runs through his mind right now is Penn Penn Penn there’s something wrong with Penn, and vaguely he knows that her gran is a part of it.

(Something’s wrong, something’s terribly wrong.)

Ashton’s arm shoots out and catches her around the waist, dragging her away from the limestone border of the rooftop terrace and pulls her into him, allowing himself one moment of indulgence in the feel of her body in his arms before he lets go and puts his hands on her shoulders.

“Penn! Penn – fuck, you’re freezing – what the fuck, what the fuck is wrong?” He practically shouts this into her face, her face that’s absolutely devoid of any emotion, and he can’t completely keep the note of desperation out of his voice.

Two words come out of her mouth. “She’s gone.”

He knows exactly who she’s talking about, dead-on with his previous assumption. The only she that Penn ever cared for, and, as far as he knows, ever cared for Penn.

Penn’s eyes finally connect with his own, and it feels like he’s been punched in the gut with the utter loss and confusion and desperation that’s there, waiting for someone to notice.

With all of that, Ashton really shouldn’t be surprised at what happens next, but, Jesus Christ, is he ever.  

Something changes in her expression, and she’s suddenly much closer to him that before. Dimly, Ashton registers the sound of the metal watering can clattering against the tiled roof, but right now most of his concentration is being taken up with trying not to stare too blatantly at the wet shirt draping itself over Penn’s chest.

And then she kisses him.

It’s hot mouths and clacking teeth, and fingers sewing stitches at the nape of his neck and lacing around the curve of his jaw, and he staggers back, clutching her waist again, but this time for balance.

After a few glorious seconds minutes hours days later, he regains some control on his brain and pulls back his hand that’s somehow made its way to the curve of her arse, detaching his mouth from hers in the same motion.

He wants to dive back in as soon as she gives a little, breathy gasp at the sudden lack of him, but, instead, Ashton begins say, “Penn, no this isn’t the right way of doing th –”

His sentence gets cut off by a groan that makes its way up his throat because she’s somehow got her mouth on a point right under his jaw that makes his toes curl, and he knows that it’s going to be a moot point to argue with her when she’s wrangling with his belt in one hand and tracing a steady pattern on the planes of his back with her other.

  It’s not until much later that she gets the call, all crackling static and interference, and she wants so damn much to not believe it, but the words come through with deadly clarity.

“She’s gone,” says her mother, no prefacing needed.

And Penn calmly takes the receiver away from her ear. Silently, her index finger presses down on the ‘end’ button, and the phone gets set on the counter, because Penn has to go water the plants now.

She’s since changed into a different pair of linen shorts and a tee shirt declaring her property of whatever university Ashton’s enrolled in, and she plucks at it idly, thinking that she maybe should change.

But Penn has to go water the plants now, so she slips on her favorite pair of Birkenstocks and loops her fingers around the can sitting right beside the slider door. Pushing the pane of glass aside, she steps out into a torrential downpour, but she has to go water the plants now. It makes no difference what the weather is.    

She makes it halfway to the greenhouse before she stops, adjacent to the rim of the roof, and the watering can is now held just tenuously.

Penn looks over, looks through the buzz in her brain, the fog in her eyes, to the streets of the city below.

It’s such a long way down for such a short trip. Just a quick step up and over and that’s it. That’s the end.

Her feet begin to move again – she has to go water the plants now - but this time, she’s caught about the waist with strong arms and held tightly to an unyielding chest, a face bursting into view.

It’s Ashton, and Penn thinks that he’s saying her name, and then she realizes that it’s Ashton Ashton will understand Ashton.

Prying her lips open, she manages to speak.

“She’s gone.”

And the look of devastation and concern that crosses his face makes her heart ache, and she just needs a goddamn distraction right now because - who is she fucking kidding - the plants don’t need a goddamn watering right now; it’s fucking pouring.

It’s pouring, and it’s a Tuesday morning, and her grandmother’s dead.

And Ashton’s there, right in front of her, and Penn wanted a distraction, didn’t she?

The watering can clatters on the ground as she loops her arms around his neck and molds her lips to hers, and damn it, he’s going to kiss her back. Penn sucks and licks and nibbles until he gasps, a deep whooshing sound that takes the oxygen from her lungs, and it’s not her leaning over him now, it’s the other way around.

He pushes back, guiding them away from the ledge, all the while responding with a frenzy of soft touches and slick motions, and vaguely she registers his hand on the curve of her arse and, damn, is she ever okay with that.

Penn’s fingers twine in the hair at the nape of his neck and tug, and he gives this deep groan that reverberates in his chest like a rumble, and everything feels so fucking good until he pulls away and starts talking.

No, no. That won’t do at all.

She takes advantage of the moment, pressing her lips against his jawline, leaving flutteringly small kisses, until there’s a gratifying gasp and his hands mouth presence is back, this time sliding under her skin.

Palms press their way up her sides, slowly peeling the wet shirt away from her ribs, and the pads of his fingers set fire to her bones, and what could be so wrong about something that feels this right?

But it’s warm rain cascading down her cheeks now as her grief truly begins to overtake her, and Ashton’s hands turn from fireworks under her skin to soothing, lazy strokes down her spine that remind her of home. Kisses float from intense to gentle pulls at her lips, and he begins to whisper the nonsensical words of a lullaby in her ear as sobs overtake her body.

It’s an implosion, and they both sink to the terrace, his arms cradling her, building her an ark to stay afloat in. Penn’s sure her face looks horrific right now, so she hides it in the shadow of his collarbones, and Ashton rests his chin on the top of her head, fingers rubbing small circles on her back and carding through her soaking wet hair.

It’s just her and him, clutching to rusted anchors from boats long gone out to sea.

#fic: recipe for disaster #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sosff #updates

[dresupi]

burst your bubble

Rated: T

For: @tarticawhat

Pairing: Molly Hooper/Sherlock Holmes \ Characters:  Mike Stamford, Philip Anderson, Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Tags: Alternate Universe - Retail; Drug Store; Cashier Molly Hooper; Sherlock Holmes has Feelings; Philip Anderson being a Dick; Mutual Pining; Bad Flirting; Shampoo; Deserves its own tag because it's practically a character, One Shot

ao3

Summary:

He always comes through her queue. And he always makes the most random purchases. In her heart of hearts, she hopes for a reason.

But when has anyone described Sherlock Holmes as reasonable?

Retail AU

Notes:

Prompt was: "I'm a cashier and you're buying some really random products, I'm trying not to judge, but…wtf dude?"

"Your bloke is here again," Mike called from the chemist's counter in the back of the store.

Molly felt her face flush scarlet as her fingers closed around the collar of her blouse. Had she put her hand there? She couldn't remember doing it, but here it was, all the same. If she had pearls, she'd be clutching them.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't her bloke. Not that she would throw him out of bed… but that was beside the point.

The point was, he wasn't hers.

Even though he always seemed to come through her queue. And with the oddest, most mind-boggling purchases, too.

On one particular occasion, he'd walked out of Bart's Pharmacy with every red lipstick they carried. "For a case," he'd said in way of explanation. What red lipstick could tell him about a crime wasn't clear, but Molly didn't make a habit of arguing with the self-proclaimed consulting detective.

"I wonder if he's here to buy all the lippy again…" Philip Anderson muttered, but not so quietly he couldn't be heard. He shifted his weight and peered out the front windows at the man in the Belstaff who was currently walking toward the store.

"That was only a few months back," Molly said absently. "I doubt he could have used them all up by now."

"If he found a favorite shade, he might have done," was Anderson's snide retort.

Rolling her eyes, she smoothed down the front of her smock and checked her image in the security feed. She'd worn comfortable clothing, as per usual, since she was on her feet for most of the day, but now she'd wished she'd put forth a bit more effort.

The doors slid open and the man himself walked into the shop. This time, he wasn't alone. John Watson, that doctor who lived with him, was just now exiting the car and hurrying to keep up.

Molly's heart sank.

It wasn't that she didn't like Dr. Watson, she simply preferred it when Sherlock came alone.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the store, finding what he was looking for in an instant, and taking off in the direction of the hair care products.

John entered a few moments later, eyes searching for and finding Sherlock. Once he had, he turned to nod in Molly's direction. "Ms. Hooper…"

"Dr. Watson," she returned, watching as John made his way back to where his flatmate was currently perusing the bottles of hair wash. He'd selected a few different brands, and proceeded to dump all of these into John's arms.

"I'll get a trolley, then?" John asked, looking very put upon when he got no response from Sherlock.

"It's a specific brand, John. We find the brand, we find the killer."

John huffed out some sort of rude reply and walked up to the front of the store where the trolleys were kept. He was about to walk toward one when Anderson stopped him, shaking his head. "Afraid you can't go past the queues with products you haven't purchased, sir."

John shot Anderson a look of pure disbelief. "You think I'm nicking twelve bottles of shampoo? What, do you think I'm mad?"

Anderson glanced back at Sherlock before returning his gaze to John. He shrugged. "Can't let you through, Dr. Watson."

"Oh for goodness' sake…" Molly groaned, walking out from behind her register to procure a trolley for the poor doctor. "Anderson, you're the worst sort of human."

"Oy!" her coworker protested as she pushed the trolley towards John, who shot her a grateful look as he dumped the contents of his arms into it, and then pushed it back towards the hair care aisle where Sherlock already had more bottles at the ready.

"Just because you fancy that looney doesn't mean we all do, Hooper…" Anderson hissed. Again, not so under-his-breath that everyone in the bloody shop couldn't hear him.

"I don't fancy him," Molly mumbled, blushing like mad as she made her way back round to her cash register. "I don't."

It took them a few minutes longer, but soon Holmes and Watson had chosen a bottle  in every brand and fragrance. There were dozens of bottles that they began unloading at Molly's queue, much to the amusement of the troll-like Anderson.

She rang them all up; some bottles didn't even cost an entire pound and then there were others that cost nearly forty each.

Sherlock stood there, looking at Molly in that unnerving way he had. She felt her shoulders tense up, sensing an impending deduction.

Those deductions were the reason Anderson hated Sherlock Holmes, and while Molly could understand Philip's negative reaction--Sherlock's deductions were often brutally honest to the point of cruel--she also held them in high regard.

Not many people spoke their minds nowadays.

Sherlock was an old soul, she could feel it.

Alright, he was also quite rude. And unpleasant on his best days. And manipulative. But he was an old soul as well. And very fit, if his tailored clothing was any indication.

Not that she'd noticed.

"Anderson, do cease with your glowering and go earn your meager paycheque… There's a clean-up needed on aisle seven," Sherlock said, his voice low but terse. "Honestly, how you people can't smell the spilt perfume is beyond me. It's giving me a headache… John… could you go fetch me something for my head?"

"I think you need a prescription for the sort of thing that'd fix your head," was John's retort.

"Your sarcasm is tiresome. For my headache, please."

John's eyes rolled skyward as he trudged back towards where the painkillers were kept. "Any specific requests?"

"You're the doctor," Sherlock replied impatiently, his eyes never leaving Molly as she rang out the rest of their purchases. "Ms. Hooper. You look lovely this--"

"Save it Sherlock, what do you want?" she asked, meeting his gaze and hoping like hell she didn't look as nervous as she felt.

His lips curled into a smile, she believed a genuine one. "I do believe your personality is coming along nicely, Molly. What time are you finished with your… proletariat nightmare?"

"My shift's over in thirty," she replied.

"Smashing," he said with a grin. "Fancy a visit to mine?"

"That depends… what for?" she asked as she started placing the shampoo bottles into bags, ringing up each at a five pence as she did.

"Oh, wait, don't do that. I have my own in the car… John will get them," Sherlock said, batting her hand away. His fingers brushed hers and she couldn't help but shiver a little at the contact.

She took off the bag charges and drummed her short fingernails on the counter as they waited for John to meander back up to the front, dropping a bottle of paracetamol on the counter and jamming his hands in his pockets.

"Could you go fetch the bags from the boot?" Sherlock asked.

"You go get them, "John said. "I won't flirt with your Molly while you're gone, I swear it."

Molly's eyebrows shot up off her forehead as Sherlock glared daggers at the good doctor.

But then, he was gone in a flourish of Belstaff, stalking out to the parking lot for his bags.

John smirked in Molly's direction. "Don't look so surprised, Ms. Hooper. There are approximately two Superdrugs and a Tesco within walking distance of our flat and he always chooses to come here. Except on Tuesday. Because you're-"

"Off on Tuesday…" Molly finished for him.

John winked. "Yea, you know."

"I most certainly didn't know."

"Now you know," he amended, pulling out his wallet. "I'm sure I'm supposed to foot the bill for all this. Most expensive obsession he's ever had, you."

Molly's face flushed all shades of red when Sherlock bustled back through the doors, reusable shopping bags in tow.

"I'll see you at yours, Sherlock?" she asked hopefully, seeing something akin to the same in his eyes when he met hers.

The corners of his mouth twitched upward slightly before he replied. "Yes. I'm at 221B. Baker Street. Ms. Hudson will let you in"

"She's not a housekeeper," John reminded him as Molly handed him the receipt.

"She'll let you in," Sherlock repeated.

#Sherlolly #Sherlock/Molly #Molly/Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #Molly Hooper #tarticawhat

[king-0phelia]

~Stamford and Mcgucket leave after the dance is finished~

Shade: I’m going to miss you guys..

Mabel: what if you stay

???: *still outside the window*

[acebela]

I Love Singapore

A good deal can manifest in a unmarried day... As the journey changed into an afternoon in Singapore on the manner to India, I had printed a list from the net of points of interest that I desired to look while there. Arriving in the nighttime on the Singapore International Changi Airport become what I might name a top rated airport enjoy. Tired from a long flight of 16 hours, I made my way to the Ambassador Transit Hotel in the airport. Many global airports have lounges, day resorts and bathe centers, however Singapore clearly does it right. Since it changed into 2:00 a.M., I wished an area to bathe and sleep for some hours. The bathe facility is fantastically completed in Asian fashion, simplistic, contemporary and quality with bamboo and vegetation. A easy bed for a snooze turned into best, quiet and private. What higher manner to start an afternoon in Singapore- easy, rested and ready to go to the City.

Simply checking my bag for the  Beauty Shop Singapore day at the airport, I took my light shoulder bag that I like to use for hiking around city and I was ready to move. About 7:00 a.M. I stuck the bus into downtown Singapore. As I gazed thru the huge easy home windows, I noticed superbly coated streets of distinct fingers and blue sky, with homes that have been two and three testimonies excessive with particular designs and shades. The beauty of Singapore become beginning to unfold earlier than me. After a totally brief twenty-minute ride to downtown and a short walk, I turned into at my first prevent, the virtually majestic and well-known Raffles Hotel, now a country wide monument. In the balmy tropical air and early morning sunshine, this colonial style building sparkled white. I stood there taking all of it in.

Raffles Hotel was the vicinity in Singapore I wanted to go to the maximum, for its structure and its amazing records. It is named after Singapore's founder Sir Stamford Raffles. Just being there you can begin to experience the relationship to the beyond- great history, mystery, romance, times gone with the aid of, testimonies of war and political take-over, of English gents in white jackets smoking thin cigars, of summer season nights and a flavored drink referred to as the Singapore Sling.

[theendoftheromanempire632]

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[tipsycad147]

KINGS LYNN: TALES OF WITCHCRAFT, EXECUTIONS & GHOSTLY LADIES…

East Anglia is steeped in folklore and was one time known as the ‘Witch Country’ long beeing the home of numerous tales of witchcraft. It has a long held history of witches, going back for centuries and was one of  England’s prime locations for the witch hunts. So it comes as no surprise that Kings Lynn is rich in witchcraft history and tales of hauntings. Kings Lynn is a lovely old town, a bustling town, alive with history and once one gets off the ‘beaten track’ and wanders away from the rather tired and tacky shopping centre, one finds that Kings Lynne is a gem of a town with many very fine old buildings, small alley ways and ancient preserved archways. It has a lovely riverside walk; the river Great Ouse being tidal, with echoes and exhibits of its extensive trading history. There are many old and pretty inns and taverns all around the ‘old town’, which of course comes as no surprise giving Kings Lynn’s trading past.

It is said that the witchcraft persecutions in Kings Lynn went on for 160 years; persecutions of the old, the lonely, the slightly different, maybe the eccentric, folks who were healers and wise folk; so many innocent, often women, were said to have been murdered due to the superstitions and religious dogma of the times. The trials were said to be a complete mockery of real justice with people, onlookers usually baying and shouting at the innocents accused. There was no actual legislation to state what a witch actually was and definitions varied, based on superstition, folklore or even hearsay. Therefore many well meant and innocent actions were interpreted as witchcraft. Two women recorded as being executed in Kings Lynne, are both Mary Taylor and Mary Smith, whom were both burnt at the stake close to the Duke’s Head Hotel in 1616 and 1730 respectively, with the latter having been accused of being a witch.

In 1590 in Kings Lynn, a woman named Margaret Read fell victim too; it is said to the murderous impulses of the ‘witch finders’. Margaret was accused and found guilty of witchcraft and was burned alive at the stake in the market place. There are several versions of the tale but the legend states that while she was being consumed by the flames her heart spontaneously burst from her body and hit the wall of a house opposite thus searing into the brickwork a permanent sign which can still be seen to this very day. The still beating heart is said to have consciously bounced all the way out of town and into the river ouse where it disappeared beneath the surface of the water in an angry, sulphurous bubbling wave, rather like a cauldron! This witch heart is also known as the ‘Diamond Heart’ and can be seen high up on the appropriate coloured red brickwork of house number 15/16 on the north side of the Tuesday Market Place. It is a rather crude free hand drawing but it makes sure that the legend endures. No 15 is also home to a poltergeist whom, it is said throws things on the floor.

Number 15/16 on the north side of the Tuesday Market place showing the ‘heart’ above the window where, legend states it is permanently ‘seared’ into the brickwork

Margaret was definitely a victim of 16th century England’s obsession with witchcraft but she was not a victim of East Anglia’s most infamous witch hunter; the self styled ‘Witchfinder General’ Matthew Hopkins, for she was murdered some 30 years before Hopkins was born. Hopkins reign of terror focussed on Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex, Cambridgeshire, Huntingdonshire, Bedfordshire and Northamptonshire and began in 1645. Records show that King’s Lynn paid Hopkins the sum of £15 for ‘clearing the town of witches’ ��� this was at a time when the average daily wage was a mere 2.5p!

Another version of the ‘heart’ story is that it was a young woman called Mary Smith who was burnt as a witch in 1616 and as she was dying she proudly proclaimed her innocence and her heart is said to have sprung from her body and landed at the house of the Rev Roberts, the priest who had actually declared her a witch!

There is a further record that in 1582 there was an execution of someone with the name Gabley, in Kings Lynn, but whether this person was murdered for witchcraft is not recorded but what is sure to be true is that many, many innocent folks were murdered in Kings Lynn town centre and many of them for witchcraft.

At the heart of Kings Lynn, is the market which is now a cobblestoned car park. It is bordered by the Corn Exchange and various pubs and Georgian buildings, including the Duke’s Head Hotel; the market was held on a Tuesday for hundreds of years. This market though was also the scene of public executions, hangings, witch burnings and the punishment of wrongdoers; often a very regular sight imprisoned within the stocks. This Tuesday Market Place is said to be riddled with secret tunnels from which many a tale could have arisen; tales of smuggling, espionage and daring escapes no doubt.

The Tuesday Market Place: location of many executions and the Dukes Head Hotel home to a plethora of hauntings and a hidden Masonic Temple too!

The Tudor Rose Hotel, built in 1500 in the old town, on St Nicholas Street, not far from the Tuesday Market, has an interesting history, though more as the most haunted building in Kings Lynn rather than with a connection to witchcraft. It is said to have a number of ghosts one of which is known as the ‘Grey Lady’ who was said to have been killed by her husband, but no actual records of her being a witch. Another tale relates that shortly after a wedding, the bride was stabbed to death by her new husband in the hotel. Since then, a short woman in a long white dress has been spotted and ‘phantom’ footsteps heard.

The Tudor Rose Hotel: Home of the ‘Grey Lady’ and other hauntings.

Another building; The Seven Sisters pub in Exton’s Road, Kings Lynn has among the legends of its origin the tale that it was named after seven sisters who were executed for witchcraft.

The Dukes Head Hotel, shown above, is a fine Georgian building that overlooks the Tuesday Market Place and which dates back to 1683; it stands on the site of an ancient inn called The Gryffin. The hotel is said to be haunted by quiet a few ghosts… In 1531 a maid murdered her mistress by poisoning her; for her crime she was boiled to death in a large pot in front of a baying crowd in the middles of the Tuesday Market Place. Terrified witnesses have reported seeing the ghostly apparition of a weeping lady in 16th century dress throughout the hotel. It is believed that she is the ghost of the executed maid. There is also another ghostly figure reported to have been seen climbing the hotel’s staircase and wandering the corridors; known as the ‘Red Lady’, she is said to be the shade of a woman who committed suicide over her two lovers. Room 18 was once haunted after an attempted suicide resulted in a dying man being bought into the suite; his ghostly moaning once drove people away, who would flee from the room terrified, though this has now faded. It is said that the guests at the hotel had a fine grandstand view of the executions on Tuesday Market Place and that it was also a centre for cock-fighting.

Interestingly the Duke’s Head Hotel is today home to a full  Masonic Temple. The temple which is windowless is open to the public on Heritage Day in September; it has Masonic furnishings and decoration complete with an 18th century anti-room. The first Freemasons Lodge was formed on the site on the 1st October 1729 and stood on the site of the old Gryffin (1576-1683). In 1830, the old coach, the Union, from Stamford would call at the Globe and the Duke’s Head on alternative days and then headed for Swaffham, Dereham and Norwich, returning on the next day at noon.

The witches of East Anglia were a million miles away from the wiccans of today; in I would suggest every aspect. One example being from this Kings Lynn record: ‘the Spirits of the dead were evoked by the construction of images made of a mixture of wax and corpse dust. These witches “poppets” were pricked to cause another hurt. A swallow’s heart and liver could be attached to the poppet with pins to charge it. A heart pierced with thorns was used as late as the nineteen sixties for unknown reasons at several locations in the Kings Lynn Area’.

There are many old buildings in Kings Lynn and old buildings often contain hidden ritual objects placed inside the walls, ceilings, chimneys and other concealed places for they were thought to protect from witches and evil spirits.  During the 17th Century, it was common all over England to bury cats in the walls or ceilings to deter witches or evil spirits from entering the property.  Remains of such a cat were found in the Dukes Head Hotel in Kings Lynn, in room 10 during October 2011. The bones were found when contractors were working on the building and apparently they just ‘fell’ out of the ceiling!

The clergyman, Alexander Roberts from Kings Lynn, said that ‘the power of the witch comes from the devil’ but in order for this to happen three conditions had to be satisfied. ‘First the permitting will of God. Secondly the suggestion of the Divill and his power co-operating. Thirdly the desire and consent of the sorcerer: and if any of these be wanting, no trick of witchcraft can be performed.’

Snuggled in at the side and just behind St Nicholas Church, on Chapel Lane, is a most quaint and unusual small cottage; very ‘witchy’ looking with whitewashed outer walls; known as ‘The Exorcists House’. The house, built in 1635 and replacing an older house is a grade two listed building with a very interesting history. It was once attached to the church and it is said that one way that a priest could progress within the church was to hold the position of ‘Exorcist’, it is also said to be haunted by a former occupant.

The Exorcist’s House – very appropriately situated…

As I was wandering around taking the photos for this research, this spot particularly caught my eye; unknown to me at the time it is known as ‘Devils Alley’ and is a short cut from the riverside through to the Old Town. As I am very fond of a mysterious alleyway or two, I could not resist venturing down. Apparently, a single footprint, known as ‘Satan’s Hoof Print’, and belonging to Old Nick is said to be visible down this ageing alleyway. I wished I had known at the time for I would certainly have searched for it!

Where i wonder is ‘Satan’s Hoof Print’!

The whole area of East Anglia is full of many tales of witches but also very chillingly one can view the actual executions lists on line, which makes very sobering reading indeed, with quite a few local names on it. I wondered what was really going on and why innocent folks were being blamed for witchcraft. Was this a cover up for something else that was going on elsewhere – smoke and mirrors? I tried to find out more on this subject but came to dead ends.

Often churches reveal many surprises and none more so than the beautiful moon-phase clock on the tower of The Priory and Parish Church of St Margaret’s of Antioch, St Mary Magdalene & all the Virgin Saints, to give it its full name! It is located on the corner of Queen Street and Church Street, opposite the Old Gaol House; it was founded as a Benedictine Priory in 1101 by Herbert de Losinga, the first Bishop of Norwich. This amazing clock is said to denote the tides rather than the time; although it could be said that ‘timeand tide’ are as one. It was originally presented to the church in 1683 by Thomas Tue, churchwarden and clockmaker, although the present one is a twentieth century reconstruction. The letters around the dial read as ‘LYNN HIGH TIDE, but if only read backwards though and very interestingly it has a dragon pointer. I did wonder, if because it was a moon-phase clock, that there may have been at some point in time, a connection to witches, magic or the occult but I could find no further clues apart from the fact that the clock does feature on a ‘Knight Templar’ webpage on sacred geometry.  The face of the clock itself, if one looks closely, does seem to feature sacred geometry and the more one looks at it, the more one sees, so very intriguing.

The Moon Phase clock and just opposite the Old Goal House

(http://www.templarmechanics.com/templar_detail.asp?templarid=91)

I did try to find out if there were any  connections relating to the Knights Templars in the area, but drew blanks there. Kings Lynn does has a long maritime tradition and a prominent connection to The Hanseatic League; a group of German cities and has the only remaining Hanseatic Warehouse still standing in the counrty, so maybe the Templars with their maritime traditions, and experience of trading and finance could have a connection here?

Hanse House with maybe a Templar connection?

So finally I was left with some random thoughts which could involve scratching further beneath the surface of what actually appears to be; what is the real reason why so many innocent, mostly women were persecuted as witches, especially in East Anglia? Was it really because of their so-called magical or healing practices or were they in fact used as scapegoats? But whatever the reason Kings Lynn is certainly a town flowing with fascinating history, much of which is of the more unusual kind with many mysteries still unsolved and holding their secrets close to their hearts.

Two of the old historic gateways still remaining and now preserved

https://themidnightgarden.org/2016/08/09/the-witches-of-kings-lynne-and-other-fascinating-tales/

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

That Awkward Moment - Sherlolly Prompt #3

prompted by @mrbaker92: ‘Sherlock is on a case with John & Lestrade where they have to make a visit to the lab and things get awkward between Sherlock and Molly. Post S4.’ Enjoy!

"Oh, hello, John, Greg," Molly nodded, blatantly ignoring Sherlock's presence. Things had gotten a bit weird between them since the Sherrinford incident.

"Molly," Sherlock acknowledged. "Your hair is…brown." Molly furrowed her brows. "I mean, it's uh…a lovely shade, chestnut." He cleared his throat as John and Greg looked at him strangely. "Right, well, I need to see any recent thumbs you've gathered in the past week."

Right," Molly nodded anxiously. She dug through the inventory and handed Sherlock two separate bags that held a different thumb in each.

"Thank you," he told her, his bright cerulean eyes piercing hers. Those eyes are gonna be the death of me, she thought, only she said it out loud unknowingly. "I'd much prefer it if you were alive, darling." Darling? Where did that come from? Sherlock asked himself. Another silently awkward moment passed before the consulting detective took over one of the microscopes to examine the first pollex.

"Boy, that was weird," Lestrade remarked to John.

"No kidding," John replied. "Things have been a bit too"—he paused, searching for the right word—"intense between them, lately."

"He's obviously smitten with her," Lestrade pointed out.

"I think he has been for much longer than we realized, Greg. I used to think it was Adler he was crazy about, but looking back, I see all that I missed about Molly," John explained.

"We can hear you," Sherlock groaned from the lab table. Molly was stifling a laugh while her face flushed bright red.

"I say it's been at least since the Christmas party a few years back," Greg spoke in a lowered tone.

"Out!" Sherlock shouted. "The two of you, go, now!" John and Greg backed out of the lab slowly and stayed in the hallway, peering in through the windows every now and then.

"You didn't have to be so rude to them," Molly scolded.

"Well, I'm not going to sit here and listen to their trivial conversation about us," Sherlock retorted.

"Maybe you should do something about it then!" she shouted.

"Maybe I will!" he shouted back in agreement. John and Greg were definitely watching through the windows but Sherlock didn't give a damn. A minute of silence passed before she spoke up again.

"Then do it," Molly prompted him. Sherlock stood and stepped closer to her. His towering height did nothing to intimidate her, for she felt safe when he was next to her short-statured self. One hand pressed firmly against the small of her back as the other cradled the back of her head when he leaned down to kiss her. It was a bit awkward and clumsy as they both spoke to one another in between each brush of their lips.

"I'm sorry I shouted," he mumbled.

"Mm, I'm sorry too," she replied, tracing her tongue along his bottom lip.

"I love you," he breathed out. "I do, truly, Molly, I—mmph!" She was snogging him senselessly.

Outside the lab, in the hallway, Mike Stamford looked through the window from behind John and Greg.

"Well," Stamford chuckled, "it's about time, don't you think?" Greg and John shot him a look of surprise.

"You knew!?" they both exclaimed.

"I thought it was obvious," Mike stated.

fanfiction.net | ao3

#Sherlolly #Mollock #my fanfiction

[casorasi]

Dog chokes to death on leash in car in Stamford

STAMFORD-Police rushed to Canal Street on Saturday on the report of a police dog hanging out of a window by its leash. Sgt. Sean McGowan and officer William Petrone got on scene and quickly determined that the vehicle and dog were not from the police department, Capt. Diedrich Hohn said. The owner parked the vehicle in the shade next to Cornell University Veterinary clinic and rolled down three windows and opened the sunroof before going to Dinosaur Barbecue for lunch. The dog, named Piggy, had her leash attached to the rear seat and jumped out the window and choked to death, Hohn said. Officers found the devastated owners across the street and Animal Control took the dog. Dog chokes to death on leash in car in Stamford

#Dog chokes to death on leash in car in Stamford

[gadgetsrevv]

Premier League talking points: More Man Utd problems, Arsenal’s real need, Tottenham issue | Football | Sport

Tottenham being Spursy again?

For the first time since the infamous Battle of Stamford Bridge that handed Leicester the title, Tottenham threw away a two-goal lead against Arsenal. Are they back to their Spursy ways?

Mauricio Pochettino said that lessons were learned from the game against Chelsea and for the last few seasons Tottenham have looked mature and impressive rather than just fresh and exciting.

Right now, though, they seem to be lacking any of those qualities. The international break could not come at a better time.

David Luiz’s fairy tale move to Arsenal

Highlight of the north London derby has to be when David Luiz looked up, saw he was about to be left one-on-one with Heung-Min Son then comically turned tail and ran away from the ball in a manoeuvre straight out of the Cinderella book of defending. Thankfully, Bernd Leno saved the South Korea international’s eventual shot.

At a time when Arsenal’s front three should be making them part of the two-horse race between Manchester City and Liverpool, their defence again looks like making the dash for a Champions League place a struggle.

Suddenly a transfer window that Arsenal fans were delighted about seems to have lacked that one vital ingredient as already David Luiz’s number is up.

He chose to wear “23” on his back in tribute to Michael Jordan and a host of fashionable sporting celebrities. What Arsenal needed though was a good old-fashioned no. 6 to pay tribute to Tony Adams.

Refereeing standards taking a dive

There is nothing referees seem to enjoy more a few weeks into every season than a clampdown and this weekend suggests that simulation was top of the agenda at their latest meeting.

Any other week, Jack Grealish would have been praised for staying on his feet to make his assist late in Villa’s game against Crystal Palace.

But with Bournemouth’s Callum Wilson also penalised when there was clearly contact, one cannot help but think there is currently an element of witch-hunting.

The only person to escape censure for his theatrics was Harry Kane. It is unedifying to see an England captain making the most of a late shove in the back, but it is hard to blame him when similar VAR-backed decisions went a long way towards him winning a World Cup Golden Boot.

And that is the problem the technology has created. Designed to make decisions more black-and-white we now seem to have many different shades of VAR. Let’s call the whole thing off until we decide once and for all how we want these big moments to be judged.

Jamie Vardy needs to dip his toe back in the England pool

It is great to see that grin back on the face of Jamie Vardy as he continues to enjoy life under Brendan Rodgers.

Whether it was his lack of action in Russia of the fact I beat him at pool in the England media centre, Vardy has decided that international camps are not for him since the World Cup in 2018.

But with so much pressure on Harry Kane to lead the line, should Gareth Southgate be tempted to pick up the phone to somebody who is again showing his ability to stick the ball in the net? With Marcus Rashford still frustratingly hit or miss, with a major European final at Wembley in our sights, England could do with all the resources they can get.

Paul Pogba needs to be less shirty

When Sir Alex Ferguson infamously suffered a less-than-favourable result at Southampton, he infamously blamed “the wrong kind of shirts”. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s problem is that he has the “wrong kind of players”.

It’s all very well stuffing an experimental Chelsea side in the big opener to the season, but Ferguson built United’s success on grinding out wins wherever they went. The current run is just one win in 10.

Pogba looked particularly disinterested at St Mary’s but hopefully when the window slams shut all over Europe later today, he will finally knuckle down to being the player United pay him to be.

These are difficult times for United and they need their one true world class asset to show it.

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#Premier League Premier League talking points: More Man Utd problems #Arsenal’s real need #Tottenham

[reportwire]

Texstyle Expands Solar Screen Fabric Offerings

Texstyle Expands Solar Screen Fabric Offerings

Press Release – Oct 13, 2021 STAMFORD, Conn., October 13, 2021 (Newswire.com) – Rollease Acmeda, a global leader in the window covering industry, has released two new roller shade fabrics, Kleenscreen featuring Sanitized® and X-Weave 10% through auxiliary fabric brand Texstyle. The Kleenscreen fabric collection features eight modern colors (Pure White, Barely, Alloy, Canyon, Ash, Raven,…

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#Motorized Shades #Rollease Acmeda #Roller Shades #Solar Screen #Texstyle #window coverings #Window Treatments

[usnewsaggregator-blog]

Born in Sandy-flood hospital, kids 'stronger than the storm'

New Post has been published on http://usnewsaggregator.com/born-in-sandy-flood-hospital-kids-stronger-than-the-storm/

Born in Sandy-flood hospital, kids 'stronger than the storm'

Their lives began with one of the most dramatic stories of Superstorm Sandy: the evacuation of 32 newborn babies from a major New York City hospital that got flooded and lost power. Hospital staffers tended to laboring women in the dark and carried mothers and tiny infants — 21 of them in intensive care — down stairways into the thick of the 2012 storm. Doctors and nurses squeezed air pumps by hand to fill some of the most fragile babies’ little lungs.

In the end, every one was delivered to safety.

Five years later, some of those babies are kindergarteners with mementos of the storm in their birthday celebrations, keepsake boxes and even their names. Their parents remember the experience with awe, humor, gratitude and the chagrin of sharing a day of personal joy with a natural disaster.

One mom tells her son: “We were the lucky ones that day.”

———

Oct. 29, 2012: 9 a.m.

“I know this is the worst possible timing,” Tamar Weinstock said as she woke her husband, Allon, “but I think my water just broke.”

Tamar’s due date was three weeks off. But their first child was coming, and so was Sandy, a 1,000-mile-wide behemoth with nearly 100-mph winds pushing a huge swell of ocean toward the coast of New Jersey and New York. The Weinstocks hurried from their home in the Long Island City section of Queens to NYU Langone Health’s Tisch Hospital, set along the East River in midtown Manhattan.

“Oh, my God, this is happening in the middle of a hurricane,” thought Tamar, a banker.

“You’re in the best possible place,” staffers reassured her.

With the hospital-room shades pulled down, the couple took in only snatches of the storm from the room’s TV. They noticed the electricity flicker at 7 p.m., but generators kicked in.

Then, at 8:30 p.m., the backup power failed, and the hospital plunged into darkness.

Monitors went silent. Electronics that keep patient records were useless. Elevators stopped.

Labor didn’t. “You just have to keep going with what you’re doing,” Tamar realized.

—

WORKING AGAINST TIME

NYU Langone had thought it could handle Sandy. After moving out sometimes frail patients before an ultimately uneventful Hurricane Irene in 2011, the hospital was allowed to stay open during Sandy after assuring city officials it had generators and fuel ready.

Then the storm raised the East River by more than 10 feet, crippling a nearby power plant and pouring more than 15 million gallons of water through air vents and other openings into the hospital’s basement. The water triggered sensors that shut off fuel to the generators providing power for 322 patients.

Dr. William Schweizer, the obstetrics safety chief that night, and his colleagues had about 10 patients in labor and others who had just delivered, including one who’d had a premature baby. And the physicians, nurses and aides would have to get them all out of the hospital.

But first, the doctors decided, they would deliver babies who appeared ready to arrive by midnight, rather than risk births in ambulances.

Out came flashlights, emergency glow sticks, and techniques from a less technological era. Doctors would use stethoscopes, along with battery-operated devices, to monitor unborn babies’ heartbeats. Nurses would keep track of contractions with watches, pens and paper.

“We just dealt with our own familiarity with a process that has been going on for as long as mankind has been,” Schweizer said.

“People pulled out of their soul what they could do,” he says.

—

NOTHING ELSE MATTERS

Doctors and nurses gathered by Tamar’s bed. They needed to deliver the baby. Now.

Tamar didn’t feel ready. The staffers rallied her.

At 10:29 p.m., the Weinstocks saw their son for the first time — by flashlight.

“You hear your baby crying for the first time, and nothing else really matters,” says Allon, a construction project manager.

These days, their son Stone is a kindergartener so awesome that Awesome is his unofficial middle name, bestowed by a cousin. Glow sticks are a go-to favor at his birthday parties. Like several other new parents from that night, the Weinstocks credit NYU Langone — which has since undertaken more than $1 billion in floodproofing improvements — with maintaining calm and control in an unforeseen situation.

But the Weinstocks, both of them 37, make sure Stone knows he’s fortunate to be celebrating a day that was catastrophic for many others in New York City. Sandy killed 43 people and damaged or destroyed tens of thousands of homes and apartments.

“You almost feel guilty that for us it’s such a happy moment, because that’s what started our family,” Allon says. “But it’s not lost on us what everybody else went through.”

———

GET MY BABY BACK

Staffers were in Julz Donald’s darkened room, explaining that the hospital where she’d had daughter Freda that morning was being evacuated. Donald said she could walk out.

“I didn’t actually realize where we were,” the 42-year-old marketing researcher says, chuckling.

They were on the 13th floor — and the stairs were the only way down.

The first families to leave were those whose babies had health issues. Then, around 2 a.m. Donald and husband Mark Potts were escorted by a doctor, nurses, medical students and volunteers down a stairway by flashlight. At the hospital’s insistence, a nurse carried a tightly swaddled Freda.

“Let’s get down these stairs so I can get my baby back,” Donald thought.

Her legs were exhausted by the time they reached a lobby illuminated by the flashing lights of dozens of ambulances — “like a scene out of ‘Die Hard,'” recalls Potts, 38, who works in advertising.

The Long Island City family keeps its hospital-issued flashlight in a “birth box” for Freda, a wry girl who likes Irish dance, writing, beluga whales, the color purple — but not the wind.

———

CALL ME SANDRA

Dmitry and Daria Shurba were about to take newborn daughter Masha home when they settled on her middle name: Sandra, after the storm.

The Stamford, Connecticut, couple’s second child was born at NYU Langone around noon on the day of the storm. Dmitry, a 42-year-old auto sales manager, was returning from getting celebratory flowers and wine when the power went out, with Daria in a 13th-floor room.

After he got there, the windows rattled so ominously that the family waited in a hallway for its turn to walk down.

The Shurbas figured their daughter should be proud of being born during a historic storm, and she is. She sometimes asks to be called by her middle name, says Daria, 39, an information technology project manager.

“I call her my little hurricane, at times,” Daria says. “She has a great heart and everything, so she’s tough.”

———

STRONGER THAN THE STORM

Kenneth Hulett III weighed just over 2 pounds (0.9 kilograms), with feet the size of fingernails. He’d just been born 2? months early, by emergency Caesarian section, and rushed to NYU Langone’s neonatal intensive care unit, or NICU. Doctors had determined he might have a rare and potentially serious genetic disorder.

His parents, Emily Bolton-Blatt and Kenneth Hulett Jr., were still in a recovery room when the power went out. Hulett raced up to the darkened NICU, where he recalls a nurse asking him to watch the numbers displayed on a machine running on backup batteries. So he watched, unsure what the numbers meant, wondering how long the batteries would last, hoping for the best.

“This is a natural disaster happening while our son was just born,” says Hulett, 34, an Army veteran pursuing a computer engineering technology degree. “One of the happiest moments in your life … but then, with the chaos around it, it’s just all of the emotions mixed into one.”

Then the word came: evacuate.

Worried about Bolton-Blatt but unable to leave their son’s side, Hulett followed the tiny boy, clasped in a nurse’s arms, down nine flights of narrow stairs lined by people with flashlights. The nurse and a doctor pumped air into Kenny’s lungs by squeezing a plastic bulb over and over, as a security guard carried an oxygen tank and two nurses toted monitors.

“Let us get to safety” was Hulett’s only thought as he sloshed through heavy rain to an ambulance.

Kenny would be hospitalized for another three months before coming home to Flushing in Queens.

Now a talkative, engaging kid, he has needed surgeries for a cleft palate but hasn’t been affected by the genetic disorder that was a concern before his birth. He plays with his family’s cat, eyeballs cartoons and giggles occasionally as his parents tells visitors the first chapter of his life story.

For his first birthday, his grandmother had a banner made with a custom message:

“Stronger than the storm.”

———

Associated Press video journalist Joseph B. Frederick contributed to this report.

Original Article:

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#flood #hospital #sandy #storm #stronger