#and now I live on the outskirts of the heart of the green swamp

[totiredtowrite]

I love how everyones just agreed that daishou is a naga in a fantasy au

Snake

Warnings - cursing, unedited

Note: He could strangle me and I'd apologize. Also tf is his eye colour???

Male Reader - Fem Readers DNI or you're a horrible person who disrespects boundaries of writers :)

You had one job.

All you had to do was pick something up from the market. Your village healer only needed like ten things! Of course you just had to be the nice guy and get it for her.

Still though it was rather rewarding. She was a nice old lady, anyone in the village would do things to help her out. You sighed, furrowing your brows angrily. You should have just let Hanamaki do it. After all, he was the navigator. He'd done it before. He wouldn't get turned around at the simplest fork in the path!

With another heavy sigh, you pulled yourself off of the forest floor. No point in sitting about, right? The place was beautiful, even if it was a little too close to the swamps for your liking.

It's not like the naga and the elves hated each other. No, they were more just...wary. Existing so near to one another made sure that both always knew what the other was up to. You weren't exactly neighbours, (being almost a mile away), but there weren't any other villages in the area. Or, in the snakes case, nests.

Not to mention how the peace treaty kept them at a distance. Most of the younger elves in your village have never seen a Naga. You included. Not that you were that young, though you never had a reason. Training with Oikawa and the rest of the fighters in the village took up most of your time anyway.

Speaking of, you were starting to be thankful that Oikawa makes you train so hard. The walk was starting to near a couple hours.

You rubbed your face. This was bullshit. And how did you even get lost so bad you ended up in the swamps? Well, the outskirts of the swamps, but it still counts. The trees were starting to droop more, vines hanging off of every other one. You stepped in a puddle occasionally, cursing every time you did.

On the bright side, (at least), you knew now to walk in the opposite direction to get home.

You will walk in the opposite direction.

The...opposite...direction.

Or not.

What was the worst that could happen? You were already about two miles away from the market, and there were things in the swamps that you needed. You only had to go a couple yards in, it's not like you were going to wander straight into the heart of the nest.

You drew in a controlled breath. Naga don't typically take strolls along the outside of their nest anyways.

Taking another step in, you started to calm down. The only sounds you could hear were the birds and your own footsteps. The sound every time your boot collided with the ground was rather disgusting, the dampened landscape getting progressively wetter.

You were a couple minutes in, (still not having found the plant you needed), when you heard it.

Even never coming face to face with one, the sound was unmistakable. The only accurate word you could think of was slithering. Like a giant snake making it's way through the swamp.

You froze up instinctively, long, pointed ears twitching to try and catch the sound again. Nothing but your own laboured breathing.

Slowly, after a minute of a whole lot of nothing, your hand creeped towards the dagger in your boot. You knew it was just a supplies run, but better safe than sorry right? Maybe the Naga passed by already.

If you'd turned your head even slightly though, maybe you wouldn't have missed the pair of glowing green eyes watching you.

And maybe you wouldn't be in this position right now.

You couldn't describe how it happened because you weren't even sure how it happened. He moved surprisingly fast for how cumbersome that giant tail must be. Your dagger had clattered to the ground, the murky green blue of his tail coiled around your body.

"Well," his eyes still seemed to glow at you, "What's an elf doing all the way out here?"

You snapped out of your momentary entrancement to actually take in the situation. His eyes, slanted like all Naga, took in every little movement. He actually seemed relatively put together, hair looking tame and neatly parted to one side. His face was rather cut and slim, cheekbones sharp and pronounced. Hell, if he wasn't a Naga he'd still look like a snake.

His tail tightened around you slightly, urging you to answer the question. You sputtered a bit at it. "Well I could ask the same! Your kind don't wander the outskirts like this!" You attempted to sound commanding, hiding the discomfort in your voice.

Luckily he didn't pick up on the fear in your tone, instead giving you a harsh glare and momentarily squeezing you. You let out another harsh breath. "Well at least I'm on my territory."

You were about to retaliate, but you fell short. He was right in a sense. No words were exchanged for a moment. The snake leaned in further narrowing his eyes further, (if that was even possible), and studying your features. "So it's true then?" He finally said something.

You regarded him with confusion.

"About your kind," he poked at the satchel that you'd also dropped. "They're all pretty."

You blanked. You were about to comment on the fact that 'ruggedly handsome' might be a better term, but ultimately decided against it. All elves, regardless of shape or size, gender or skin tone, were ultimately just...better, in a sense. Stronger, faster, they lived longer, and, as he said, prettier.

"Have you never seen an elf before," You sneered instead.

"Have you never seen a Naga?" He shot back quickly, head tilting slightly. Seeming more comfortable, he had a sly smirk on his face.

You didn't respond.

He laughed almost tauntingly. "Dont look so confident elf," he leaned in closer, to the point where you could feel his breath on your lips. "What makes you think I won't wring," you felt his tail shifting, "You," it got tighter, "Dry?"

You attempted to scoff, the sound being cut short at the pressure on your chest. "And-" you took in a breath, "And break the peace treaty? No way," you let out a raspy laugh.

He let something else take up his attention. His hands lifted to your ears, long, slender fingers trailing along them and prodding at the pointed tips. You shuddered. His hands were cold. Unsurprising of course, but still catching you off guard.

"Would you cut that out! Just tell me your name and let me go!" You snapped.

"Someones impatient," he, quite literally, hissed. In all honesty, listening to him speak was somewhat addicting. You'd thought it was just a stereotype, how half snake people always dragged out the 'S' in the words they say. As it turns out you were wrong.

"Okay, let's just keep this civil." You exhaled slowly. "My name is (l/n) (y/n), I'm trying to find something for my village medic. Who are you?"

He eyes you suspiciously before responding. "Daishou. I'm just...patrolling."

You nodded, pushing your arms out slightly. You were still wrapped in his tail.

Sending your discomfort, Daishou loosened his grip. The sound of his tails grip going slack following soon after his realization. You sighed with relief, slumping to the ground as he repositioned himself to face you.

It took you a moment to look up.

"What are you looking at," he hissed at you.

In truth, everything. His scales were brighter than you thought Naga usually were, green blue and muted yellow. "Nothing," you said, mouth still agape.

"Right." He clearly sounded unconvinced, though he decided not to pursue the matter any further.

You had to admit to yourself, he was rather attractive too. He gave you another look at your continued staring. "What were you even here for anyways?" He slithered closer.

"Just- uh," you stuttered slightly. The tail made him look more dangerous than he most likely was. Or not, he might be just as dangerous as you thought. "I...forgot."

He couldn't stay composed, snickering at you.

"What?" You huffed and stood up, pulling your satchel over your shoulder once more.

"Nothing," he chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, face going red. "Get back safely okay?"

You, confused at his little bout of care, nodded. "Okay."

You turned around, though just before you walked off he stopped you. "Oh, and elf."

You turned once more. "Hm?"

"Try to stay aware next time," he opened your palm and placed your dagger in it, another sly smile making its was onto his face.

"We wouldn't want another snake to catch you."

#hq x male reader #m!reader #anime x male reader #x male reader #male reader #haikyuu x male reader #daishou x male reader #daishou suguru x male reader

[bensboynton]

Always b.h

@styles-charli asked: hi! a request where ben and the reader head down to australia to visit her family in melbourne for a week because it’s the readers cousins wedding and he meets all her fam and just cute!! thanks lovely xoxoxo

here’s the fic i posted a sneak peak too a few days ago!

this prompt made my heart melt not even kidding. i’m definitely writing a part 2(and potentially part 3) because this prompt is just too cute.

feedback is appreciated:) also my inbox is open for more requests! although i’m quite swamped at the moment, i’ll get to yours eventually. 

word count: 3.3k

warnings: never been to australia so idk if this is accurate, unedited, fluffy

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, looking at the time on your phone screen anxiously. Ben said he was going to be home ten minutes ago, and of course, the day you need to talk to him about something important, he's late.

You could smell the scent of spring in Los Angeles drifting through the open windows in the living room of your shared apartment with Ben. You were sat on the brown leather couch, your left leg bouncing in anticipation for his arrival.

You had been living with Ben as a couple for two years, and four years if you count the unfortunate 730 days you both spent absolutely despising each other as roommates. Until one day Ben just kissed you and… well. The rest is history.

You had a last minute obligation that you needed to attend, much to your dismay, and you wanted to see if your lovely boyfriend would be interested in attending with you.

A few moments later, you hear keys jingle in the lock on the other side of the door, followed by a soft thud and a string of curses. After a short delay, the door swings open revealing the Greek God that is your boyfriend.

His hair is messy, lips pressed firmly around his car keys as he walks into the house with five grocery bags in hand. He takes a step forward, carefully lifting his left leg and closing the door behind him, dropping the groceries on the ground. Sighing a breath of relief, he looks up at you, quickly meeting your eye.

You were mesmerized for a moment. He was in black sweatpants and a maroon crewneck, one of the ones you bought for him that he loved so much. He looked slightly breathless from walking up the stairs to your shared apartment.

"Thank you for your help, Darling," he jokes sarcastically, setting the car keys that were previously held in his mouth on the marble countertop, "I really appreciate it."

You laughed, playfully sauntering up to his towering figure. You returned his big grin with a big, toothy smile as you softly looped your arms around his neck.

"Sorry baby, I was distracted," you mumbled, pressing your lips to his quickly before resting your head on his chest. You both stayed like that for a moment in a comfortable silence, the sound of birds chirping right outside your apartment window.

You moved your head from his chest, looking up to gaze into his eyes. They were so clear and bright you swore you keep see your own reflection in them.

“Missed you.” you sighed, eliciting a small giggle from Ben.

“Missed you more.”

“Not possible.”

“Wanna bet, love?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, you’re on.”

You and Ben moved your conversation to the kitchen, bringing the bags of groceries with you.

“What’s on the line for this bet?” Ben asked, cocking his head to the left expectantly. He gently placed the plastic bags down on the counter as you looked up at him. An idea suddenly popped in your head.

“If I win, you have to go on a trip with me to a place really far away,” you said, causing Ben to furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s this trip you’re talking about?”

"Okay, so, being serious for a second, you can totally 110% say no if you don't want to, you're not obligated to do this. I won't force you to go with me."

"I can't exactly say no if I don't even know where you're asking me to go?" he spoke, the confusion leaking from his lips. He pulled a green apple out of the plastic bag of ones he had just bought at the store. He kept looking at you expectantly as he took a big bite out of the bulbous fruit

You glared at him playfully as you threw a box of pasta at him. He caught it with ease, casually placing it in the wooden cabinet to his right. So annoying that he could play things off like that so smoothly.

"My cousin is getting married back home in Melbourne, and I have to go. And like I said, the invitation is open but don't feel obligated to go, but if you would possibly, even be slightly interested in going with me and being my plus one?" you said, nervously shaking your right leg, "It would also finally get my mom off my back about meeting you."

You hated weddings. Since your first one when you were 6 and you had to be a flower girl, you hated them. They took forever, and everyone was extra obnoxious and emotional. It wasn’t for you.

So getting the phone call from your mother telling you that, yes, you did have to come home for Delilah’s wedding was not the most pleasant start to your day.

"Is she getting married in the city?" Ben asked, reaching for his phone that was sitting near the sink.

"Well, kind of. It's on this big ranch on the outskirts of the city that's absolutely ridiculous and completely unnecessary if you ask me, but technically-"

"I'd love to go with you, Y/N," Ben interrupted, a boyish grin slowly creeping onto his face.

"Wait, really?" you asked, your mouth agape slightly as you started to smile.

"No, I'm just fucking with you." He said in all seriousness, looking you dead in the eye. His face broke into a grin a few moments later.

"Yes, really. I want to meet your family. I think it's only fair after I dragged you back to London with me to meet my parents." he murmured, making his way over to you, grabbing your hands.

"Is it Delilah that's getting married?" Ben asked, interrupting the momentary silence that had fallen between you.

Your face lit up when he said her name, "Yeah, it is actually. That bloke David finally grew a pair and proposed." Ben laughed, remembering the many rants of yours he listened to after phone calls with a distraught Delilah over "Dumbass David" as you called him.

You sighed lightly in content. You felt your heart start pounding in your chest when you thought about traveling to Australia with Ben. You were so nervous for Ben to meet your Mom and Dad, not to mention your extremely obnoxious extended family. To be honest, you could've upchucked the avocado toast you had for lunch right there.

But on the other hand, you were practically chomping at the bit to take Ben around your town and show him the diner you ate at after school every day, and the movie theater you went to most Saturdays with your friends.

You had been putting off having Ben meet your family for months now, and for good reason. Your family was... judgemental, to say the least. You were scared of them rejecting Ben, and you didn't want to have to put him (or yourself) through that mental and emotional abuse.

So, every time they asked about Ben over the phone, you'd change the subject, or every time Ben would ask about your family you'd suddenly have a very urgent need to use the restroom.

Every once in a while though, you'd tell Ben about your Aunt Frida who was constantly churning up old family drama, or your Uncle Jerry who would always spell your name wrong on your birthday cards.

"When do we have to leave for the wedding?" Ben inquired, again focusing on the many groceries yet to be put away.

"Yeah... about that," you pulled away from him again, grimacing slightly in embarrassment, "tomorrow."

Ben about choked on his saliva as he looked at you in disbelief, "Tomorrow?!" he exclaimed, his hands running through his blonde locks, anxiety flashing over his green orbs.

"Tomorrow."

"Well, Christ, I better get packing then."

Ben scurried off to your shared room, and not long after, you heard a string of profanities and a loud clatter. You smiled warmly and chuckled, calling out to your boyfriend softly, "Thanks for getting my suitcase down, baby!"

Thank God you had Ben.

--

"Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea."

"Neither of us ever said this would be a good idea, love."

You stumbled around your room in the pitch black, trying to find your socks and tennis shoes. It was 3 am in Los Angeles, and it was still dark outside. You finally found what you needed and looked up at Ben, who looked like he was falling asleep standing up. His eyes were closed, and you swore you could see the bags under his eyes from where you were standing.

You lightly tapped his shoulder as you walked by to remind him you had to leave soon as you strolled into your kitchen. Ben was close behind you, trying to grab your shoulders and pull you into a hug. He was very cuddly when he was tired.

You flicked the light on in the kitchen out of habit, immediately regretting your decision as your eyes felt like they were going to pop out of your head. Ben stumbled towards you and turned them off, plunging you both into darkness again.

You both chuckled at the immaturity of your actions, stumbling around to gather anything else you needed that you "forgot" to pack last night.

If you were being honest with yourself, you and Ben both fell asleep in the middle of a Grey's Anatomy episode after procrastinating packing for three hours. You both could’ve gotten everything done with plenty of time to spare, but you chose not to. So, this stressful sweep over the house was needed and most definitely your fault.

Once you were sure you had everything, you wheeled your suitcases out into the hallway of your apartment, the lights dimly lit as you turned around, locking the door. You turned around and reached for your suitcase, smiling at Ben dreamily as you wheeled your extremely heavy suitcase into the elevator.

"You're gonna cuddle with me when we sleep on the plane, right?" you mumbled, your voice whiny and needy. Ben smirked lazily, meeting your eyes.

"If you insist, Miss Y/L/N."

You playfully swatted his shoulder as the elevator doors opened, and you strolled out into the expansive parking lot. You admired the bright moon in the sky as Ben loaded your bags into the back of his car, walking around to the driver's side and glancing at you through the tinted windows.

It was just cold enough to be able to see a faint wisp of your breath in the air, and this caused you to pull your jacket tightly around your figure as you continued to admire Ben.

"You getting in or am I heading to Australia alone?" he drawled, eliciting a playful glare from you. You got in the passenger's seat, immediately putting on the most upbeat Queen song you could find in your music library to stop either of you from drifting off to sleep.

You reveled in every peaceful moment of silence in-between songs with Ben, as you knew the next week and a half was going to be absolutely insane for the two of you. No time to relax, up late every night, awake early every morning, bachelorette parties, gown fittings, the works.

You didn't know how much time you and Ben would have alone, or if you'd even be able to stay for the week and a half. You'd been mulling over the possibility of a fight between you and your family, or your family and Ben. You got goosebumps just thinking about having to deal with that mess.

Granted, it's probably not the best idea to think about becoming estranged from your family due to your boyfriend, but you thought about it anyway.

You hummed along to “Love of My Life” that was now playing softly through the luxurious speakers in Ben's car. The sun had yet to show itself over the thinly drawn line of the horizon, and it allowed you to admire the darkness you so rarely got to see.

You were able to quietly enjoy Ben’s presence (and Freddie Mercury’s) before arriving at the busy airport. Sitting in a car that smelt oddly like Ben (you couldn’t explain it, it just did) and hearing Freddie’s voice float through the air airily-like bubbles- was almost ethereal. It's like Freddie was making your heart grow two sizes for the man who dropped all his plans for the next week to take an impromptu flight to Australia with you.

You don't know how you got so lucky, to be honest. After what seemed like a lifetime, Ben had parked in the airport. He grasped your hand and gave you a reassuring wink as you got out of the car.

“Ready for this wedding?” he asked, nudging your shoulder gently.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

--

"Unbelievable. What kind of airline service doesn't have Bohemian Rhapsody as a movie choice? I'm outraged!" you spoke with a little too much energy after getting off a 15-hour flight.

Ben chuckled beside you, wheeling his own luggage behind him, clearly exhausted, "I think you should send in a complaint," he agreed sarcastically.

"I think I should too!"

Both of you finally made your way to baggage claim, and you sat down on top of your luggage, absentmindedly reading the airline pamphlet they gave you on the plane.

The screeching siren sounded, causing both you and Ben to jump as luggage started making its way to the evermoving carousel.

In no time, you and Ben got your suitcases and you made your way over to the outside of the airport, walking over to a wrought iron bench while Ben called an Uber. You felt a sticky layer of sweat beginning to form all over your body, and it was oddly comforting.

You had lived in Australia for your whole life, and then moved to Los Angeles about four years ago. But the heat in LA wasn't the same.

Here it was humid, to the point where walking outside made you feel like you just got out of the shower. It was so unbearable, sometimes you'd have to actually go to a pool to get any relief from the unrelenting warmth. Your Aunt Frida called the heat in Australia "wet." California consisted of a drier heat, one that could make you sweat but was rougher and felt almost as if the sun was a heating lamp. It felt unnatural.

So climbing into the air-conditioned Uber was a relief, to say the least. You let out a long sigh at the relief of finally being able to cool down. You had recently lost your built up tolerance to the Australian heat, and it was beginning to show.

You sat with Ben in the backseat of the car, holding his hand in your lap regardless of how sweaty it was. You were far too nervous. The idea of introducing your mother to your first serious boyfriend in six years was utterly terrifying. Not to mention, this would be the first time you would be seeing her in almost a year.

In what felt like no time at all, you had arrived at your parent's house. You took a few shaky breaths as you clambered out of the car, clumsily grabbing your clunky case of clothes.

You glued yourself to Ben's side as you walked up the sidewalk, and you were standing in front of the door.

"Whatever happens next, please don't break up with me." You muttered as you knocked on the door three times.

You heard a few heavy steps as the door flew open, revealing your mom standing there with open arms.

"Y/N!" She exclaimed, launching herself forward and into your hesitant arms. You heard Ben chuckle at her enthusiasm from beside you as you wrapped your arms around your eager mother's torso.

She held onto you just long enough to make it feel slightly uncomfortable, pulling away and putting her hands on either side of your face, breathing heavily. "You get more and more beautiful every time I get to see you." She pulled you into another hug before looking up and noticing Ben.

"Oh! My god, hello, you must be Ben. Y/N has told me so much about you!" she said, glancing quickly at your slightly nervous boyfriend.

"It's so great to finally meet you-" Ben began, holding out his hand for a handshake when your mother threw herself into his arms. It was your turn to laugh now. Your mother pulled away again looking at the two of you with wistful eyes.

"How rude of me! Come in, come in, let's get you all situated!" she exclaimed, bustling into the house quickly. You and Ben gave each other reassuring smiles as you followed her inside, bringing all your bags with you.

You trudged up the stairs, heaving as you carried your bag behind you. Ben saw you struggling and lifted up the other side of your bag, shifting half the weight to his other arm. You winked at him gratefully, and he returned it before you made your way to the top of the stairs.

“Ben, I have you in the guest room, and Y/N you can of course stay in your old room.”

You felt your heart drop. It was kind of bold for you to assume your mother would let you sleep in the same bed as your boyfriend in her house, even if you were almost a decade over legal age.

You opened your mouth to say something before she answered the question you had yet to ask.

“It wasn’t my idea. You know how anal your father is about this kind of stuff, my love.”

Your mother’s voice was light and airy, and bubbled so much it could be mistaken for carbonated soda. She wore all her emotions on her sleeve and displayed them through her voice, and that’s how you could tell if her statements her sincere.

Sadly, this one couldn’t have been more genuine.

You huffed in annoyance, tossing your still very full suitcase into your old room, pictures of your friends and favorite bands still hanging up on the walls. You quickly shut the door behind you and walked over to the guest bedroom, where Ben was already beginning to unpack.

“You sure you don’t wanna nap before getting involved in unpacking all that?” you laughed as Ben tried to refold a shirt after messing it up. His face softened at the sound of your voice.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to a nap,” he said, walking over to you before wrapping you in a bear hug, “only if you take one with me.”

“How could I say no to an offer like that?” you inquired sarcastically, tapping Ben on the tip of his nose with the pad of your index finger. He scrunched his face up, making your heart melt for a moment.

You glanced at your watch, sighing with relief, “We have at least 30 minutes to nap before my mom calls us down for dinner.”

“Plenty of time.”

Ben quickly moved his suitcase for doing a dramatic jump and landing on the guess bed, opening his arms wide as an invitation for you to lay in his comforting embrace.

And you did.

You were both out like a light, trying to catch up on sleep and fix your inner-clocks and get them used to the time change.

But for the moment, your clocks were very broken.

So you laid in the guest bedroom of your mother’s house in the arms of your equally as sleepy boyfriend, desperately chasing the sweet release of alertness.

Right before you closed your eyes, you looked up at Ben lazily, “Thank you for coming with me,” you paused to lawn quietly, “it's quite nice having someone to rely on for things like this.”

“Y/N, you can always rely on me. I promise.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Maybe this wedding wouldn’t be so bad after all.

#ben hardy #ben hardy headcanon #ben hardy fic #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy x you #ben hardy fanfic #ben hardy fanfiction #bohemian rhapsody #borhap #borhap boys #borhap cast #bohemian rhapsody cast #bohemian rhapsody movie

[yespoetry]

A Selection of Sergei Yesenin Poems Translated by Anton Yakovlev

Translator’s Note: This selection contains a range of poems spanning his full literary career, from 1910 when he was 15 years old, to the last year of his life (1925).

As you will see, many of the poems are untitled, not unusually for Russian poems, and marked with standard three asterisks (and identified by first line in tables of contents, conversation or scholarship). I've included the years of composition under each poem since that might help add some historic context (which of course includes World War I and the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917).

* * *

 High water has licked

The silt with smoke.

The moon has dropped

Its yellow reins.

 Paddling a punt,

I bump into banks.

Red haystacks by the fence rails

Look like churches.

 With mournful cawing

In the silence of marshes

The black grouse

Is calling for vespers.

 In blue gloom the grove

Shrouds the destitution…

Secretly I will pray

For your future.

 <1910>

* * *

 Is it my fault that I’m a poet

Of heavy suffering and bitter fate?

After all, it wasn’t my choice—

It’s just the way I came into the world.

 Is it my fault that I don’t cherish life,

That I love and simultaneously hate everyone,

And know things about myself I don’t yet see—

That is my gift from the muse.

 I know there is no happiness in life,

Life is lunacy, the dream of a sick soul,

And I know my gloomy tunes bore everyone,

But it’s not my fault—that’s the kind of poet I am.

 <1911—1912>

  The Birch

 The white birch

Under my window

Wrapped herself in snow

As though in silver.

 Like snow borders

On fluffy branches,

White fringes of tassels

H    ave blossomed.

 And the birch stands

In listless silence,

And the snowflakes burn

In the golden fire.

 And the dawn, lazily

Walking around,

Sprinkles t   he branches

With new silver.

 <1913>

* * *

 Out came the Lord to test humanity’s love,

Walked out into a field in the guise of a beggar.

An old man sitting on a stump in an oak grove

Was chewing a dry crumpet with his toothless mouth.

 The old man saw the beggar walking

Down the path with an iron cane

And thought, “What a poor, sick fellow—

I bet it’s hunger that’s making him teeter.”

 The Lord walked up to him, hiding his sorrow and pain,

Thinking he couldn’t awaken anyone’s heart...

And the old man extended his hand,

“Here, chew on this... you’ll feel a little stronger.”

 <1914>

* * *

 In the land of yellow nettle

And dried-out wattle

Village huts, like orphans,

Cling to willows.

 In the fields, behind the ravine’s blue thicket,

Among green lakes,

The sand road stretches up to

The Siberian Mountains.

 Lost somewhere in Mordva and Chuda,

Russia knows no fear,

And the people, the people in shackles

Walk down that road.

 All of them are murderers or thieves,

As ordained by fate.

I’ve fallen in love with their sad eyes

And their hollow cheeks.

 There is so much evil and joy in killers.

Their hearts are simple.

But their blue mouths grin

On their blackened faces.

 In secret, I cherish one dream:

That I’m pure of heart.

But I too will knife someone to death

One whistling autumn.

 And on a windy route,

Perhaps on this very same sand,

They will lead me, rope on my neck,

To fall in love with anguish.

 And when I smile, in passing,

Stretching my chest,

The bad weather will lick the road of my life

With its tongue.

 <1915>

* * *

 I’m tired of living in my native land,

Yearning for the vast fields of buckwheat.

I’ll leave my shack

To be a vagrant and a thief.

 I’ll walk the white curls of the day

To look for some wretched lodging.

And, seeing me, my best friend

Will sharpen his boot knife.

 The yellow road is entwined

With the spring and the meadow sun,

And the one whose name I cherish

Will chase me from her threshold.

 Again I will come back to the house of my birth,

Console myself with someone else’s joy,

And, some green evening, hang myself

On my sleeve under the window.

 The grizzled willows by the wicker fence

Will drop their heads a bit more tenderly.

They will bury me, unwashed,

To the sound of barking dogs.

 And the moon will swim on and on,

Dropping its oars into lakes...

And Russia will go on living,

Dancing and weeping by the fence.

 <1916>

* * *

 Swimming in the blue dust,

The moon butts a cloud with its horn.

This night, no one will guess

Why the herons screamed.

This night, she ran through the reeds

To the green backwater.

Her white hand swept her tousled hair

Over her tunic.

She ran up, glanced at the quick spring

And sat down on the stump in pain.

In her eyes, the daisies wilted

The way a swamp light goes out.

At dawn, through the spiraling fog,

She swam away and vanished in the distance...

And the moon, swimming in the blue dust,

Nodded to her from behind the hill.

 <1916> * * *

 Your pensive sigh is calling me

To warm light, to my native threshold

 Where grandmother and grandfather sit on the porch

Awaiting their spirited sunflower-aged grandson.

 Their grandson is slim and white as a birch,

With honey hair and velvet hands.

 Except, o my friend, I see from his blue eyes—

They’re only dreaming of his worldly life.

 The bright Virgin in the icon corner

Beams joy into their darkness.

 With a quiet smile on her thin lips

She holds their grandson in her arms.

 <1917> * * *

 Here it is, silly happiness

With white windows that look into the garden.

The sunset quietly swims

In the pond like a red swan.

 Hello, golden quiet

With your shadow of a birch in the water.

A flock of crows on the roof

Holds vespers for a star.

  Somewhere past the garden, timidly,

Out where the guelder-rose blooms,

A tender girl in white

Sings a tender song.

 In a bluish fog, the night cool

Sweeps from the field.

Silly, sweet happiness.

Fresh blush of cheeks.

 <1918>

* * *

 Country, o my country!

Autumnal rainy tin.

The shivering streetlight reflects

Its lipless head in a black puddle.

 No, it’s best not to look,

Or else I’ll see something worse.

I’ll just keep squinting my eyes

At all this rusted haze.

 It’s warmer this way and less painful.

Look: between the skeletons of houses

A bell tower, like a miller, carries

The copper bagfuls of bells.

 If you’re hungry, you will be nourished.

If you’re miserable, you’ll find joy.

Just don’t look at me too openly,

My unknown earthly brother.

 As I thought, so I did. But alas!

It’s the same every time!

Looks like my body is too used to

Feeling this shivering cold.

 Well, so what! There are many others,

I’m not the only one alive in the world!

As for the street light, one moment it blinks,

The next moment it laughs with its lipless head.

 Only my heart, under shabby clothes,

Whispers to me, who has visited solid ground:

“My friend, my friend, the eyes that have seen

Can only be shut by death.”

 <1921>

* * *

 Don’t torment me with your icy demeanor

And don’t ask me how old I am.

I’ve got a severe falling sickness;

My soul is a yellow skeleton.

 There was a time when, hailing from outskirts,

In a smoke of my boyish dreams,

I imagined riches and fame,

And being loved by all.

 Yes! I’m rich, I’m rich beyond words.

I had a top hat; now I don’t.

All I’ve got left is one shirtfront

And a worn-out pair of fashionable shoes.

 And my fame is no worse:

From Moscow to Paris

My name inspires horror

Like a loud swearword painted on a fence.

 As to love—isn’t it funny?

You kiss me, but lips feel like tin.

I know, my feeling is overripe

And yours won’t be able to bloom.

 Oh well, I’m too young to brood,

And if I’m sad—what of it?

Fresh grass that covers the hills

Rustles with more gold than your braids.

 I’d love to go back to that place

Where, listening to rustling golden grass,

I could sink forever into oblivion

In the smoke of my boyish dreams.

 But this time I’d dream of something new,

Something earth or grass can’t understand,

Something no heart can express in words

And no human being could name.

 <1923>

 * * *

 A blue May. An eventide warmth.

The ring at the gate makes no sound.

Sticky smell wafts from the sagebrush.

The cherry tree sleeps in a white gown.

 Through the wooden wings of the window,

The whimsical moon is weaving

The lace patterns of the fine curtains

And the window frames onto the floor.

 Our living room might be small,

But it’s clean. I’m here at my leisure...

This night I’m enjoying my life

Like a pleasant thought of a friend.

 The garden blazes like a frothy fire,

And the moon, straining all its powers,

Would like everyone to tremble

From the piercing word “darling.”

 In this blossoming, in this smoothness,

Hearing the merry harmonica of May,

I’m the only one who wishes for nothing,

Who accepts everything as is.

 I accept it—come and appear,

Everything that brings pain and relief...

Peace be with you, life that has rumbled by.

Peace be with you, light-blue chill.

 <1925>

Born in Moscow, Russia, Anton Yakovlev studied filmmaking and poetry at Harvard University. He is the author of poetry chapbooks The Ghost of Grant Wood (Finishing Line Press, 2015) and Neptune Court (The Operating System, 2015). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Hopkins Review, Prelude, Measure, The Best of The Raintown Review, The Stockholm Review of Literature, and elsewhere. His book of translations of poetry by Sergei Esenin is forthcoming from Sensitive Skin Books in 2017. He has also directed several short films.

One of the most important Russian poets of all time, Sergei Yesenin (1895-1925) was a founding member of the short-lived but influential Imaginist movement, which stood in contrast to Futurism and was related to Imagism in English. Originally from the village of Konstantinovo, Ryazan Province, Yesenin spent most of his adult life in Petrograd (later Leningrad, now St. Petersburg), but most of his poetry continued to focus on nature and traditional rural life. In 1922 he married the American dancer Isadora Duncan, but their marriage was short-lived. Though he initially supported the Bolshevik regime, the poet became disenchanted with it, recognizing the encroaching and destructive effects of Soviet industrialization on the peasant population. According to the official account, on the night of December 27, 1925, he hanged himself after writing his final poem in his own blood, though many experts, relatives, and friends of the poet have disputed the official narrative.

#Anton Yakovlev #poetry #special feature #Sergei Yesenin

[sidpah]

Glory! 2

Ending up here again I wonder, why is there never any light? By light I don’t just mean brightness, I mean color, levity, Sun… Where are you, you beautiful hot-blooded creature? Why do you run from me? I won’t turn my back again, I promise… Tenderly eased into a state of approximated pleasure,I’m nearly carried away somewhere fantastic when that one-legged preacher starts his maniac call sending shivers through my blood-packed eardrum… “Oh, but don’t you see how they’re wasted! And they’ve tasted the sweet vagrant sin… The fragrance of entropy bleeds from their skin as it touches other warm bacteria-riddled skin! And how my bile riiiises soon as they set about it… Never forget: the most pious man’s the one who claims to have forgotten all about it... Animals needn’t be animals! Beasts, cast your burden off! And kneel down before you eat, before you sleep, before you leave this temple you walk in, the hair and the skin are all nails in your coffin, tell me, must we return there again and again to remind yourself how dreadful the whole cursed cycle truly is?”

Feeling cued, I stand, not sure whether I can walk, but goddamn it, it’s gotta be an easier death on those sand dunes the next block over… I’ll fall on the trunk of a cab, hook my fingers into its wheel wells and hang on to get gone… But as I stand and my head dips down, long gobs of half-clotted blood oozing from perforated skull, I get the woozies and trip those three deadly feet from curb to the middle of the street and I hear a screeching of tires on pavement and curl to protect my already shotgunned head and I’m gone to that sandy shore, that mythopoeic desert surrounded by a million others who tried to fail so completely that they were honored as true pioneers… Bloody swamps made by dead fellahin in deserts collecting their prizes for dying in the heat of gunpowder and fury. The hour struck zero and they all braced themselves for the bitter memorial homage to their Great Omnipotent Delusion…

Curtain rises, protagonist slips on stage, no merchant peddler wiser than tourist mark – snapshot lens glare a wide dusty American grin – Even he isn’t sure if he’s acting or being acted – Green fatigues eye each hunched extra with gated suspicion – A finger twitches, nearly setting off a thick wave of gunfire – Everyone breathes a heavy sigh – muscles relax – A vengeful hallelujah, a bright flare, a second burning Sun, an eruption of visceral smoke and red dust of the lurid town snows all around…

Or it’s red ambulance lights, a curse driven into my ribs. Jerry’s still yelling… But it’s not his voice anymore. It’s Kalday Suglaj, that god-healer in rags… It’s the cloying rhythmic cadence of the street-evangelist, but it’s a ragged pagan voice drilling them directly into that eighth hole in my head…

“Two-thousand years come and gone, and just how many more before the dawn’s shot down from its seat in the sky and laid sacrificially upon the ground feeding buzzards all tradition-bound?… Tradition bound us to the fabled lives of men who’ll never again walk the earth, as if they ever truly did, and weren’t just legends, deified by mouths hungry for heroes – A plague, a god, a fraud, just who are we kidding? Leave it up to the merry men, those denizens of disgrace! Every one of them’ll sell you a book for your soul, all the while impaling you on their devoutly righteous pole. They all take to survive, but greed makes survival so much more palatable. So every time, mark my words, my friends, ev-e-ry time, they’ll steal more flesh than the pound they tell both you and themselves they need as they take a dull butter knife to your love-handles!

Let me tell you ‘bout a man… a man I met recently who lived through the horrors. He is a hero, and yet no one would listen to a word that came out his mouth… I listened, I listened and I’m here to tell you all of his harrowing account… Lie yourself down on a street at night...”

I’m there, waiting as the red lights close in, the siren deafening… I push my good ear to the pavement to drown out the noise…

“Somewhere in the uncharted boondocks lit up by the full Moon and pickup headlights… Around him the gravel shatters and then shatters and then shatters into pieces of pieces of pieces while dark blood splatters steel-toes and asphalt meteors gouge his cheeks, scratch his eyeballs. Heavy links of chain yank tight round his neck bruised purple black, grated and fired by stone rockets and torn apart on streets on the outskirts of right fuckin’ here.”

I hear the loud squeals as ambulance doors open and a collapsible stretcher unfolds its wheels with a clang... There are hands on my body turning me right side up, but I refuse to respond.

“His wrists, impotent, roped together grinding spine since he was kidnapped and shackled like four hundred years refused to pass after one night stepping out of a bar with no words to drunken strangers who were looking for a scapegoat on which to vent their ancestor’s frustration…”

“Pack his head…”

“Support his neck… don’t lift him yet…”

I feel the rough hemp digging into bony wrists… I’m rolled onto the low stretcher, lifted, strapped, thick velcro gripping my arms and chest, legs and ankles, and I’m yelling at them, “Just get me to the next street! Get me to the dunes, man! Get me to the dunes!” But they don’t seem like they can hear me.

They keep shining a light into my eyes and that’s okay, I’m feeling warmer already…

Face of a young Tibetan boy looks down on me. He’s scratching “Liberate Tibet” on a mud wall… Before he can finish, he’s swarmed by drab military uniforms dragging him to a brutal tortured death… This is the land that Mercy forgot…

I feel the burn of my face peeling off grinding against the raging asphalt…

He dies nameless and noble…

Who am I to receive their misguided anger? Am I representative for any in-group? I’ve always been the meekest of outsiders…

Ghosts are gathering in the streets… pale generations clinging to each other’s waists… They all know what’s coming, but no one dares say it aloud… As the truck doors slam shut and Chinese guns flood the thin markets and alleyways… Cell doors shriek embracing robed prisoners, raped and cut…

Sirens wail from the scene but words, manic words, Jerry’s words, still bounce inside the confined little cell, wires and tubes across my face…

“…Reverently they severed that black devil man with the cane in his grip from the white woman at his hip – They did this to him so they did this to me! Tell me it didn’t happen! You know it did! Those dreary soldiers rushing, marching, folding their hands at their hearts… set on getting back the nothing they once were so quick to dismiss! Well they can dismiss us and while they’re at it, they can kiss us a fine ‘fuck you too’ as we pray to be freed from their blessed tyranny – The prince in his finery was shameless. Now we are stones laid before his merciless feet. We threw mud into their faces, on their uniforms, across their eyes and hair, but ended up wearing their mark on our bare chests... You know, I will change what I hate but it will not change me… And I may hate what I change but it will never change me… I will say it a-gain. Say it with me! I will change what I hate but it will not change me… And though I will hate what I change, it will never change me…”

 If I could talk, I’d love to tell him how wrong he is… that we must grow and be flexible, that hate versus hate never succeeds… I can’t even pretend he’d be able to listen… Words never matter to someone who’s caught in his own perpetual rut, so full of righteous fury he thinks he can alter a course of events he himself helped to instigate… Prejudicial anger has an inertia that’ll steamroll even the most skillful and best-intentioned humanitarians. And what use are these thoughts speeding at seventy miles an hour away from the very man I wanted to meet? And what would he know with the likes of a case, and like that, I remember the scaly tote… I yell at the medics, “Give it to me! It can’t fall in the wrong hands. Are my hands the wrong hands? Whose hands are yours?  Bring me back! I must speak with him!”

But they make like they don’t understand. Those sly bastards. They know the sides we’re on. I will get away, though, I will get away… I vow without a breath. And the strange thing is, in this careening ambulance taking me not to a hospital but to an underground blacksite prison, for a moment I really believe it’s possible…

#fiction #revolution #anarchy #Tibet #oppression #atheism

[houstonvote]

Juneteenth, 20 minutes prodcast on Radio France Internationale.

The link for the podcast: https://www.rfi.fr/fr/podcasts/grand-reportage/20210618-m%C3%A9moire-et-r%C3%A9parations-de-l-esclavage-%C3%A9ternels-d%C3%A9fis-pour-le-texas

the Full Script, translated in english:

June 19th is now the 11th national holiday in the United States this date commemorates June 19th 1865, when 2000 Union soldiers arrived in the last Confederate city in the country.

General Gordon Granger announced the immediate liberation of the slaves, and the effective end of slavery in the United States. This city was Galveston, Texas.

This great port of the triangular trade is today a seaside resort, a touristic and historical attraction and a place of memory on the outskirts of one of the great black cities of the country, Houston...For 156 years, Galveston and Houston have commemorated the anniversary of the end of slavery, but also the long way to heal the wounds.

Memory and reparations of slaver: the eternal challenges for Texas,

Thomas HARMS, RFI

-----

"This building used to be here (showing a picture). This was General Gordon Granger's headquarters. We're standing in the exact spot where General Order Number 3 was issued. " (Tommie Boudreaux)

Tommie Boudreaux is the city historian for Galveston. The Emancipation Act signed by Abraham Lincoln in 1863 freed the slaves, but it took 2 1/2 years of fighting for the news to reach Texas. And that Union troops led by General Gordon Granger finally arrived in Galveston... where he had his general order number 3 read: " (…) all slaves are free. This involves an absolute equality of personal rights and rights of property between former masters and slaves..."

"As far as we know he was standing around here when the announcement was made. Of course the merchants of the town came out in number to attend. He had 2,000 men with him, which was already unusual, and that made what he was going to say all the more important. He also had black soldiers with him.” (Tommie Boudreaux)

In his order, General Granger made it clear what the slave owners had to do, for example, that the slaves could stay and work for them for a wage. In Galveston, this order was not applied until much later...

"In order not to lose their heritage, they found legal loopholes and ways to keep the new free men in bondage. You had to work to pay off all the debts accumulated during the years of slavery. So a lot of them left Galveston. And because there was a lot of virgin land in Texas, they had that opportunity (..) When you think of slavery, you think of working in the fields from sunrise to sunset. Galveston was different, the soil didn't allow for farming so the slaves worked at the ports, on the docks, loading the ships, cleaning the holds... they were craftsmen, blacksmiths, the women were nannies, and did most of the domestic work..."(Tommie Boudreaux)

The place of the historic declaration of June 19, 1865, Juneteenth in English, is today a parking lot. But since March, artists have painted a Mural of more than 450m2 on the adjacent building.

"This is History that you see, when scrolling from left to right. We see the boats, and the Africans who are forcibly embarked. We see Harriet Tubman who helped many slaves to escape. In the middle you see Abraham Lincoln breaking the chains. Above him you see the Union soldiers, some of whom are African-American. Then you see General Granger signing General Order number 3. We also see the African Americans who left Galveston to settle further north. This wall is interactive, with your phone you can zoom in on a part of the drawing to see a video that tells the episode represented." (Tommie Boudreaux)

Sam Collins, co-chair of the juneteenth legacy committee, is at the origin of the mural project. The idea came to him a few days after George Floyd's death in May 2020. He contacted the owner of the building and the parking lot who was excited by the idea.

"This design, which has been called “absolute equality”, is part of the Junetenth legacy project. It was created by artist Reginald Adams and his team (the Creatives). Every year Juneteenth is an important event. There was a lot of talk about it last year (during the protests after George Floyd's death), but this History has always been important to the Galveston community, to Texas and to the United States. " (Sam Collins )

But Galveston past resurfaced in 2019, when a man, Donald Neely, walked through the city between two sheriffs on horseback. The hands tied behind his back and pulled by a rope, as were the slaves captured by the slave patrol. The video went viral around the world.

"I don't think the police intended to hurt, it was more a lack of sensitivity and cultural reference that lead them to make him walk like that in the street. But it is also because of a lack of historical knowledge. That's why it's so important to have art projects like this one, to teach history to citizens and law enforcement. I'm sure none of them had seen a slave militia or someone pulling a tied slave on the street before. Maybe if they had been taught this in school or high school, they would have thought twice about doing this to someone. You have to teach the full story and tell what happened here. We all live in this house America that was built on a cracked foundation. We need to repair that foundation. It is my job to tell that story, the artists to paint it. It's all part of the repair work to make America better. " (Sam Collins )

At 1 hour drive from Galveston we arrive in Houston. The Buffalo Soldier Museum is located In an old army building, It traces the history of black soldiers in the United States... including those who accompanied General Granger, as Captain Paul Matthews, the founder of the museum, tells us.

"When General Gordon Granger arrived in Galveston to read his declaration, he had 300 black troops with him to enforce the law. Many of these African American soldiers remained in Texas after the Civil War. So part of the maneuver was to free the slaves but also to enroll them in the army. Look at what the ardent defender of slavery Howell Cobb wrote in 1865: "The day you make soldiers of them, speaking of Negroes, is the beginning of the end of the revolution. If slaves make good soldiers our whole theory of slavery is wrong. " (Captain Matthews)

In 1865, many former slaves made the journey from Galveston to Houston, more than 2 days by foot or boat. They landed in Freedmen's Town, a town created by freed slaves some twenty years earlier. Catherine Roberts is a historian and co-founder of the Rutherford Yates Museum, which traces the history of the original inhabitants of Freedmen's Town.

"The 40 blocks of Freedmen's Town housing listed on the National Historic Register are the only evidence of urban settlement by former slaves in Texas. Because of Jim Crow laws, former slaves could only buy land in very few places. They were allowed to settle on a swamp, along the Buffalo Bayou River which is always flooded. Because they were the first inhabitants, archaeologists consider Freedmen's Town a treasure because everything found in the land was left by newly freed slaves, so we know how they lived and how they built this community on a swamp. " (Catherine Roberts)

When they were taken to Africa and made slaves, the most expensive were the ones with skills. Those who knew how to work metal, mastered basketry or pottery.

"When they were able to get their own land, they knew how to do just about everything, because they had built up their skills on the plantations. There were 13 blacksmiths living here, 34 brick makers, masons and carpenters of quality. There was also a fairly diverse population. Jewish families moved in right after slavery in the 1800s, as they were also subject to segregation laws (Jim Crow). They were limited in where they could go, where they could live and own land. That's why you have a Jewish cemetery at the end of the street. (…) The inhabitants had to protect their children from strangers coming into the neighborhood, so when you look at this model you see that they relied on an African tradition of a central courtyard in the heart of the block of houses. Each porch faced the street and between the houses was a central courtyard where livestock was stored, gardening was done, and children could play safely. "(Catherine Roberts)

Of these original wooden houses, painted white, few have been preserved. Since 1985, 500 of them have been torn down or burned to make way for expensive middle-class homes in this central Houston neighborhood.Charonda Johnson is a neighborhood activist who was nominated mayor of the community.

"This was my childhood home. My family has been in Freedmen's Town for five generations. I used to play in the Gregory School when it was abandoned. The Gregory School was the first school for black children. It opened in 1872. How did my grandmother get here? My mother told me, everybody knew to come here. It was a kind of Mecca. The word was passed around that people were free here. Some people walked from Galveston, but most came by boat on Buffalo Bayou. We are not upset that people are moving into our community today. We just want everyone to know that this is a historic place where our ancestors came from and it deserves respect. "(Charonda Johnson )

Charonda organizes tours of Freedmen's town and fights to keep the developers from destroying the history of these houses and cobblestone streets. She is supported by the city council, which has helped create the Freedmen's Town Conservation Center... an NGO headed by Zion Escobar, who has just gotten Freedmen's Town officially designated as a historic district, the first in Houston...    

 "When you look at a map of the area...You see Galveston, where the Juneteenth Emancipation Proclamation was read. All that green space there is plantations. So people went north from there by trade routes, and some by boat. You take a whole region, concentrate all its population looking for economic opportunities, take them to Freedmen's town and you get a black Wall street, which was bigger than Tulsa's. But nobody knows that. It's this chapter of American history: this is what happens in the aftermath of the end of slavery!  That's why we're trying to get Freedmen's Town designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Because nowhere in the United States can you find so many houses that date back to the history before the Civil War (..)"Here you can see the big picture, and realize that there were thriving businesses. This gentleman owned a brick factory, a drug store, and he was a writer. This one was the first black lawyer in Houston... We need to stand up for ourselves, we need to stand up for this space, politically and legally, or else anyone would just set it on fire and think they can take it over. "( Zion Escobar)

Freedmen's Town was quickly enclosed, a highway was even built in the middle of it. The descendants of the former slaves therefore left for other parts of Houston, notably towards the 3rd Ward. Carl Davis presides over the " Houston Society for Change ", which is very active in this district.

 "Emancipation Park is the site that 4 former slaves were able to purchase together in 1872, 7 years after 1865. They wanted a place where they could celebrate their Freedom as a family. The community leaders pooled their resources, $800 to buy these 10 acres of land. It was the first public park in Texas. The 1872 celebration was a huge success, everyone came as a family, they had been enslaved for so many years. When they were able to celebrate that they were free it was a feeling of fulfillment. They wanted a place where they could come together and be one. Today, if there is a tragedy in the country, Emancipation Park is the focal point, the place where you can share your feelings or express your protests because we consider this place holy ground. It is a sacred place for us African-Americans. " ( Carl Davis)

On the ground, a group of young women paint "Be the change". Emancipation park is not only the symbol of Juneteenth, but also the symbol of recent struggles against systemic racism and police violence. George Floyd, whose murder by a Minneapolis police officer in May 2020 generated a huge wave of protest in the United States is indeed from this neighborhood of 3rd Ward. His face is represented on several murals.

"We find these paintings on the walls of several buildings of Third Ward. There is one in front of Jack Yates High School, where George Floyd studied. I helped create it: it's a Black Lives Matter mural, which takes up the demand for social equity that has been going on around the country. But we added a coat of arms, with on one side the lion, mascot of the school, and on the other side George Floyd's soccer jersey...with his number, 88, his name, his birth and death dates. We want these children growing up in this African American high school to see, every morning, that "Black lives matter," that their lives matter. That's the message that should give them hope. " (Carl Davis)

A few steps from Emancipation Park, we come across 7 restored houses of the first descendants of slaves. Today they host artists for creations related to the current events of the neighborhood... Eureka Gilkey directs the Row House Project organization which promotes art and development of 3rd Ward.

"The 7 artists who created the Row House Project were inspired by Dr. John Biggers who founded the art studies department at Texas Southern University, Houston's Black University. He studied and worked on the architecture of these slave houses, which are called "shotgun houses". Most people think that the name comes from the shotgun, because an urban legend says that when a slave tries to escape, the owner can shoot the house and hit all the inhabitants. But in fact these houses are the result of the architectural ingenuity of the slaves. Inside, you find a central column, a bit like a chimney, with a hole inside. This allows air to circulate and keep the house cool in the summer and warm in the cooler months. The word comes from the Yoruba "Shogun", which means "the house of god", but it has been distorted by dialects and time...” Juneteenth will always be at the heart of the work we do here, especially because of the geographical proximity of the "Row houses" to Emancipation Park. But it's also important to know that the Row house project has been at the forefront of social justice issues for many years. One of our creations a few years ago was titled: "Breaking the Concrete: Artists, Activists and Instigators" and one of the installations highlighted police violence and the need for police reform. " (Eureka Gilkey)

Marked by slavery and its memory, the Houston area has become, since Emancipation, one of the spearheads of the struggle for perfect equality, "absolute equality" written as early as 1865. Max Krochmal is Professor of History and Chair of Comparative Ethnic Studies at Texas Christian University.

"There was a fierce struggle in Houston for civil rights. African-Americans fought for decades before the struggles of the 1960s, and they continue to do so today. African-Americans continue to come to Houston because it is recognized that it is an easier city for them to live in than other cities. It's not the slave plantation city it used to be..." (Max Krochmal)

 It is not a coincidence then that it is thanks to the mobilization in Galveston and Houston, that since 1979, June 19th is a holiday in Texas...( and that Juneteenth is now a holiday everywhere in the United States.) It's no coincidence either that it's Houston's congresswoman Sheila Jackson Lee  in Washington who is trying to get a vote on the creation of a reparations commission for the descendants of slaves.. Because here in Houston, instead of the term African Americans, we prefer an acronym, ADOS, African Descendant of Slaves.

Descendant d’esclaves africains… (in French)

Thomas Harms, Houston, RFI

[eirianerisdar]

Can I request a drabble with Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon out on a dangerous mission when Obi becomes unable to walk (as well as speak)? Got myself hurt recently and could use the fluff.

Just the thing I needed - I was feeling bogged down (it’s a pun, you’ll see later) with my FFN stories, since I’ve written like mad recently, so this was very fun to do. Not quite what you asked for exactly, perhaps, but I felt like more angst-fluff than h/c-fluff. If you wanted a shot-glass of trope, anon, here you have it.

Conversations With Flora

Every seasoned Jedi Master has carried his or her padawan before. It is not a question of why, but when; as well-trained as Jedi younglings are, they are still exactly that when they become apprentices - younglings.

Younglings trip over their own feet. Can be overconfident, shy, naïve; all inevitably resulting in injuries, minor or major (though with the occupational hazards of being Jedi, too often the latter) that require, in the end, the master carrying the apprentice.

Regardless of how much blood said master might be losing in the process.

Carrying your apprentice, Qui-Gon decides, is all well and good - but if your padawan is now technically a young man of twenty-one standard, the task becomes decidedly more difficult.

Two hours into his determined slog across swampy country to get himself and his padawan back to civilisation, Qui-Gon decides to make conversation with the local flora, simply to get his attention off the blood that drips off Obi-Wan’s fingers, running down the arm that hangs limply over Qui-Gon’s shoulder.

Perhaps his present inclinations are a side-effect of the blaster shot that clipped his left side. Anyhow, the hastily-bound wound seems to have pumped his brain with enough endorphins that it seems quite normal to chat with the plants, now. They certainly shine even brighter in the Living Force than they usually do.

“He’s quite capable, you know,” Qui-Gon begins, conversationally, nodding at a patch of moss as he staggers past. “He only smashed his head against that rock pushing me out of the way. You’d think he’d have seen it, though. Not too bright, then - though capable.”

He grunts as he shifts his padawan’s deadweight further up onto his back. Obi-Wan shifts, minutely, a moan rising up through a jaw bound tight with bacta-wraps.

The patch of moss is a little further behind, now, so Qui-Gon picks a patch of soggy heather as his next new acquaintance. And then when that too has passed by, he finds a dying tree. Or a field of reeds, or a muddy vine.

“Why do young men weigh so much?”

“You’d think he’d be awake by now, wouldn’t you?” A panting, raspy chuckle. “He’s always making jokes at the expense of my poor knees - owwaaaargh - and look, they’re popping like a midsummer bonfire right now.”

“Blasted brat. I’ll have him run through every kata he knows from Shii-Cho through to advanced Ataru for this.”

“You have lovely petals. Green and gold. I once knew a Jedi with eyes that exact colouration…”

Qui-Gon’s left boot slips in a patch of mud, and it nearly sends them both tumbling down into the mire, all sweat and blood and gritted teeth, determination and the Force doing what a normal human body cannot.

He trudges on, watching his padawan’s blood drip to the sodden ground by his boots with each step.

He trudges faster.

Obi-Wan’s heartbeat against his back, weakening and speeding up all at once…blood loss…

The next stage of hypovolemia, of course, would present as a decrease in urinary production. Unfortunately, Obi-Wan is unlikely to be able to answer if he has felt any pressing need of the ‘fresher in the past few hours. Qui-Gon chuckles at the thought, more a gasping wheeze than anything. His grime-streaked hair lashes his face with each step.

Qui-Gon eventually stops talking to the plants.

When he finally keels over, he remembers at the last moment to tilt his shoulders slightly so Obi-Wan rolls onto the muddy ground.

The gloom surrounds them both, now, though the swamp has never felt more alive; the Force is soaked in every blade of grey grass and every twisted vine. Qui-Gon presses his face into the fog-slick ground, and breathes it in.

When he passes out, it is with two fingers pressed to Obi-Wan’s wrist, feeling for the stuttering pulse there.

Qui-Gon wakes to the world of different-textured white that is every medcentre room, and promptly rips off his cardiac monitor leads in an effort to get to his apprentice.

Wherever he is.

Where is he?

Qui-Gon cannot sense him. Panic. Terror. Complete, un-Jedi-masterly horror. And he had taught Obi-Wan so many times to focus on the present.

Please let it be the drugs. Yes, that must be it - potent painkillers tend to dull the Force.

It must be. The alternative is unacceptable.

The med droid shrieks at him. The words do not register above the wailing alarm of the cardiac monitor.

A Togruta orderly rushes in, stares at him. Mouths something.

Eventually the words skip across the tumbled neural bridges of his mind and register.

Your son is in a bacta tank, sir.

“A bacta tank?” Qui-Gon slurs, blinking. There was something not quite right about what the orderly said. He cannot quite figure out what, though.

“Yes,” the orderly says, placatingly, leading him back to the beeping bed. “I’ll get someone to tell you when he’s out. From what I know, he’s going to be fine.”

Qui-Gon stares at him through the shreds of the Force, and decides that the orderly is not lying.

“How?” Qui-Gon mumbles as he is pushed pliantly back into his own bed.

“You have a son with a heart of gold,” the orderly says, smiling at him with a row of sharp Togruta teeth. “Word is he was found on the outskirts of the city - by the looks of your cloak, he’d dragged you quite a ways. Don’t know how he managed it, really, with how severely injured he was. At least he had the sense to re-bind his head wound before continuing.”

An echo, in the Force; of a cloak twisting in raw hands, a pounding headache and burning thirst so awful that tears start in his eyes - whose eyes? and endless, slippery mud, with the Force singing louder and louder and sweat and blood dripping down a clean-shaven chin, a padawan braid heavy with grime-

Oh.

“Good boy,” Qui-Gon mumbles as he decides to answer the call of the Force and faint again.

Qui-Gon next wakes to the sensation of a small nebula in the Force, two paces to his right.

He cracks open an eyelid and glances over. Obi-Wan, deathly-pale, but tucked securely into the bed beside Qui-Gon’s; his force signature flickers with a regenerating flame.

Qui-Gon closes his eyes again, and relaxes. All is right in the world again.

The ‘cycled air is awfully cold on his face, though.

He reaches up to rub his beard, and meets the smooth skin of his chin.

Qui-Gon freezes.

They’d shaved him.

The mental image of Obi-Wan’s reaction should he wake and see is quite enough to make Qui-Gon wish his facial hair would grow faster.

END

Ah, it’s always lovely to go back to one of the the original roots of fanfic and write something like this. thanks for the prompt, anon!

My fanfic masterlist

My FFN profile and stories

#star wars #qui-gon jinn #obi-wan kenobi #tahl #jedi apprentice #well sort of #my post #fanfic #kenobi #jinn #anon #replies

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine fic - “Underneath the Magic” (Rated PG13)

Kurt, a tree demon, runs a magical, supernatural circus that, unfortunately, is in the red. Trying to come up with a way to keep them afloat, his right hand man ... uh, goblin ... convinces Kurt to hire some new acts. Kurt reluctantly agrees, as long as that new act isn't human.

Enter Blaine - the human conman who's about to try and change Kurt's mind. (10511 words)

So, this started life in a number of different ways. I wanted to write some stuff for @sunshineoptimismandangels, for her birthday, and at the time, I had started writing this as an original piece, inspired by @vampireisabitstrong's "Graveyard Book au" which I was also writing at the time. But after a while, I had to come to grips with the fact that I was writing Glee characters. The character of Puck, in particular, was inspired in part by sunshine's character of Felix from her amazing story Heartstone (whom she's reluctant to admit is a goblin, but I know better xD) Also, Kurt is a Spriggan, but I added hints of Kapre as a nod to Darren's Filipino heritage. I hope you all enjoy. Please let me know. And no, if you're curious, I wasn't smoking anything when I wrote this xD

For @sunshineoptimismandangels . I know I’m writing a ton of stuff for you but look! Something shiny!! <3

Read on AO3.

On the farthest outskirts of town.

Past the dead end streets and the no trespassing signs.

In a place with no light, artificial or otherwise. Where the full moon fails to penetrate.

In the center of a deep, dark forest.

In a clearing where no grass grows, no animals graze, no water flows.

Where the still air settles dry and musty, like the breath of death, and even the spirits of the wicked dare not tread.

The perfect place for a satanic ritual, to cast a spell …

… or perform a sacrifice.

Or hold a circus.

But not just any circus. Here there be no clowns, no acrobats, no elephants, no loud emcee dressed in a sparkly red coat and tall top hat.

Spriggan and Company’s Supernatural Circus - where the freaks control the show and the straights wind up in cages.

It is a commonly accepted belief in the earthen realm that the modern circus originated in the late 18th century, but Spriggan’s circus (and this particular Spriggan preferred to be called “Kurt”, derived from the Old High German Kuonrat and meaning wise counsel) has been around for far longer. For those few who know of Kurt and his past, it is rumored that he and his circus have performed for every type of creature that has ever walked the planet Earth – human, vampire, werewolf, cryptid, in every station imaginable from Neanderthal to Czar.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean that his circus is easy to come by.

One can find it only if they truly believe, if they possess a heart of darkness (of their own or in a box - either way works as long as it doesn’t leak), or if they can stare into the abyss and fear not what they may see. But if none of that applies to you personally, there are gigantic possessed road signs set up every few miles to help guide you on your journey. They flash in a dazzling array of colors, sing opera, and even dance the polka. They might scream at you if you ignore them for too long before you reach the turnpike, helpfully directing you back to the exit you accidentally missed because every person, demon, beast, warlock, and road sign in those parts knows that if you have gone this way, Kurt’s circus is the only place you intend on ending up.

Come one, come all! Don’t delay! Come now! the signs cry, luring pedestrians and motorists alike to behold the most spectacular feats of magic and wonderment ever known to man or Gorgon. (The older signs scream obscenities in cryptic forgotten languages, but you have to forgive them. After several centuries, there’s no changing their ways.)

And like all respectable circuses, this one takes place beneath a “Big Top”. The tent they use, however, is actually a bigger than big top, made of thick, heavy canvas woven by the gnarled hands of Stygian witches, with long, vertical stripes running from peak to the hem. The stripes are pink and white if you’re a Virgo, black and purple if you’re a Scorpio, green and gold if you’re a Taurus, and just plain red if you’re an Aries. If you happen to be a Capricorn, it’s something else entirely, like an antique greenhouse with fogged glass panes or an old abandoned inn whose lavish furnishings have faded with age.

Aquarians, however, don’t come here. It’s nothing personal (cough-cough). It just kind of is.

But regardless of its dreary and gothic portend, none of it is meant to hurt, frighten, or offend. It is all the work of a master trickster who has spent the long millennia offering unique entertainment open and accessible to beings of all ages, races, genders, sexual orientations, religions, political affiliations, etc. (except for Aquarians - refer back to the above), and promises to be vegan friendly, as well as gluten- and cruelty-free.

Behind the main tent, cloaked to mortal eyes, lies the encampment where the performers live during their time in the human realm, each tent enchanted to match the personality of its inhabitant – moss covered tombs for the vampires, veiled by an eternal darkness; bogs for the swamp monsters, shrouded with twisted, overgrown vines, their tepid waters slick with a layer of putrid algae; a stable for the unicorns, where inside an illusion of the forests of their world stretches, blue shimmering skies and silver lined clouds above, rolling green hills and fragrant wild flowers below, and filled with rabbits, eagles, deer, and all of the other animals they have sworn to protect (which unfortunately escape every so often and run amok, as evidenced by the Australian rabbit pandemic of the past 150 years).

Beyond those tents grows a thicket of trees not native to these woods – stunning mangoes, thorny acacias, dense bamboo, and brooding banyans. Travel through their maze and you might stumble across the ruins of an old plantation house, it’s once proud, whitewashed walls slowly being reclaimed by Mother Earth, devoured by the softly swelling ground beneath it. Follow the branches that break through its foundation, compelled to grow by the power within, and you will find him. Here, apart from the others, dwells the founder of this folly, the creator of this circus, the manager of this mélange.

In short, the guy in charge.

In the midst of this ruin, hidden by scores of overhanging branches, Kurt sits, red eyes glowing in the descending mists of twilight, fingers drumming his knees, deeply troubled as he counts and re-counts his take. A rap on the door doesn’t distract nor disturb him. He knew what was coming. He smelled him on the evening breeze, sensed his arrival in his bones. He felt his footsteps disturb the ground, and the trees surrounding him warned of his approach. In his heart, though he hopes for good news, Kurt already knows this intruder doesn’t bode well.

The door swings open, hinges creaking like the tortured gasps of a hanging man, and the foul thing walks in – long, hooked nose preceding him by about half a foot; hunched over as if pressed down upon by an invisible burden; favoring one leg while the other hits the boards beneath him with a resounding clunk, his slow march tapping out the foreboding cadence of a funeral dirge. His skin glows slightly in this absence of light, lending an eerie cast of unnatural grey to the room. Cracked, thin lips outline a mouth of yellowing, rectangular teeth, gapped in the center while the rest hang askew like dominoes forever falling. The creature smiles. It splits his face almost entirely in two. He’s dressed in the humblest of clothes – a shirt made of burlap that continuously irritates his skin, which sloughs from his shoulders and back in sheets and leaves a ghastly trail behind; and pants fashioned by the very same witches whose arthritic fingers stitched together the tents. His pants in particular are two sizes too loose at the waist, tied around his torso with a piece of rough twine; and three sizes too long at the legs so that the bulk of their length drags behind him, his feet sticking out of two ragged holes where everyday use has worn them through.

“My Lord,” the detestable creature rasps, hobbling toward the tree demon, who towers the approaching goblin even while reclining, “I bring to you the book of holding, ripe for your approval. Snoooort!” He sucks in through his nose what sounds like a century’s worth of phlegm, then bows his head in reverence as he offers Kurt the book.

Kurt stares at the ancient, leathery object, held aloft by an even more ancient, leathery creature. He sits up in his chair created by the twining tree roots of two mighty banyans, straightens to an even loftier height, and with a disapproval wrought by hundreds of years of monotony, rolls his flaming red eyes, and says, “Can’t you just call it a ledger, Puck? For crying out loud! You do this every … single … night!”

The goblin huffs and stands upright. He glares indignantly at his friend and Master, but to Kurt, it looks more like he’s pouting. “Where’s your flair for the dramatic, old man? Or your sense of humor?”

“It’s gone on vacation with the petty cash.” Kurt sighs, rubbing his pinched brow with woody fingers. “It’ll return when we clear a profit. So, how did we do?” Kurt extends sharp nails to take the smallish ledger from his goblin companion. “My cash box here’s a little light.”

“Not as good as you had hoped, I’m afraid.”

Kurt flips through the pages carefully to keep from slicing them to bits, mulling over the less-than-impressive numbers. “Hmm. How many performances do we have left in this realm?”

“Only three,” the goblin says regretfully. “Then we move on.”

“Ugh!” Kurt slams the book shut in his hand, squeezing so hard he nearly drives his fingers straight through it. “If we could only sneak five more in before the next full moon!”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. Not with the portal to our next destination opening soon. And it’s a good thing, too. The glamour shielding the meadow is already starting to peel … and it’s gettin’ kinda gross,” Puck remarks, recalling the trail of mushy magic he’d had to sidestep just to get to Kurt’s sanctuary. He’s pretty certain that, despite his best efforts, he still managed to drag the hems of his pants through it. There’s a stain that’s impossible to get out, and it’ll smell like raw eggs and rotting swordfish given enough time. He grimaces just thinking about it.

Kurt grimaces, too. Not at Puck’s mention of “peeling glamour”, but at the avalanche of skin flakes that tumble from the goblin’s body when he shivers. Kurt would never outright tell his friend this, but he’d much prefer stepping in a pool of mushy, decaying magic than another pile of desiccated goblin skin.

But back to the real issue …

They’d discussed this before. There’s no use repeating and rehashing it, and yet, every time they start this discussion, they both hope for a better outcome.

The definition of insanity, Einstein would say, which is exactly why Kurt doesn’t speak to him anymore, the insufferable old fool.

“I don’t see how, either,” Kurt admits. “I’d like to leave this plane without any red marks in our ledger, but it seems to be nothing but red lately.” Kurt peeks through the pages of the book one last time, looking for something that will prove him wrong, a page full of pluses instead of minuses that he had read incorrectly. When he doesn’t come across one, he raises a hopeful eyebrow at his shifty friend. “No chance you were balancing the books while eating your lunch again, and that’s blood on these pages in place of ink?”

“I wish,” Puck snorts. “But no. I’m using a ballpoint pen nowadays. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Kurt grumbles.

“We have to face facts. The crowds have been thinner lately,” Puck points out as if Kurt didn’t already know – as if the whole company, stressed out over incidentals day after day, hasn’t realized it. “Believe it or don’t, many humans are choosing to go see Cirque du Soleil over our vastly more phenomenal circus. Human acrobats are a bigger draw than supernatural ones, ironically.”

Kurt stands and paces the room. He’d noticed that also, how those human equivalents of tree frogs outperform his circus almost ten to one. Meanwhile, they have a pair of Siamese twins who can switch heads, but meh. That’s old hat compared to a woman who can spin inside a metal ring.

“There’s also the matter of us being stuck in this dreary ass meadow in the middle of nowhere,” Puck continues. “You might consider springing for a few weeks at the convention center - center of town, free advertising, lots of parking and bus access, a handicap ramp …” Kurt nods as Puck counts off the pros on his fingers, giving this option more thought than he had in decades. Kurt can be stubborn, set in his ways. He’s very much an “if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it” kind of demon. His decision to set up camp in meadows like this one wasn’t simply a matter of personal preference, or even safety for his performers. They could always camp in a remote location and teleport to their performance venue – that wasn’t the issue. It was about ambiance, the air of authenticity that holding their circus out in a spooky forest lent to their shtick. Kurt thought that that was one of the things that set them apart from other circuses. It made them special.

But apparently the definition of special had changed over the past three hundred years.

“Also … uh … you could start letting Aquarians in again,” Puck adds under his breath. “I hear they make up a good portion of the population.”

“You know how I feel about that, Puck,” Kurt grumps. “Inconsiderate little dung beetles, the lot of them.”

“Their money spends just like everyone else’s!”

“No Aquarians! That’s not negotiable!” Kurt declares, dropping a period on the end of the discussion.

“Anyway …” Puck sighs. Demons and their egos. There was no way around them. They were the experts at holding a grudge. And once they found one, they latched onto it tight and never let go. Puck knows he’s not going to win. He might as well let that one lie. Besides, he has other suggestions, ones that Kurt might object to more than the inclusion of Aquarians.

“You could always start smoking your magical pipe again. The one that attracts the humans’ attention? You can lure them here that way.”

Kurt curls his lip and pulls a face, one that would be more effective if, at the moment, he weren’t a giant tree. “You know the stigma that surrounds smoking in this century. These mortals are headstrong, more so than their 12th century ancestors, especially when it comes to their health. This mindset of “drugs evil, weed bad” kind of counteracts the effect of the smoke. And not just smoking either. Alcohol, gambling, it’s apparently all a no-no to them. These 21st century humans,” Kurt huffs, as if the mention of them put a bad taste in his mouth. “All they want to do is sip wheat grass, do yoga, and have heated arguments with strangers about something called smashing the patriarchy.” He digs the toe of his trunk-like foot into the dirt, mourning the end of an era. “They don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

Kurt actually used to enjoy coming to Earth a decade or so ago. It was one of the few places where he could indulge in a good, old-fashioned, PG13-rated vice without accidentally declaring war on an indigenous culture.

Not anymore.

“Well, you could at least try it with the pipe for our last three shows, couldn’t you?” Puck suggests, exasperation draining his crooked body. “Or maybe just closing night.”

Kurt shifts from foot to foot, negotiating with himself. He tries his best not to interfere with the humans anymore, not the way the Spriggan used to, which included putting them “under the influence”, causing them to do things against their will. Though, to be fair, refraining from using his pipe goes against his nature, bred from a morality that he’s acquired, not one he’s been taught.

Among Spriggan, Kurt’s the exception, not the rule.

It’s more of a guideline. He doesn’t have to break it. He could just bend it a little, for the holiday crowd, who will more than likely be drinking their heads off anyway. If he lures them to his circus, they’ll all be in one place, bound by protection spells. They won’t be driving while intoxicated. They’ll be safe. Kurt would be doing a public service.

And there he had it! Loopholes! They were amazing things!

“I guess I could do that,” he decides, feeling good about this decision. “I’ll break out the old pipe, smoke some green, and we’ll have a packed house once again.”

“Yeah,” Puck says, a bit uneasy with the direction he was about to take their conversation. Maybe he shouldn’t mention it. He should just let it drop. Kurt finally looked relaxed after the long, hard weeks of constant worry. The problem was that Kurt’s pipe only worked on humans. They were having similar difficulties gathering crowds in other realms they went to, and for a number of reasons. They didn’t just need Band-Aid solutions.

Something else needed to change.

Puck shifts his gaze to the ground, scratches his abnormally large ears with his abnormally longer fingers. “And … maybe … we might consider … um … hiring some new acts?”

Kurt turns on Puck so quickly, the goblin hears the demon’s torso crack, splintered bark breaking from his body and dropping to the earth.

“Puck!” Kurt roars. “We’ve discussed this! There’s nothing wrong with the acts! Bringing new ones on board isn’t the answer!”

“Kurt! We can’t keep slogging along with the old acts if they’re not bringing anybody in! I know you’ve gotten used to our little troupe the way it is. So have I! You know I have trust issues! It took about seven centuries before I could relate to any of them! What does a Pukwudgie have in common with a half-angel, half-dragonfly nomad princess? I’ll tell you what, Kurt! A big fat nothing, that’s what!”

“And yet you still managed to get her pregnant,” Kurt grumbles bitterly recalling the talented, silvery-voiced, platinum-haired enchantress they’d had to send back to her home realm because Puck couldn’t keep his fetid dick in his drooping trousers. Though, on the other hand, Princess Quinn slept with him, so Kurt had to question her life choices.

“But you have to think of the good of the show! You’re working our old acts to death! All of those performers out there that bust their butts every night? You owe them, Kurt! They don’t have to stick it out with us for another millennia. They could transport back to their own dimensions, every last one of them, and then where would we be?”

“I know, I know, you’re right,” Kurt agrees, knocking on his wooden head with wooden fists.

This was another argument they’d been having for longer than Puck could remember. The difference was that on this subject, they strenuously disagreed, to the point of a deadlock, and Kurt didn’t foresee things changing in this instance. Puck argued that they wouldn’t be getting rid of any of their old acts, so there was no reason to be so pigheaded about finding new blood. Kurt countered that their group worked best with the acts already in it. Getting more would be adding unnecessary stress and strain on their already thinly-stretched resources. As far as Kurt was concerned, his circus ran like a well-oiled machine. Adding new acts meant advertising, interviews, auditions, negotiations - things that Kurt couldn’t stand but which would fall on him since he was the owner and all.

On the other hand, it might be nice gong out of his way to meet new beings, for pleasure as well as for work. Bouncing back and forth for centuries has been the death of Kurt’s social life. He’s not looking to settle down or get married. He never wanted to have spawn. He doesn’t even want to date really. He just wants someone nice to go to dinner with every once in a while, tell Dark Age jokes to, share an offering with once in a while.

Not a human. Kurt has been very careful not to become attached to humans. Spriggan as a species can develop a sentimental skin where it comes to humans. If they find one that they consider an equitable match, either as a friend or more, Spriggan will follow that human for the rest of their days.

Ha! Kurt thinks. No, thank you.

But as for everything else, was that too much to ask?

He’s spent his entire existence making others happy – humans, deities, sirens, and banshees galore. Doesn’t he deserve a little happiness, too?

“Okay,” Kurt says, a crumb of reluctance clinging stubbornly to his acquiescence. “We’ll find some new blood. One act, but that’s all.”

It’d better be one hell of an act, he thinks. Kurt hadn’t come across anything in all the infinite realms of the universe that tickled his fancy, nothing that even came close to fitting the bill.

Who was he going to find that would make any sort of a difference in their lives?

“Great!” a cheerful, new voice intervenes. “That’s excellent news! I’d hoped you were hiring.”

Both demon and goblin fall gravely silent.

Kurt looks at Puck.

Puck looks at Kurt.

They turn a full circle, unable to see, at first, the man dressed in head to toe black, standing in the center of their meeting room. But when Kurt sets his red eyes on him, his surprise, which makes his eyes glow like hot coals, pins the man to his spot.

“What the …?” Kurt growls. “Who are you!? How did you get in here!?”

“It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that! I had to sneak past your guard at the front door,” the man admits proudly, as if he thinks thwarting their security would win him points.

Of course, considering the fact that their guard is a giant, two-headed, man-eating, spectral spider, it might …

Kurt appraises the man with an unimpressed demeanor. He knows enough about human aesthetic preferences to know that this man – with his tan, unblemished skin; his clean-shaven face; dark hair slicked back; and golden hazel eyes – is handsome by their standards. By demon standards, he would be considered more appetizing than most, and that’s a compliment. And yet, if Kurt had to choose between devouring this human and his usual offering of mangoes and papayas, he’d pick the fruit.

It’s at that moment that Kurt remembers he hasn’t had a decent offering in weeks.

Great. Now his stomach’s growling.

Kurt takes a subconscious breath in and catches a whiff of the man’s cologne – an appetizing blend of cinnamon, cardamom, black pepper, and hibiscus. Those happen to be four of Kurt’s favorite scents in the universe. They remind him of his childhood, of family and friends he knew growing up that have come and gone.

They remind him of his home, a place he hasn’t been to in forever no matter how many times he visits Earth. He can’t. It holds too many memories, and has too much narrow-minded prejudice to make setting up their circus there worth their time.

Damn. Now his stomach’s not only growling, it’s churning like a church fire.

When Kurt snuffs that fire out and shoves the ashes of that nostalgic b.s. aside, he smells power - low levels of it, not nearly enough that it should interest him.

But for some reason, it does interest him.

“Maybe.” Kurt puts his hands on his hips. “And you are …?”

“The name’s Kevin,” the man says, thrusting out an arm, hand open, ready to shake. “Kevin Fitzpatrick at your service, kind sir.”

Kurt looks at the hand presented to him, a blank expression on his face. Kurt doesn’t shake hands. He doesn’t touch other beings if he can help it. He has a thing about germs, especially human ones. It’s not a speciesism issue. It’s a preservation issue. Humans are notorious for their tendency towards self-destruction. Everything that they need to live a long and healthy life, they destroy – their air, their water, their animals, their planet, themselves.

Kurt tilts his head and quirks a brow. “That’s not your real name,” he says, ignoring the man’s hand altogether. For the moment, he’s guessing. It’s part of his mantra. He tries not to invade human minds when he doesn’t have to. They tend to be chaotic, cluttered, unnecessarily confusing, even among the exceptional ones. Humans as a whole don’t know how to think straight. They can’t seem to set their minds on one road and follow it, finish a single task before launching into the next. From all outward appearances – this man’s skin, hair, and eye color, his bushy eyebrows, his stature, average for adult males – he doesn’t seem like he should own such a name. But it’s the way his eyes dart left and right, imperceptible to humans but obvious to a demon, that truly gives him away.

The man’s smile loses some of its strength but none of its luster. He drops his hand to his side, feeling foolish for keeping it extended after several long seconds of Kurt refusing to shake it.

“No, it isn’t,” he admits, sounding like he genuinely wishes it were. “But I thought a traditional Irish name might go over better with you traveling folk.”

Kurt and Puck exchange a pointed look.

“That’s racist,” Kurt says.

“Says the demon. One who looks like a giant tree, I might add.” The man gestures down Kurt’s body with inexplicable confusion.

“Still racist,” Kurt insists.

“By the way, how do you do that?” the man asks. It’s not an offhanded question, which makes it a difficult one for Kurt to comprehend. This man is standing in the middle of a circus made up entirely of supernatural creatures and beings from other worlds. Why should what Kurt looks like be a concern to him?

And yet, it’s significant because it has always been a concern to Kurt. Spriggan traditionally are stocky, big-headed, and short – the ghosts of giants, but really only a shadow. Kurt, on the other hand, is lithe, fair, and tall (by comparison) – traits that set him apart from other Spriggan by a mile.

He’s his father’s son, but in looks, he belongs solely to his mother.

“How do I do what?” Kurt asks.

“Look like a tree. I thought Spriggan were supposed to look similar to men. Or like … woody Big Foot.”

“He compared you to a Sasquatch,” Puck sniggers. “What a noob.”

But Kurt lets the insult go.

He debates how much he wants to tell this human. Why Kurt looks the way he does isn’t exactly a secret, but it would still be sharing something that’s part of him, and to a human.

“I’m only half Spriggan,” he confesses, figuring there’s no real harm in letting that tidbit out. The man would probably learn it eventually. There isn’t a single monster in Kurt’s employ that can keep their mouth shut. “I’m High Faye on my mother’s side.”

“You don’t say?”

“A-ha. That’s where I get my magical abilities, my shapeshifting powers … and my short temper.”

The man smiles, pleased with this new information. “Coolness.”

“How do you know what Spriggan look like anyway?”

“I read,” the man says. “I use Google. Which leads me to my next question …”

“If you’re the one applying for a job, how come you’re asking all the questions?”

The man shrugs. “You don’t learn anything by not asking questions. Besides, you don’t have to answer.”

“Fair enough.”

“Why the disguise? I mean, why turn yourself into a tree?”

“Because without it, I’m invisible to the humans,” Kurt says. “And if humans can’t see me, that’s kind of bad for business. Besides, it’s part of the draw. We live in a time where the only way people would believe in a living, breathing tree demon is if they saw something that looked like … well this.” Kurt copies the man’s gesture, sweeping a hand down his body.

The man’s smile dips. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“And there aren’t any other Spriggan in your circus?”

“Nope,” Kurt says. “I’m the only one. To be honest, I haven’t seen one in ages.”

“Must be lonely,” the man decides.

It is, Kurt thinks. It’s not some huge revelation, just an acknowledgment of fact. But what he says is, “Meh. I’m never really alone, so, not so much.”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between being lonely and being alone.”

That comment silences Kurt. He agrees entirely, even though he’d never thought of it that way. He often felt lonely, even in the center of a crowd. He thought he was weird that way.

He never thought anyone else felt the same.

“Hey! I've seen you!” Puck jumps back into the conversation, pointing at the man with a twisted, accusing finger. “You hang around the crowds. You loiter on our property and swindle for spare change outside our tents!”

“I like to think of it as co-op’ing.”

“And I think of it as dipping in to our profits!” the goblin hisses.

Kurt scowls. He didn’t know this about this man. How come he didn’t know? As a demon who tricks travelers, and who has been known to indulge in a game of poker now and again, Kurt can appreciate a good hustle … but not when it lightens his pockets! And just when he was beginning to not despise this guy.

Thank goodness for Puck. Admiring a human in any small measurement isn’t the kind of complication Kurt needs right now.

The goblin bares his teeth, Kurt grows another foot taller, and suddenly the man feels outnumbered.

“Okay, okay, I see your point,” he says, putting his hands up in defense of his life. He’s not sure how that would help him, exactly, but it’s worth a shot. “B-but, now I'm looking to give back. To help you guys out.”

“Looking to escape, more like it.” Kurt tuts. “Who did you piss off here, human? Hmmm? A local gang? Loan sharks? The police? I know your type. Do you have mafia after you? Because I don’t need that kind of trouble hanging around my circus. I’m not looking to defend anyone.”

“No! I’m not---wait …” The man stops when an absurd thought pops into his brain. “Aren’t Spriggan bodyguards? Fairy bodyguards? I mean, I assume that’s how your dad met your mom, isn’t it?”

“Assume nothing!” Kurt says, appalled at the man’s gall. “You’re not a fairy, and I’m not my father! Plus, that’s beside the point. I like to choose who I call enemy, thank you. I don’t need people I’ve never met mounting a vendetta against me. I don’t want that kind of heat on my tail. The mob has some pretty powerful demons working on their side ... and lawyers.”

The man looks at Kurt and Puck, wide-eyed. Something like a smile tickles the corners of his mouth, something he’s trying hard to suppress. He doesn’t end up smiling, but he does chuckle. “So, lawyers are worse than demons?”

“Yes!” Kurt and Puck answer together.

“Everybody knows that!” Puck says, aghast at the human’s ignorance. “How you can live among them and not know of their treachery is beyond me.”

The man continues to laugh, and Kurt shakes his head.

“This back and forth with you is exhausting me, human. I feel like there’s something you’re not telling us. You’re beating around the bush. Speak plainly!”

“But beating around the bush is something I happen to do exceptionally well,” the man says with a wink. Kurt detects the innuendo and rolls his eyes.

“It’s time to find out who you really are … and what you want.” Kurt strikes quickly, reaching for the man and wrapping slender fingers around his throat. Kurt squeezes slowly, till his twig-like appendages settle into the soft, delicate flesh around the man’s windpipe.

“Uh … wh-what … what are you doing?” the man squeaks, keeping his words to a minimum when it becomes harder for him to breath.

“I’m reading your mind, Kevin,” Kurt says, closing his red eyes.

“D-do you … have to … hold my neck … quite so tightly while you read my mind?” He grabs a hold of Kurt’s arm, but it might as well be made of stone, so rough and so thick, there’s no way to remove it.

“It keeps me calm,” Kurt says, grinding the words out one by one through locked lips. “Be grateful I’m not peeling the skin from you bones.”

“Oh,” the man says. Kurt feels him gulp nervously beneath his palm. “I see. Yes. Thank you for not doing … that.”

“Shh. I need to concentrate.” Kurt takes a deep, cleansing breath, and enters the man’s mind. It’s easier than Kurt remembers, but then again, the man’s not resisting. And that’s a good sign. People often resist when they’re trying to pull something over on you. Kurt sifts through the man’s thoughts to find his more recent memories – name, occupation, address, the basics - trying his best to ignore the ones that go out of their way to reach out to him, the sympathetic ones that long to be revisited, like memories of this man as a child, on vacation with his parents, throwing a ball to his brother, learning how to ride a bike with two wheels, learning how to cook with his great-aunt Teresa, playing video games with a friend that he seemed to hold dear, a friend that Kurt sees no more of after the man reaches thirteen. He stumbles across memories of a terrible fire, of their house burning down … of him burying his mother and his father … of his brother running away and never contacting him again … “Uh … y-your name is Blaine, but your parents called you Coqui?” Kurt asks. He releases his grip, his mighty wooden arm - a thick, unyielding branch - trembling as it returns to his side.

“That’s right,” the man says. His eyes leave Kurt’s face and follows his arm for a second before the conversation continues.

“It doesn’t bother you that you’re nicknamed after the sound a frog makes when it wants to have sex?” Kurt crosses his arms, hiding his trembling in the wrap of his limb around his body, and using that remark to will away the image of this man as a teenager, crying on his knees over a freshly covered grave, negotiating with whatever God he believes in for his parents to return.

“Why in the world would that bother me?” Blaine chuckles. “If you knew me better, that would actually explain a lot.”

“Do I want to know you better?” It seems like a ridiculous question seeing how much Kurt already knows about him. Stupid, unpredictable mindreading. He never could get it quite right. Of course, the fact of the matter is that Kurt, being even half High Faye, wasn’t a thing like his mother in anything other than looks.

Which is why his father raised him.

“You’re the mind reader. You tell me.”

“And you’re the human, so if you want me to let you join our group, you’re going to have to make a more compelling case for me hiring you.”

It shocks Kurt when he hears those words come out of his mouth. He was determined that, no matter what, no human would have a place here. But now here he was, considering this no talent human into inclusion in their troupe, and he had no idea why.

And still, the low level power simmers, humming in Kurt’s ears.

That has to be it. Wherever it’s coming from, that’s the thing that’s causing all of this.

He would ask Puck if he hears it, too, except Puck’s looking at him with the gaping maw of a dying salmon, equally as astonished at what Kurt proposed.

“Certainly,” Blaine says, elated. “Watch carefully.” He puts his hands up, holding them open so Kurt can see that there’s nothing in them. He flips his hands quickly, exposing them front and back. Kurt’s eyes bounce from his right hand to his left. When Kurt sees the right hand again, it’s holding a deck of cards. Blaine fans the cards with one hand. “Pick a card, any card.”

Kurt’s jaw drops.

“What?” Kurt can usually see things before they happen, but he didn’t see that coming. “No! Why?”

“I’m making my case. I’m proving to you that I can be a contributing member of your group. Consider it my audition.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Kurt mutters. He takes Blaine’s empty hand and holds it by the wrist, letting the man’s beating pulse speak to him. It was easier reading his mind at arm’s distance from his brain. That, and Kurt wasn’t convinced he could restrain himself from throttling this man. But Kurt can see from the smile on the man’s face that he’s getting the wrong idea. That wrong idea starts to blossom in Kurt’s mind the longer he holds his hand, and it makes him feel warm inside.

Oh, please, Kurt pleads. This can’t be happening.

Kurt immediately drops the man’s hand.

“Your father was a sorcerer?”

“Yup.” Blaine puffs up his chest as if he had taught the man everything he knew. “One of the finest.”

“And your mother, too.”

“Yes, sir. She was the more powerful of the two by a long shot.”

“Well, do you have any of their skills?” Kurt tries not to get ahead of himself, but he can’t quell his excitement, finally seeing a silver lining to this obnoxious human’s intrusion into his life.

“Oh, no!” Blaine laughs to Kurt’s dismay. “Good God, no! Not an inch! It’d be amazing if I did though! Think of it!”

Kurt had thought of it, for just a brief, glimmering second. But the more he thinks he knows what’s going on with this man, the more questions he has.

The easiest way to sort them out would be to go back into his mind for an extended stay.

But Kurt doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to see the things his mind wants him to see.

“Okay,” Kurt begins again, feeling like pulling the man’s molars out of his skull would be easier than this. He asks his next question slowly, like he’s addressing a child. “What else do you do?”

“Just this.” Blaine folds up his fan of cards and shuffles them dramatically from hand to hand. “Sleight of hand.”

“You do card tricks,” Kurt mutters like a curse at a power higher than he. “Just card tricks,” he repeats, pulling a card from the pile. This couldn’t be it. With the lineage he’s boasting, this can’t be Blaine’s only talent. What did he do that he missed out on the magic lottery? Did he step on a brownie? Run over a druid with his car? Did he make-out with the wrong virgin sacrifice and get cursed?

Card tricks. That and his charm will maybe get him a cup of coffee.

Maybe.

“Hey. Why you hatin’ on card tricks? They put me through college.” His hands don’t stop moving as he speaks, shuffling his deck, the cards flying from his fingertips faster than Kurt can keep track of. That alone is impressive, but still …

Card tricks?

There has to be something Kurt’s missing.

“Here. Let me show you something.” Kurt takes Blaine by the shoulders and turns him around. With a blink of his red eyes, they’re out of the ruins and standing in the center of the big top, watching as performers bustle around, putting away props and striking equipment. They’ve teleported. They could have just walked. It wasn’t that far, not even as the human walks, but Kurt did it on purpose. The jump through time and space, even though no more than a skip compared to what they’ll be doing when they leave the realm of Earth, was supposed to give Blaine a taste of what dimensional travel would feel like. Most humans puke their guts out immediately after.

Blaine barely seems fazed.

Damn.

And to top it off, his hands have found their way up to Kurt’s, resting over his and holding on gently.

Kurt clears his throat. He removes one of his hands.

Only now that he has, he kind of wants to put it back.

Kurt points past Blaine to a man with radiant wings stretching out in both directions, measuring from tip to tip about the length of a Cessna. He stands ramrod straight and over seven feet, dismantling a large, titanium octagonal cage with a wave of his hands. “Do you see him?” Kurt asks. “He’s a descendent of the god Loki.”

“Ooo,” Blaine marvels, watching as he folds the cage into a small box that he puts in his pocket.

“Ooo is right. He can fracture sunlight and turn its rays into golden snakes. With a single blink of his eyes, he can make you believe that you’re your own mother and compel you to give yourself a spanking.”

Blaine chuckles, picturing himself wearing his mother’s thick, tiger eye framed glasses, her faded yellow housedress, her matching house slippers, and the pink foam curlers she rolled in her hair every night covered by a white hair net, bending himself over a chair and slapping his own bare ass while angrily yelling at himself in his mother’s tongue. It’s an image Kurt glimpses in Blaine’s eyes as the man laughs sadly to himself, and Kurt finds himself wanting to join him. He feels drawn to this man’s easygoing nature. Blaine seems slow to anger, difficult to offend … and impossible to frighten. His sticktoitiveness is admirable, if not misguided. Once he has his mind set on something, he’s not easy to discourage. Kurt will give him that. And Kurt has always found those traits attractive in most beings. A soul that can laugh at itself can weather most storms.

But again – human, and Kurt can’t get attached to a human. Not even one who’s proving to be as … well … what would the word for him be? Bearable as this one. Maybe Kurt could see himself sharing a veggie burger with him while they binge watched Netflix (once they find themselves in a dimension where they can pick up a signal) but that’s as far as he’d take it.

But wasn’t that what Kurt wanted in the first place?

No matter. This is neither the time nor the place for this dilemma. Kurt squares his knotty shoulders and continues.

“And the young lady in that tank?” Kurt takes Blaine by the shoulders and turns him again slightly. Only by, like, seventeen degrees. He won’t admit to himself that it’s an excuse to touch Blaine. No. He’s just trying to be clear with him. Get his point across. “She calls herself Brittany. She’s a river mermaid. I found her sunning herself on the banks of the Mississippi. She’s over three hundred years old.”

“Amazing,” Blaine breathes with the genuine awe of a child seeing a rainbow in the sky for the first time. “She doesn’t look a day over eighteen.”

“She can make rocks and boulders sing,” Kurt explains, trying to come up with anything else she can do that might impress him. “Rumor has it she used to whisper in the ear of Mark Twain as he traveled the river boats so, in essence, she’s the author of most of his more memorable stories.”

“Awesome.”

“Quite.”

Another blink and they return to the ruin of Kurt’s makeshift forest. As soon as the black night surrounds them, Kurt feels cold. There was so much under the big top for Blaine to see.

He teleported them back too soon.

And Blaine, not in the least bit affected by zipping through the fabric of reality, returns to his chipper self.

“Nevertheless,” Blaine says, turning to meet Kurt’s eyes, “can any of them do this?” Blaine tosses his deck in the air and starts juggling individual cards, catching them with his knuckles and then flipping them in the air again until they create a perfect arch. It’s rather intricate, and Kurt questions how a mortal who boasts no particular supernatural powers can accomplish it … but by his circus’s standards, it’s just cute.

“Probably. But here’s what you’re missing – they have power. You have none. And a lot of them aren’t as patient or as congenial as I am. If they get angry with you, or if you get in their way, they will kill you, or worse. They may imprison your soul, shrink your head while it’s still on your body, remove your brain and keep it in a jar.”

“Aww,” Blaine coos. “Are you worried about me?”

Kurt scoffs. “Not in the slightest.”

“Well, don’t be,” Blaine says, ignoring the demon’s last remark. “I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t see how. Tell me, human, what have you been doing with all of your 35 years on earth?”

“This!” Blaine holds up his deck and gives it a shake. “I’m an entertainer! A jester! A magician!” Kurt stares, waiting for the shoe to drop. He knows it’s coming. This man’s whole presentation has been nothing but dropping shoes.

And yet, it’s probably the most fun that Kurt’s known in years.

“But I work the register at a dry cleaners to pay the bills.”

“And there it is,” Kurt says, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “I’m surprised that I’m even surprised. So you have no circus or performance experience of any kind?”

“Yes, I have! I was an ale wench for six months at Medieval Times.”

“An ale … wench?” Puck chortles, wheezing when he pictures Blaine in a corset and a dress. Though, oddly enough, he has to admit, it’s not a bad look for him.

“Oh, and in high school, I was in The Wizard of Oz.”

“As what? A Flying Monkey?”

“No.” Blaine smirks. Then he snickers. “As one of the angry trees.”

Kurt feels his cheeks flush red but not out of anger, and that’s the part that makes him the most livid. “You’re ridiculous! Do you know that?”

“Well, you must like ridiculous.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“It’s been over an hour, and you’re still talking to me.”

“You’d never survive traveling with us,” Kurt says, stomping his feet and raising his voice, furious because, for a second, half a second, less than half so he won’t have to loathe himself for thinking of it, he began to ask himself - could it be that this time around, Kurt doesn’t follow his human love interest for the rest of his days on Earth?

Maybe he takes the love interest with him?

He hears the low hum of power again, tickling in his brain; he sees the barrage of memories that aren’t his; feels the warmth throughout his body that gathers in his stomach, trying to tell him something that he refuses, under pain of dismemberment or death, to supply any credence to.

There is absolutely no way, here or in hell, that he wants to have any attachment to this human! The man’s a hack! A con! A dime-a-dozen trickster out to make a quick buck at Kurt’s expense, and that’s all.

And Kurt’s first priority has to be to make him leave. He’s done entertaining these thoughts any longer. He was right to begin with. They don’t need to add new blood to the mix. New people only cause trouble. This proves it! They’ll figure something out. They’ll find another way. It’s a good plan. A sound plan.

So why does it make him feel emptier inside?

“We cross dimensional portals,” Kurt says in a stern voice. “Humans are soft. If it doesn’t make your blood boil, and if you don’t get torn limb from limb, it’ll turn your stomach inside out.”

Kurt stares at Blaine with an intensity that will turn the man into a candle if Kurt’s not careful. But somewhere in the man’s golden eyes, Kurt sees something click. He’s getting it. He’s finally getting it. He understands. This isn’t the place for him. He doesn’t belong there with him. With them.

With him.

Blaine lifts one shoulder. “That’s okay. I don’t get travel sick.”

Kurt slaps himself in the forehead with his palm.

“He has power,” Puck hisses in a whisper, having warmed to the idea of Blaine’s joining them over the course of the conversation.

Anyone who can get on Kurt’s nerves this badly might be worth keeping around.

“I can smell it. And I know you can smell it, Kurt. He has it in his background. Even if he can’t use it, it’s most likely in his blood. It might be enough to protect him.”

“What are you doing!? I don’t need you taking his side!”

“I’ll bring Dramamine,” Blaine adds. “Just in case. It’ll be good.”

Kurt laughs in vexation, knowing he’s losing this battle. Fine! Whatever! So what if the human comes with? It’s no skin off Kurt’s nose. He’ll just leave the dirty work to Puck, have him clean up the man’s guts when he implodes! Or mop him up when Loki’s great-great-great-great-grandnephew turns him into an oil slick. Or chase him down with a glass jar when Brittany transforms him into notes of music!

Or, Kurt could fit him with a protection spell. Something mild that might boost his power. Kurt hates to admit it, but this is workable.

The only problem is what it might do to him personally if the human stays.

“We pay minimum wage,” Kurt says, his methods of dissuading Blaine getting weaker and weaker.

“I’m fine with that. I was planning on cashing in my 401K anyway.”

“Wait, wait, wait … you work at a dry cleaners as a cashier and you have a 401K?” Puck gasps. “How in the world did you manage that?”

“I was a business minor in college.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yup. I set up a portfolio using eTrade online, diversified early, made a good call on some high risk investments …”

“Guys! We’re getting a little off topic, don’t you think?”

Blaine turns to Kurt. He stares deep into the demon’s eyes, as if he’s about to relate something profound, and says, “Ace of spades.”

Kurt jerks back. “What?”

“Your card.” Blaine points to the card skewered to the palm of Kurt’s hand. “It’s the ace of spades, am I right?”

Kurt looks at the card he’d forgotten he’d been holding, the one he’s been strangling this whole time. “How did you know that?”

“Your eyes give you away,” Blaine says with another of his infuriating winks. Kurt doesn’t like Blaine’s winks. They’re sly and disarming … and they make his stomach wriggle like a mass of earthworms struggling to rise through a thick puddle of mud. But Kurt finds himself grinning over the comment about his eyes until he remembers one thing.

His red eyes are reflective.

Which means Blaine’s just a con-man. A charming, handsome con-man.

But he’s a good one, there’s no denying that. He’s pretty much conned his way into Kurt’s circus, whether Kurt likes it or not. He’s conned Puck into taking his side, though that’s probably not as difficult a feat as Kurt is giving him credit for.

Conning his way into Kurt’s life - that Kurt doesn’t like. But Kurt will find a way around that. If Kurt could tame him up a little, Blaine might be of use to them.

If anything, he might be more qualified to balance their books than Puck, the neutered Pukwudgie.

“Look.” Blaine closes his eyes and exhales, rubbing a hand over his face as if he knows he’s running out of options. And on his face, Kurt catches a look that he’s seen on other humans a thousand times.

He’s even seen it on himself.

I just don’t want to be here. I just don’t want to be alone anymore.

That speaks to Kurt. Here it was, the truth behind the con.

I can’t stay here. There are too many memories here. I’m trying to live, I’m doing the best I can, but there’s nothing for me here anymore. If I have to stay here another week, another month, I won’t be able to take it. I’ll do something rash. Please. You have to take me with you. You have to let me in. I’m so lonely, and I just want a little bit of happiness. It’s been over twenty years. Don’t I deserve that?

Kurt nods at Blaine’s sentiment, the one in Blaine’s head, but that’s not what Blaine says.

What he says is this:

“You guys used to do well here on Earth because witches and warlocks and mermaids and unicorns and …” Blaine looks between Kurt and Puck. He makes a quick decision and points to Puck “… him … were the stuff of fantasies and legends. But now they’re the stuff of movies. Summer blockbusters by the dozens, coming out year after year like clockwork. With modern technology, computers and CGI, humans can create fantasy. Anything they want, even in their own homes. Kids more than half my age are becoming Internet famous with sci-fi movies they film in their basements and upload on YouTube. And that’s bad for you guys. Really bad for you. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. But where you guys are headed, won’t I be the thing of fantasy? The oddity? Won’t I be what draws a crowd, even if all I do are card tricks?” Kurt’s eyes are immediately drawn to the man’s hands, but miraculously, his ever-present deck of cards seems to have disappeared. In fact, dressed in a pocket-less black button down over a black tank top, skin tight jeans, and boat shoes on his feet with no socks, Kurt has no idea where that deck of cards even came from to begin with. The man shouldn’t even be able to wear underwear in those jeans. Where the hell is he hiding a deck of cards? “Maybe you guys can’t break even here, but why not get a head start wherever it is you’re going, and come back here with a better game plan?”

“And I assume that you are going to want to help us with that game plan?”

“It’d make sense, wouldn’t it? I mean, I know what the people here want. I have the inside scoop.”

“I also assume you’ll be expecting a cut,” Puck grouses.

“Not a cut,” Blaine says, that exhausted look evaporating with the arrival of a single, effervescent smile. “An opportunity.”

Kurt’s eyelids narrow. “What opportunity?”

Blaine turns his attention Kurt’s way, and Kurt notices the way Blaine’s eyes light up when he looks at him, the way his face seems to shine when he aims his smile at him.

“Well, now, that remains to be seen.”

Kurt sighs. He doesn’t know what to make of that comment, how to feel about it, but he moves on nonetheless. “Listen,” he says, already regretting what he’s about to say. But Blaine has a point. In other dimensions, he would be the oddity. That might be worth something. “I don’t know that you’ll fit in here, but you can come with. I’ll give you a trial run, so you can figure out if this is really the future you want. And if it’s not, we’ll drop you back off the next time we’re nearby.”

“You have the power to see the future, don’t you?” Blaine says.

“Sometimes,” Kurt replies, though seeing as he hasn’t been able to predict anything that’s happened so far, he might have to scratch that one off of his list of abilities.

“Well, what do you see in mine?”

“Me changing my mind if you don’t get your ass out of here.”

Blaine smiles his megawatt smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a golden retriever puppy. “You mean it?”

Kurt’s head tells him to say no. Regardless of if this is a workable idea, it’s still not an advisable one. Bringing a human through time and space may have consequences. But it’s not Blaine’s brilliant con that made Kurt’s mind up for him. It’s not even the warmth that’s been bubbling in Kurt’s heart since Blaine arrived.

It’s that one sentence Blaine uttered without saying a word.

I just want a little bit of happiness.

Kurt has dedicated his life to bringing happiness to others. That’s what his circus has been about. He didn’t create it for wealth or fame. He’s been sidetracked a little bit lately trying to keep their heads afloat, but not out of greed. Out of responsibility. But if he overlooks this man and his gifts simply because he’s human, Kurt will be a hypocrite to the ninth degree.

Besides, maybe helping this man find his happiness will help every one of them in the long run.

Even Kurt.

He’ll have to set the wheels in motion and see how this plays out.

“Yeah, I mean it.” Kurt shrinks a few feet to meet the man’s height. “Go home and pack up your things. Get your affairs in order and say your goodbyes. In a couple of days, we’ll be leaving this dimension, and I don’t know for sure when we’ll be back. Does that sound okay with you? Does it sound like something you can do?”

Kurt holds his breath while he waits for Blaine to answer, not because he’s afraid that Blaine will say yes, but because he’s suddenly afraid that Blaine might say no.

“Yes!” Blaine claps his hands. “Yes! I can! That’s no problem! Absolutely no problem, I …” Blaine rambles as he backs out of the room, planning out loud “I’ll pack up my things, I’ll say my goodbyes, I’ll cash in my accounts, I’ll … thank you!” He rushes over to Puck. He takes the goblin’s sticky hand and pumps it hard. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“Don’t thank me, young man,” Puck says, extricating his hand from Blaine’s grasp as if he were shedding himself of a slimier than normal banana slug. “Thank the demon. He’s the one who’ll be vouching for you from now on, so I suggest you don’t mess up.”

“Of course not! Of course I won’t!” Blaine launches himself at Kurt. Kurt reaches for his hand, but Blaine throws his arms around his waist instead, hugging him with all his might. “Thank you,” Blaine says, softer than a whisper. “You won’t regret this.”

“Make sure that I don’t.” Kurt can’t bring himself to hug the man. Not just yet. Not with those painful memories laying siege to Blaine’s mind. So Kurt pats him on the back instead. “Remember that if you piss me off in any way, peeling the skin from your bones is still an option.”

“I’ll remember.” Blaine detaches himself quickly and, with a wave at Kurt and Puck, races from the ruin, presumably heading home to collect his things and bid a fond adieu to his life.

He’ll be back. Kurt knows.

He doesn’t need to be psychic to see it.

“You like him,” Puck sneers, following Kurt’s eyes as the demon watches the human go.

Kurt clicks his tongue with disgust. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Don’t be ri---” He’s about to say ridiculous, but he remembers what Blaine said about liking ridiculous. He won’t prove him right. He refuses to use that word “… stupid.”

“A-ha,” Puck says, insulted. He takes one look at Kurt and his eyes grow wide, becoming the size of saucers, outdoing his nose for the most outlandish feature on his face. “Kurt! You---you’re budding!”

Kurt’s face scrunches. “What?”

“Look for yourself! You’re actually growing leaves! And flowers! Gah!” The goblin exclaims in disgust. “Is that … an apple?”

Kurt twists his torso in an attempt to get a better look. He spots his reflection in the filth-covered windows a short distance away and sneers. “It happens,” he says, trying to bat it off his body with his fingers. “It’s almost spring.”

“Don’t give me that!” Puck groans, swiping away Kurt’s excuses with his hand. “You’re wearing a disguise! One that you control! That apple is all you, buddy!”

“Well, what was that with you talking shop with him? About his portfolio?” Kurt counters. “You were practically drooling! It was pathetic!”

“Don’t talk pathetic with me. I’m not the one sprouting fruit. And I’m not fanboying! I’m trying to keep us in the black, Kurt! Remember? I’m not too proud to admit that that young man might know a little more than me in that regard.”

“Stop trying to be hip, Puck. It doesn’t suit you,” Kurt sniffs. “Having a blog on Tumblr doesn’t make you relevant.” Kurt plants his hands on his hips and goes back to pacing, trying to come to grips with these changes, what he did - inviting a human to travel with them, making him part of the troupe.

Possibly flirting with him, and how that made him feel.

How it felt to give in to his nature after so long.

He taps his fingers on his hip as he marks off the many, many mistakes he made in the past two hours. When his finger hits something – or more to the point, the absence of something - he can’t help the grin blossoming on his face among a small patch of moss and a cluster of bluebells. And if a small robin’s nest sprouts somewhere in the vicinity of the new growth behind his left ear, complete with momma bird and a clutch of pale blue eggs, well, he won’t be the one to point it out.

He doesn’t have to. Puck sees it and shakes his head. “So, tell me this, Kurt - if you don’t like him, then why are you blooming? What’s with the smiling? I haven’t seen you this giddy since The Great Emu War.”

Kurt chuckles before he answers, patting down his body once to be doubly sure. He’s been using magic to change his appearance, giving himself a façade that aligns with what the humans believe a “tree demon” should look like. It covers up his vaguely human form, including the clothes he wears (which is a shame because he happens to have amazing fashion sense). It had to have been when Blaine hugged him. Kurt had been caught off his guard. It had happened so quickly, he didn’t even notice.

The sly bastard.

Blaine must have been looking for Kurt’s stone. Of course, he was. Blaine, with even a Google knowledge of Spriggan would know that Kurt might have one. Many a Spriggan does - a beautiful, snow white keepsake - and the Spriggan who loses his is required to grant wishes to the person who finds it. Blaine must have felt it. It’s difficult to miss once you put your hand on it.

Kurt can imagine what Blaine would have wished for if he’d taken it.

But for some reason, he didn’t. The most precious of Kurt’s possessions, and Blaine left it behind.

There is obviously more to this man than meets the eyes.

But that doesn’t mean he left empty handed.

In that same pocket was something else, which has now gone missing, and Kurt smirks thinking about it.

“He stole my wallet.”

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine #frankie writes

[maggiewritesthings-blog]

                            ‘WHAT IF’ WORLD BUILDING

                               THE KINGDOM OF LORULE                           PROVINCES & MAJOR VILLAGES

Those of us Legend of Zelda fans out there (and specifically those who played ALBW) might be interested in ‘what if’ Lorule was more developed? What if we had distinct towns, regions, and history behind Lorule-- like Hyrule has? What if Lorule was a kingdom part of a bigger land mass-- like we know Hyrule is? What if we could make this strange and cryptic dark world deeper and more fascinating to us as players?

Wonder no more! I am here to share some world building ideas. Note that these are not fact or any kind of official material, but they are inspired by and based on the canon lore and design of the game material.

This is a speculative country map for Lorule, with provinces and important towns. You might notice that some of the names are reminiscent of Termina, and that was intentional. Given how much ALBW shared themes, atmosphere, and hints of Termina (*cough* Majora’s Mask on the wall *cough*), I thought it would be fun to harken back to the N64 game with similar names and themes.

The provinces are labeled on the map: Skull Woods, Lorule Fields, Southern Swamp (Misery Mire), The Ancient Lands, and Snowhead. These regions each have different important villages, land marks, and geographical features to them that are numbered.

Feel free to borrow and use ideas from this map and worldbuilding in your own creative works. A simple credit or shout out will be appreciated!

SKULL WOODS (light green represents navigable wood, where houses can be built and roads between towns are. Dark green represents the truly haunted, too dangerous parts which are not suitable for human settlement). This region is most known for its hunting meats, pigs, mushrooms, and wood working industry.

Shahnesse– a small village deep in Skull Woods that is built around the forest itself. Trees and plants pay no mind to human settlement.  This is the town deepest in the wood, and thusly the one most notorious for haunted encounters. This town is known as the breeding ground for a certain type of butterfly which is an omen of death.

Myrtle Village– Fairly deep in the wood, this town is known for its pink petaled myrtle trees that live in the town. They over grow the town, and keep the whole village covered in a blanket of delicate petals and leaves. One of the last remaining noble families of Lorule lives in this town, in a large estate house that is covered in vines.

Rowan Oak Town– The biggest Skull Woods town, and the one furthest to the border. Being in the thinnest trees, this town has more space to grow and has become an outpost for trade and travel. They take products from the other skull Woods towns and work towards exporting them to other regions.

Skull Ruins– This is the formal name for the cursed ruins that Link traveled through on his journey. It is deep in Skull Woods and inhabited by many dangerous animals and monsters.

SNOWHEAD A regions divided up by steep mountains, cliffs, and rivers that originate from its peaks, then flow down into deep ravines throughout the rest of the country. The river lines are the markings for crevasses and plunging cliffs in the kingdom outside the mountains. his region is known for its sheep and goat products as well as their mining and glass products.

Glasse Town– named for one of its best industries, this town is high in the mountains and near a river. This enables it to a good industry of forges and mills for textiles, metal works, and especially, blowing glass. This town is nearest to the royal estate that is further north.

Kripya Keep “Snowhead Summit”– this is the royal estate that is higher up in the mountain region. The Lorian Royal family does not really own much land outside the central castle, but this is the secondary estate.  Kripya is a small castle built into the side of a mountain. It is usually very cold, but peaceful and well kept. A year long staff stays there to maintain the grounds, and the royal family will only visit at their own discretion. The Royal Family owns land in Snowhead because this province houses most of the remaining nobles families.

Volkyr– A village in the lower mountain reaches. With the mountains not as steep, this town has been able to grow. It is home to a noble family’s estate and supports a large sheep and goat herding industry.

Iata– Another village that is home to a noble family’s estate. This is the lowest Snowhead village, and thusly the warmest. It has the best access to road and resources, and is another big travel and trading outpost. Farming and shepherding is big here, as their weather makes things easier for growing crops.

Fjorlig– A smaller village in the mountain reaches. This is a very mining centric town, build into the mountains themselves and run by mines and forge fires. No noble family, this town is just very necessary as an outpost for metal production and mining.

Ice Ruins– These are the ruins of what once was a temple in the mountain. Link traveled through these ruins on his journey. The Ice Ruins lie between the Northen and Sourthern Jaatin Rivers. The segment of mountain between these rivers is commonly called “Death Mountain.”

Myethe– This village is home to another noble family’s estate, though these nobles are rather low on the feudal system of hierarchy. Given the title out of obligation when a third born prince insisted on marrying a common born girl one hundred years ago, the noble family is often shunned. Their village produces lots of mining and metals, and is advantageous in being closer to the Bay for transport.

THE ANCIENT LANDS– No towns, no castle, no anything, the Ancient Lands are highly feared. This province is home to a valley over taken by streams and ivy and dark magic. It is said that this was the original home of the Lorian Royal Family, many millenia ago when they were known as the Valley Tribe, and they lived in the maze-like structures of the dark shadows. Now it is a place isolated from civilization, though some members of the mask cult will attempt making pilgrimages to this province to become one of the monsters haunting it.

TURTLE BAY The smallest province in Lorule, the Bay region is still very necessary. Its waters are very murky and heavy in sediment, but this is the only region that can still fish on a level that would produce food for the kingdom. The catches have been getting bigger and the water clearer, though, since the Triforce has returned.

Mahi Town– A small town on the outskirts of the province. Mahi Town participates in a lot of fishing and helps to transport goods to and from Myethe. They have some wooded area closer to the mountains, and so some woodworking is done in this town. Minor ship building and repair.

Kilpako– The bigger village in the Turtle Bay region. Major sea fishing industry, as well as some ship building with wood imported from the Skull Woods region. This village used to have a noble estate in it, but the noble family died out with Hilda’s father, and in an earthquake, the

Turtle Rock– The dangerous and ancient ruins that lie in the bay itself. Said to be on top of an underwater volcano, which makes the bay water so warm year round. This is another place Link traveled on his journey.

SOUTHERN SWAMP “Misery Mire” This region is commonly referred to as the Misery Mire, because of the illusion and toxins in the swampy water. This land is a not-so-inhabited region. It produces some food through fishing and foraging in the freshwater delta, and it used to be home to a great noble family in its ancient palace. Now it is sparsely inhabited.

Swamp Palace– The ruins of the old noble family which once inhabited this province. It is now in disrepair and flooded, after its noble family died out. Link traveled through these ruins on his journey.

The many spread out and tiny towns in the region. Settlements are very small and scattered throughout the marshes and swamps. The people who live here are dedicated to their land, but are seen as weird and creepy by the other provinces. They aren’t seen well by others, and are often questioned for what they will land will not eat in times of famine.

The River Delta– this is the heart of the swamp region, this river delta is the source of shrimp, lobsters, clams, crabs, crayfish, alligator, frogs, and myriad other scummy animals to eat. The river delta produces the most fertile land, but this has unfortunately caused the land it fertilizes to become over run with poisonous flowers, thorns, infectious vines, and mist said to make you see your worst demons. The Misery Mire itself.

LORULE FIELDS This area is the center of Lorule. It is a plainsy- region with lots of space, the biggest villages, and home to the royal family. This region farms cows, pigs, and crops. But it suffers from hard soil and difficulty in producing good harvests.

Thieves’ Town– Originally founded as Lorule Town, this is the biggest town in the whole kingdom. This town is huge on businesses, its pretty much the capital city of the kingdom. It was founded to provide centralized housing and industry for the people of Lorule, but has since then become controlled and overrun by the Thieves’ Guild. It is a center for Lorian industry, but also a center for crime, prostitution, and seedy business.

Horou Village– This small village is a travel outpost between the swamp regions. The swamp dwellers bring their goods and hunting catches here for trade and exporting to other towns. Horou has surrounding farms and fields in the lower region and as the best production (not saying much) as it can get some fertile run off from the mire.

Khile Town– The town on the hill, this small settlement is another traveling and trading outpost which runs business between the Bay area and the rest of the kingdom. They too have lots of farm and field land surrounding its central location, but doesn’t produce as much food. Lots of cows in this region.

Onjette Town– Being northern most, Onjette runs trade and transport from Skull Woods, Snowhead, and the main Lorule Fields region. They don’t have many crop regions surrounding it, but farm a lot of pigs and cattle using the dry grass.

Lorule Castle– The castle itself sits on a parcel of land surrounding by deep ravines. There are rivers far down below, but the cheer cliffs offer a strong natural defense for the castle. The castle itself does not occupy the entire parcel, the rest of the land is a small farming area dedicated to keeping the castle’s staff, guard, and royal family fed. It also holds some fine royal gardens.

#loz #legend of zelda #albw #a link between worlds #lorule #what if world building #world building #princess hilda

[alamante]

Expect more. That’s the verdict of climate scientists to the record-high temperatures this spring and summer in vastly different climate zones.

The continental United States had its hottest month of May and the third-hottest month of June. Japan was walloped by record triple-digit temperatures, killing at least 86 people in what its meteorological agency bluntly called a “disaster.” And weather stations logged record-high temperatures on the edge of the Sahara and above the Arctic Circle.

Is it because of climate change? Scientists with the World Weather Attribution project concluded in a study released Friday that the likelihood of the heat wave currently baking Northern Europe is “more than two times higher today than if human activities had not altered climate.”

While attribution studies are not yet available for other record-heat episodes this year, scientists say there’s little doubt that the ratcheting up of global greenhouse gases makes heat waves more frequent and more intense.

Elena Manaenkova, deputy head of the World Meteorological Organization, said this year was “shaping up to be one of the hottest years on record” and that the extreme heat recorded so far was not surprising in light of climate change.

“This is not a future scenario,” she said. “It is happening now.”

What was like to be in these really different places on these really hot days? We asked people. Here’s what we learned.

Ouargla, Algeria: 124°F on July 5

At 3 p.m. on the first Thursday of July, on the edge of the vast Sahara, the Algerian oil town of Ouargla recorded a high of 124 degrees Fahrenheit. Even for this hot country, it was a record, according to Algeria’s national meteorological service.

Abdelmalek Ibek Ag Sahli was at work in a petroleum plant on the outskirts of Ouargla that day. He and the rest of his crew had heard it would be hot. They had to be at work by 7 a.m., part of a regular 12-hour daily shift.

“We couldn’t keep up,” he recalled. “It was impossible to do the work. It was hell.”

By 11 a.m., he and his colleagues walked off the job.

But when they got back to the workers’ dorms, things weren’t much better. The power had gone out. There was no air conditioning, no fans. He dunked his blue cotton scarf in water, wrung it out, and wrapped it around his head. He drank water. He bathed 5 times. “At the end of the day I had a headache,” he said by phone. “I was tired.”

Ouargla’s older residents told him they’d never seen a day so hot.

Hong Kong: Over 91°F for 16 straight days

In this city of skyscrapers on the edge of the South China Sea, temperatures soared past 91 degrees Fahrenheit for 16 consecutive days in the second half of May.

Not since Hong Kong started keeping track in 1884 had a heat wave of that intensity lasted so long in May.

Swimming pools overflowed with people. Office air-conditioners purred. But from morning to night, some of the city’s most essential laborers went about their outdoor work, hauling goods, guarding construction sites, picking up trash.

One blistering morning, a 55-year-old woman named Lin gripped the hot metal handles of her handcart. She pushed it up a busy road, glancing over her shoulder for oncoming cars. She had fresh leafy greens to deliver to neighborhood restaurants in the morning, trash to haul in the evening. Some days, she had a headache. Other days, she vomited.

“It’s very hot and I sweat a lot,” said Lin, who would only give her first name before rushing off on her rounds. “But there’s no choice, I have to make a living.”

Poon Siu-sing, a 58 year-old trash collector, tossed garbage bags into a mounting pile. Sweat plastered the shirt onto his back. “I don’t feel anything,” he maintained. “I’m a robot used to the heat of the sun and rain.”

Nawabshah, Pakistan: 122°F on April 30

Nawabshah is in the heart of Pakistan’s cotton country. But no amount of cotton could provide comfort on the last day of April, when temperatures soared past 122 degrees Fahrenheit, or 50 degrees Celsius. Even by the standards of this blisteringly hot place, it was a record.

The streets were deserted that day, a local journalist named Zulfiqar Kaskheli said. Shops didn’t bother to open. Taxi drivers kept off the streets to avoid the blazing sun.

And so, Riaz Soomro had to scour his neighborhood for a cab that could take his ailing 62-year-old father to a hospital. It was Ramadan. The family was fasting. The father became dehydrated and passed out.

The government hospital was packed. In the hallways sat worn-out heatstroke victims like his father. Many of them had been working outdoors as day laborers, Mr. Soomro said.

Throughout the area, hospitals and clinics were swamped. There weren’t enough beds. There weren’t enough medical staff. The power failed repeatedly throughout the day, adding to the chaos.

“We tried our best to provide medical treatment,” said Raees Jamali, a paramedic in Daur, a village on the outskirts of Nawabshah. “But because of severity of the heat, there was unexpected rush and it was really difficult for us to deal with all patients.”

Every day that week, the high temperature in Nawabshah was no less than 113 degrees, according to AccuWeather.

Oslo: Over 86°F for 16 consecutive days

“Warning! We remind you about the total ban on fires and barbecuing near the forest and on the islands.”

This was the text message that Oslo residents got from city officials on a Friday afternoon in June.

May had been the warmest in 100 years. June was hot, too. By mid-July, a village south of Oslo recorded 19 days when the temperature shot up past 86 degrees Fahrenheit, or 30 Celsius, according to MET Norway.

Spring rains were paltry, which meant that grass had turned brown dry and farmers were having trouble feeding their livestock. Forests had turned to tinder. And city officials put a stop to one of the most popular Norwegian summer pastimes: heading out to the woods with a disposable barbecue.

“People not being used to this heat, they’re used to leaving a barbecue and nothing happens, Marianne Kjosnes, a spokeswoman for the Oslo Fire Department, said. “Now if a little spark catches the grass, you have a grass fire going.”

Public parks are off limits to barbecuing. So are the islands in the nearby fjord. The Oslo Fire Department’s Facebook page is trying to get the word out.

Per Evenson, a fire watchman posted in the tower on Linnekleppen, a rocky hill southeast of Oslo, counted 11 separate forest fires in one day in early July. Here and there, white smoke rose in the distance. By July 19, the civil protection department had tallied 1,551 forest fires, more than the numbers of fires in all of 2016 and 2017. The department said 22 helicopters were simultaneously fighting fires.

Wildfires were also erupting in Sweden. And one Swedish village just above the Arctic Circle, hit an all time record high, peaking above 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

“This is really frightening if this is the new normal,” Thina Margrethe Saltvedt, an energy industry analyst who lives in Oslo, wrote in an email.

Los Angeles: 108°F on July 6

At least Marina Zurkow had air conditioning.

Ms. Zurkow, an artist, has long been grappling with climate change in her work. But she was still surprised when a day of extreme weather impacted one of her projects in a big way.

The name of that project, which was designed to make people think about the impact of climate change on how we eat, is “Making the Best of It.” It is only half in jest.

“It’s both trying to make the best of a bad situation,” she said, “and in another way it’s a commitment to making things as delicious as possible.”

The latest iteration of that project was to host a dinner for a new era of dry, hot weather in California. Less Mediterranean, more Mojave Desert.

Ms. Zurkow’s partners, a team of two private chefs called Hank and Bean, prepared an elaborate meal designed to make their guests chew on the impact of climate change. The menu included sage fritters, stuffed rabbit, flatbreads made of cricket and mealworm, and jellyfish. Lots of jellyfish.

There was jellyfish crudo with a Greek salad at the top of the meal. There was a jellyfish jelly, with redwood tip infusion and pine syrup at the end of the meal.

Why jellyfish? Because it’s considered invasive and therefore plentiful, Ms. Zurkow reasoned. It’s also zero fat and good protein. “American dream food,” she added, also only half in jest.

They had planned to serve dinner al fresco in the courtyard of a downtown Los Angeles test kitchen.

But nature had other ideas.

That day, the first Friday of July, air from the Mojave blew westward and stalled, compressed and extra hot, over Los Angeles. Downtown hit a high of 108 degrees. It was too hot to eat outside.

“Even if you’re talking about climate change, you can’t torture invited guests,” Ms. Zurkow said. “We had to move the dinner into the kitchen.”

Somini Sengupta reported from New York and Los Angeles, Tiffany May from Hong Kong, and Zia ur-Rehman from Karachi, Pakistan.

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#News

[dahlthir-blog]

    ➜ Fredlich Toomes has been accepted!

Welcome to Dahlthir, Kat! Your application for Fredlich Toomes has been approved. You’ll have 5 days to turn in your blog to the masterlist. If you need more time, you can send us a message!

The character portion of the application can be found under the cut. Enter the Necromancer!! He is right, though; his past is rather tragic. How could he have known the consequences of his actions? There was no warning, really. :c And then the blame gets pushed onto him! I mean, it does make sense as to why the townspeople would think that but still >:c. At the very least, he at least gets his undead buddies and a dead T-Rex friend!

Other Characters: Zacharius Leodegar and Liu Canglong

Faceclaim(s) & Series: Shiroe from Log Horizon

Character Name: Fredlich Toomes, Born Fredrick Lanciet Drowson Of House Hillgate Housing: A small lodge right on the outskirt of town by the forest. Age: 22

Appearance:

Lithe and Lanky, he stands tall but looks as if he hasn’t eaten in quite sometime. However the way he stands denotes a form of nobility or grace. They do say old habits die hard. His hair is dark and disheveled. Falling to his neck.

His is nose red. Consistently sniffing due to coldness of his dark arts. Clad in a cloak that hides his face but it still does not hide the literal chill of air emanating from him. His hands constantly has dirt on them and so do his boots. It feels as if he does not care about the social cues when it comes to presenting himself.

His eyes, originally green are now black, so deep, light doesn’t even faze it. All hidden behind thick glasses due to a youth of reading under candlelight.

Are they a part of the Adventurer’s Guild?: Lolololol. No.

Warnings: death, decay, undead, fires, demons, possession

Personality:

Intelligent

Resourceful

Respectful

-

Proud

Wrathful

Strives to stay on top.

Fredlich is not one to mess with. While he may at first seem like a quiet, respectful, even humble person. Deep down he is in fact vindictive and can be cruel. Ignited by pain and rage from a what he considers a tragic past, he considers that he can only trust himself and those under his command. Which he uses in great succession for he weaves death and all fear death.

Those that can crack the deathly exterior ha a chance of befriending somebody who has a need to protect which he considers valuable. Taking no limit to how far he will do things. To him life is just prologue for the true story, a story on which he is the author.

Background:

The manor stands tall upon the hill. At sunset, orange light permeates the ground and village below. However beyond the hill where the light doesn’t touch is a dark and desolate swamp. The Hillgate family has ruled over the town and surrounding areas for nearly two centuries.

Fredrick was the ninth of twelve and compared to his other brothers and sisters he wasn’t all that prominent. Which to him, he preferred. Instead of trying think up ways of gaining the favor of his parents, Fredrick preferred the quiet solitude of the family library. Here he spent his days, reading stories of fearless knights and gaining information from a multitude of resource books.

One of these book, a tome bound in black. Showed a map, starting from the manor and trailing down to the black swamps below. Curiosity took over the young boy and he under the cover of night followed it. Using the knowledge of star navigation he read in books to center himself. Crossing over the humid water. Dark canopies filled with green and red eyes that roam the area, stalking for prey and escaping their hunters. Every howl and growl made the boy jump but he did not care. he had to find this treasure.  The moon rose higher when he wound up in the heart of the swamp, the water black and covered with the gnarled roots of mangroves and willows.

He soon found himself in a clearing, the canopies opening letting the moonlight shine onto an island. The earth was empty, devoid of life except for a skeletal body. A staff of wood, gnarled and curled at the top. An unlit lantern hanging from it was thrust into the grown, between two ribs. One of them broken.

Fredrick wadded through the water. A hand outstretched as he grasps the staff. His finger tips grasp the wood and the lantern lights. At the same though a piercing cry rings out through the swamp as cold hands grasps Fred’s wrist and neck. Appearing before him was a gaunt face, eyes sunken and closed, and her body see through. Her mouth was agape, lips not moving as she spoke. Each word sounded raspy and croaking.

“Yooou. You’re the first in a hundred years to find me. Yoou. Do you know the hillgates?”

He replied in turn, saying he himself was a hillgates. Her eyes opened, pitch black and it seemed to call him in.

“You will wooooork.”

She pressed his face to hers and everything began to turn dark. However the light on the lantern glowed bright, as the same piercing scream from earlier filled his mind.

Then everything went black.

His eyes opened to the smell of smoke. The image before him was blurry but he could see the colors of orange and red. Feeling the intense burn of a fire as it surrounded him. He sat up and realized he was no longer in the swamp but back home. In front of his was the double staircase that was housed in the foyer of his home. Around him the charred remains of people, people he recognized as his own siblings, servants, and others. In his hand was the same lantern staff he held before.

He stood up and looked around him. Behind the flames were a number of shadowy figures. Slowly they emerged, blackened skeletons wielding weapons appeared. Their cackles echoing through the roars of the flames. Slowly surrounding and flanking him. He gripped the staff harder and turned around to find a way out. Seeing no way out he picked up the staff and waved it around, trying to impede the skeletal army. They still kept moving and feeling desperate he slammed the staff on the ground. A low ring emanating from where the blow struck blew out all the flames, leaving him in a dark and smoky room. The flames itself were not the only thing to stop either. The army of skeletons stopped where they stood, bending at the knee towards Fredrick.

He himself falling onto his knees. Tear staining his face as he was surrounded by dead and undead. The smoke cleared and shimmering through the walls was the same woman, her eyes again closed. A spectral hand cupping his face.

“The Hillgates debt has been paid. In my thanks. You too will weave souls to do your beckon. Perhaps the soul of your family, so they may do the right thing.”

The spirit bent forward and kissed Fredrick on the cheek before disappearing in an exploding mist. The bodies of the skeletons crumbling before him. Followed by Fredrick, who fell to the ground. A broken young boy.

_________________________

Time passed, seasons changed and Fredrick finally snapped out of the melancholy. Sadness was replaced by Anger and a need for justice. His studies now pertains to the necromantic arts and the identity of the ghost who possessed him. In the time since, the young boy was accused of familicide and had to escape the town.

He began to live on his own, finding refuge if need be and utilizing his new magic to defend himself.

Years passed and his skills in the magic grew, with it his own isolation. But there are moments when he would delve back into civilization. For one reason or another, including joining a group of sages into collecting new discovered bones of creatures they originally thought were dragon, but were however  a newly discovered number of creatures they call Terrorlizards. Which to Fred’s delight, was full of innate magical possibility. Which he took for himself their first specimen, a large sharptooth specimen he brought to life.

Now he travels around, looking for answers. Hoping to find anything that could explain the curse given to him.

Level: 3

General Powers/Abilities/Unusual Traits Description:

Fred is a practitioner of the necromantic arts. His skills in the matter of soul weaving is so well practiced. Some say he is a  possible host for a god of death. But that isn’t the truth. Asides from his powers in raising the dead and summoning souls he is proficient in magic deemed dark, including: poison, insects, darkness, ice, and some botany

Specific Powers/Abilities/Traits of Note:

He is always surrounded by an air of cold. The area within five feet of his always feels cold, which during summertime makes him quite popular to his chagrin.

His usage of dinosaur fossils as his necromancy stable, esp with a trex that he calls Doomfang.

He has insects that come to his beck and call

He can summon thorny vines, mandrakes, fungus, and other plants attributed with the dark arts.

Extra (Anything you’d like say!):

#dahl acceptance

[mychaoticallyeclecticlife]

Another day, another blog tour. Today I’m one of the designated stops on the blog tour for Hunting Angels Diaries by Conrad Jones. This is a box set containing two books A Child for the Devil and Dark Angel. Also on today’s agenda are Have Books, Will Read; Kristin’s Novel Cafe and Everywhere and Nowhere.

There are still a few remaining stops on the tour, here’s where it’s heading next.

Synopsis

When an author is asked to help the police with the investigation into a double murder by identifying occult symbols, which had been carved into the victims, he is plunged into nightmare and forced to go on the run. Hunted by law and a powerful cult, he has to stay one step ahead to survive.

Review

I had the pleasure of being on one of Conrad’s recent tours for his novel Shadows so when the opportunity arose to review more of his books I jumped as the chance.

This review has been quite hard to write if I’m honest because I both loved and hated the books in equal measure. There was something about them that just didn’t click with me yet still had me turning the pages to find out how everything played out.

Both books are packed full of graphic violence so if this isn’t your thing then these books maybe aren’t for you. However if you can overcome the gruesome details surrounding ritualistic kills, torture and rape then they could well be two of the most dark and disturbing books you’ve ever read.

The opening chapter of A Child for the Devil did having me wondering if I could carry on reading. I won’t go into too much detail but it involved eyes and considering I have a minor phobia of putting my own contact lenses in I’m very proud of myself for continuing to read on. Luckily after this the book, although still very dark, didn’t have me squirming quite as much as I read it. Don’t get me wrong it was still very sick and not for the faint of heart, but it fits in well with what was happening in the story.

The story itself is unusual in the fact that the author is in fact the main character and at times I did find myself wondering what was real and what was fiction. I also found myself wanting to Google everything he told me to (here’s hoping they don’t come after me next!!).

The character of Conrad Jones wasn’t the most likeable person but I found myself cheering from him as he hunted down the people that were hunting him. My favourite character and the overall star of the book (well the first one) has to be Evie Jones, Conrad’s beloved Staffie. I love her characterisation and was a little sad when she only had a fleeting mention in the second book.

I enjoyed the first book much more than the second. This is mainly due to some minor continuity issues between the two books. That said I would still highly recommend these books. If you enjoy dark, disturbing books with unexpected twists that will totally mess with your head and have you questioning reality, then this series is perfect.

Many thanks to Conrad and Emma for my advanced reader copy and inviting me on the tour!

Amazon UK | Goodreads | Amazon US

About the Author

I am Conrad Jones, a fifty-year-old author, originally from a sleepy green-belt called Tarbock Green, which is situated on the outskirts of Liverpool. I spent a number of years living in Holyhead, Anglesey, which I class as my home, before starting a career as a trainee manager with McDonalds Restaurants in 1989. I worked in management at McDonalds Restaurants Ltd from 1989-2002, working my way up to Business Consultant (area manager) working in the corporate and franchised departments.

On March 20th, 1993, I was managing the restaurant in Warrington’s Bridge St when two Irish Republican Army bombs exploded directly outside the store, resulting in the death of two young boys and many casualties. Along with hundreds of other people there that day I was deeply affected by the attack, which led to a long-term interest in the motivation and mind set of criminal gangs. I began to read anything crime related that I could get my hands on.

I link this experience with the desire to write books on the subject, which came much later on due to an unusual set of circumstances. Because of that experience my early novels follow the adventures of an elite counter terrorist unit, The Terrorist Task Force, and their enigmatic leader, John Tankersley, or `Tank` and they are the Soft Target Series, which have been described by a reviewer as ‘Reacher on steroids’  I had no intentions of writing until 2007, when I set off on an eleven-week tour of the USA. The day before I boarded the plane, Madeleine McCann disappeared and all through the holiday I followed the American news reports which had little or no information about her. I didn’t realise it at the time, but the terrible kidnap would inspire my book, The Child Taker years later. During that trip, I received news that my house had been burgled and my work van and equipment were stolen. That summer was the year when York and Tewksbury were flooded by a deluge and insurance companies were swamped with claims. They informed me that they couldn’t do anything for weeks and that returning home would be a wasted journey. Rendered unemployed on a beach in Clearwater, Florida, I decided to begin my first book, Soft Target. I have never stopped writing since. 

The Child Taker was the 6th book in the Soft Target Series but it also became the first book in the Detective Alec Ramsay Series when I signed a three-book deal with London based publishers, Thames River Press. The series is now seven books long with an average of 4.8 stars from over 2000 reviews. The first two books are always free with over 1100 5-star reviews. 

As far as my favourite series ever, it has to be James Herbert’s, The Rats trilogy. The first book did for me what school books couldn’t. It fascinated me, triggered my imagination and gave me the hunger to want to read more. I waited years for the second book, The Lair, and Domain, the third book to come out and they were amazing. Domain is one of the best books I have ever read. In later years, Lee Child, especially the early books, has kept me hypnotised on my sunbed on holiday as has Michael Connelly and his Harry Bosch Series.

Conrad is the author of seventeen novels, eight author guides and two biographies. He has three series

The Detective Alec Ramsay Series; seven books Gritty Crime Thrillers

The Soft Target Series; Gritty Thrillers six books (Reacher Style)

The Hunting Angels Diaries; three books Horror Thrillers

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      Today I'm the designated stop on the blog tour for Hunting Angels Diaries by Conrad Jones. Another day, another blog tour. Today I'm one of the designated stops on the blog tour for Hunting Angels Diaries by Conrad Jones.

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