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dustedmagazine · 5 years

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Dust, Volume 5, No. 2

Abjects

It must have been the polar vortex, forcing Dusted writers to stay in out of sub-zero weather and coercing them to focus on records they’d been neglecting. That’s the most plausible explanation for this especially robust edition of Dust which covers black metal from Tunisia, free jazz from Chicago, desert blues from the Sahara and a punk band from all over the place. This edition’s contributors include Jennifer Kelly, Jonathan Shaw, Patrick Masterson, Ian Mathers, Isaac Olsen, Nate Knaebel and Bill Meyer.

Abjects—Never Give Up (Yippee Ki Yay)

Never Give Up by Abjects

Punk rock is the common language for this globe-hopping threesome, the singer/guitarist Noemi hailing from Spain, bassist Yuki from Japan and Alice, the drummer, from Spain. Their slash-and-bang aggression softens, just a bit, in tight, dizzy harmonies in cuts like the title and “Long Way to Go.” Others, including the single, “The Storm” stutter and swagger on hard staccato foundations, while sweetening the pot with all-hands vocals. This is basic stuff, executed with a certain amount of flair and skill and broken by occasional blistering, shreddy not-exactly-class-of-1979 guitar solos. All three members have spent time in the U.K. and have strong opinions on EU membership. Their “Fuck Brexit” rampages and rolls in rapid-fire repugnance, with a snarling tangle of guitars, a tom-tom fury of drums. You might hear hints of Reading Rainbow and Grass Widow in the vocal-centered cuts, but “Awake” is pure, four-slashing, garage punk, a la L7 and the Ramones, but with a tiny bit of an accent.

Jennifer Kelly

Ayyur — The Lunatic Creature (Sentient Ruin Laboratories)

The Lunatic Creature by Ayyur

“Lugubrious Fields” is the first and most interesting track on The Lunatic Creature, a new EP by Tunisian black metal act Ayyur. Like the other songs on the tape, “Lugubrious Fields” is driven by layered guitar riffs that crackle and buzz with anxious menace. Melody manages to cut through the guitars’ miasmatic fog, and vocals, supplied by bandleader and songwriter Angra Mainyu, growl and whither, emerging and disappearing back into the thick mix. Much of the track lingers at midtempo, held there by the riffs’ accumulated power. Don’t let the relatively exotic sound of the phrase “Tunisian black metal” fool or titillate you — this is pretty conventional stuff, evocative by turns of the USBM Cascadian movement and then of tougher, more orthodox acts like Aosoth (and it should be noted that former Deathspell Omega vocalist Shaxul provides drums on this record). But if midtempo black metal is your thing, this tape is worth a listen.

Jonathan Shaw

Dawn — New Breed (Local Action)

new breed by DAWN

Goldenheart was the record that put her on the map, Blackheart got all the attention and Redemption was the overly long attention-getter, but the more I listen to New Breed, the more I think this is the record Dawn Richard was meant to make. It’s not a pristinely polished pop production a la Goldenheart or anything Janelle Monáe’s done since The ArchAndroid (though it likely won’t surprise you to learn that Monáe reached out to Richard last year either because of or as an inspiration for the latter’s cover of “Pynk”), and it’s not the purely synthetic club constructions of Redemption or the Infrared EP; if anything, this is a little disjointed and sloppy – song transitions can be fairly abrupt and the sonic arc can zig and zag across R&B, funk, soul and pop with political sutures loosely keeping the theme. But it holds together just enough to be her most exciting album, and certainly the one with the most potential for a wider listenership than just futurist R&B enthusiasts. Put another way: It’ll be a travesty if you don’t hear “Dreams and Converse” playing from every bodega, bank lobby and beat-up SUV in five months.

Patrick Masterson

DenMother — Past Life (Counting on Downstairs)

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“Face,” the opening track of now-Fredericton (by way of Toronto) based DenMother’s new record both marks the end of a busy year (2018 saw releases in January, June, and here December) and exhibits a contrast that gets right to what makes Sabarah Pilon’s work under the name always compelling. The first sound you hear is a lilting melody of what sounds like a synthesizer trying to sing like a person; before too long, it’s joined and almost (but not quite) overwhelmed by a more obviously machine-based blare of sound, a thickly sliding, grinding tone. It might sound like those elements are incompatible, or that they wouldn’t mesh well with the song DenMother sings over them, but the result feels perfectly natural. And if “Face” makes for a great example of the kind of music DenMother’s been making for years now, Past Life also shows some new dynamics and approaches, whether it’s the bereft upright bass-and-voice intro to “All Black” or the more heavily textured, submerged songcraft of “Not a Likely Story.” Past Life features both, in the form of the guitar reverb and vocal refrain duo of “The Desert,” one of the starkest DenMother songs and, in the warmly embracing and emotional ambiguous “Fish Cars,” maybe the best example of her ‘classic’ sound in a year or two. Here’s hoping for a similarly active 2019 from one of Canada’s best hidden treasures.

Ian Mathers

Etran de L'Aïr — No. 1 (Sahel Sounds)

No. 1 by Etran de L'Aïr

In the decade or so since Tinariwen broke through in Europe and the US, there’s been such a glut of Saharan records that it’s easy to miss a real stunner when it comes out. Easier still when said stunner is by a budget wedding band from Agadez and released by the prolific boutique label, Sahel Sounds. If you also missed Etran de L'Aïr’s No. 1 when it came out last year, don’t wait any longer to pick up one of 2018’s most dopamine releasing LPs. Recorded live outside the band/family’s home in front of an ecstatic crowd, Etran’s music, with its flashy but oh-so-sweet interlocking guitar lines and unwillingness to let a good groove go to waste, sounds like a stripped-down, scrappy, North African garage rock version of Congolese soukous. After the throat-clearing first track, they never touch the ground. Pure pleasure. Highest recommendation.

Isaac Olson

Ex-Display Model— Ex-Display Model (Self released)

Ex-Display Model by Ex-Display Model

The fact that Ex-Display Model, as of their debut, sound a little bit like Fujiya & Miyagi isn’t a big surprise. Plenty of listeners tend to identify bands via vocalists, for one thing, and F&M’s David Best has one of the more pleasingly indelible voices in the field. And in fact, Ex-Display Model started out as a solo project for Best, before he started working with AK/DK’s Ed Chivers, so when the opening “Immaculate Rip” channels a tinge of F&M’s cool, sardonic electro-rock it’s hard to be upset by more of a good thing. But then the song channels a malfunctioning guitar pedal for a much more abrasive chorus, and this taut, sharply formed debut is off the races. Whether it’s adding Au Revoir Simone’s Annie Hart on the reflective, melancholy “Autopilot” or going slightly glam on “Swing of Things” (or, for that matter, doing one of the best straight Motorik homages in a while on “Torschlusspanik”) Ex-Display Model wind up distinguishing themselves easily from either parent project, while offering some tantalizing glimpses of where the project could go further, starting from this basis next time around. The closing title track channels the duo’s instincts towards both dense repetition and thrilling squall into a fine climax — display-ready or not, here’s hoping for more from them.

Ian Mathers

Foster / Young / Zerang—Bind the Hand(s) That Feed (Relative Pitch)

Bind the Hand(s) That Feed by Michael Foster / Katherine Young / Michael Zerang

Bassoonist Katherine Young and percussionist Michael Zerang first encountered New York-based tenor / soprano saxophonist Michael Foster when the latter musician came to Chicago to participate in the 2018 Exposure Series . Originally conceived as a residency to bring an out of town composer and a group of Chicagoan improvisers, that year the event played out as a sequence of encounters between local improvising musicians/presenters and their counterparts in other cities around the USA. Coming from different aesthetic corners and generations, they build out from common commitments to improvisation and extended technique. You can hear them figure out what works as the set progresses. Things start with a scrape and a rasp; Zerang loves friction, Foster sucks and gargles, and Young magnifies and distorts her instrument’s woody timbres with electronics. After an initial fractious dust-up, they pull back to explore micro-sounds, patient gestures and complementary contours. The trio collectively realizes such a fertile environment that it’d be a shame if they didn’t re-convene to see what else they can grow in it.

Bill Meyer

Hoover / “Hoover1” 12” (Nowt Recordings)

HOOVER1 by nOWt

No DC post-hardcore, vacuum cleaners or unloved blanket-bearing presidents need apply on René Pawlowitz’s latest alias, pardon, release as Hoover. The Frankfurt producer best known as Shed (but certainly willing to go by a number of other names — just look at that list) has recently been exploring throwback rave music as a style beyond his usual triangulation of techno, house and dubstep. Unlike the 12” he put out for XL as The Higher in November, which featured prominent vocals, brash synths and uptempo percussion experiments, the Hoover vinyl is a more restrained effort. For evidence, check the almost stripped-back feel of the a-side, which uses the common trope of a distended female vocal sample before an all-enveloping astral synth swoops in around a little before the two-minute mark. But that’s as far as he’s willing to wade into these waters – the percussion holds station and remains clipped. The half-stepping b-side, meanwhile, is a sumptuous after-hours burner that arguably does less than the a-side; it almost feels like a cut better suited for the Workshop crowd. Beautiful studies in sound design and mood both, but if you were looking for something a little, er, higher, Hoover’s probably not going to get you there.

Patrick Masterson

The Hunches — Same New Thing (Almost Ready Records)

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The popular narrative attributes the heavily scare-quoted garage rock revival of the early-2000s to bands like the Strokes, the Hives, and the White Stripes. Let me tell you something, no disrespect to Jack or Pelle, but that's just fucking dumb, and you should know that. It started right here and it pretty much ended here, too. The Hunches would get louder, artier, and weirder leading up to their demise in 2009, but these previously unreleased 2002 demos (some of which would appear later in revised form, while others are completely new to the world) find the band in a raw, feral state. Hart Gledhill sound sounds like he's about to cough up a lung and rip his heart out on every song, and guitarist Chris Gunn takes aim with rapid-fire KBD riffs, drags the listener through rusted shards of post-Stooges shrapnel skronk, and then offers the necessary first-aid in the form of chiming, downright melodic leads. Same New Thing shows that while everyone else was playing "Incense and Peppermints," the Hunches had been playing "Psycho" all along.

Nate Knaebel

Jovan Karcic—2015 (Scioto)

2015 by Jovan Karcic

Jovan Karcic played guitar in the agitated pop punk band Gaunt during the 1990s, and he’s currently sitting in on drums for the raucous punk band Scrawl. You might not expect his latest solo album 2015 to be as sleek and full-throatedly synthy as it is, or to recall the lush keyboard atmospheres of the Cure or the chilled funk syncopation of smooth R&B. But there it is, Karcic’s songs are gleaming, surging masses of synthethic sound, which slip from self-searching confessionalism into ambient reveries. 2015 looms much larger than your typical bedroom-recorded autonomous songwriter project, with brighter, more polished textures in service of its down-on-its-luck narrative. “Larry’s,” for instance, visits the colorless desolation of a mid-American tavern, the kind with pinball machines and pool tables and decades-old alliances scratched in initials into table tops. And yet it’s recorded in what might be the very opposite of kitchen sink realism, with booming dance-floor rhythms and thick layers of keyboard interplay and a 1970s Dire Straits-ish guitar solo erupting out of the interstices. “Lesserman,” later on, draws a contrast between the downbeaten “Lesserman” and the more successful “Betterman” who “eats breakfast with his kids, and looks them in the eyes,” and confides that, “today brings opportunities for joy.” Yet though the track intensifies when it gets to the “Betterman” verses, with massed vocals and additional electric keyboard parts, Karcic’s heart is with “Lesserman.” Maybe 2015 is “Lesserman” imagining an impossibly happy ending, lush, sweetened with keyboards, pulsing with a positive rhythm, while outside sleet needles down on dirty streets, and tomorrow is never a better day.

Jennifer Kelly

Eli Keszler — Stadium (Shelter Press)

Stadium by Eli Keszler

You need people to fill up a stadium, and this record sounds like just the tool to expand Eli Keszler’s audience. His past work has included kicking out the jams with Oren Ambarchi and wiring a pumping station for sound. They’re worthy endeavors, but not ones likely to pull a stadium-sized crowd, or even an audience like his recent mates Oneohtrix Point Never and Rashad Becker might draw. So Keszler has recontextualized his extraordinary percussive technique and his abiding concern with spatial sound by pairing them with more accessible sounds. The opening track “Measurement Doesn’t Change the System at All” (a claim that physicists could dispute) combines a creeping Farfisa melody and sprinting, undeniable groove. The vibraphone and bass drum on “Flying Floor for U.S. Airways” are magnified until they are as thick and plush as sofa stuffing; the patter of dryer drum and stick sounds manifests a clear focus point in an otherwise cloudy space. And while

“Fashion of Echo” begins with a typical Keszler gambit, using rapidly and precisely articulated shifts between the different parts of the kit to suggest a three-dimensional configuration in motion, there’s more forward momentum than in the past. Stadium sounds rather like something Aphex Twin might achieve if he took up the drums.

Bill Meyer

Kukuruz Quartet — Julius Eastman Piano Interpretations (Intakt)

Julius Eastman Piano Interpretations by Kukuruz Quartet

George Lewis’s liner notes underscore the precariousness of Julius Eastman’s profile. From promising beginnings as a performer and a composer of avant-garde classical music in the 1970s and 1980s, he spiraled into obscurity and homelessness and was almost forgotten. If not for the luck, if you can call it that, that the current concern with elevating under-heard narratives, for which Eastman certainly qualifies — black, queer, an extraordinary singer, an acutely challenging composer in an idiom more likely to borrow from people of color than to follow their lead — follows his death by only a couple decades, would he be totally forgotten? So let’s take the emergence of an album dedicated to his work by a European piano quartet as a good sign. Bright recording and exacting performances make this an easier listen that some of Eastman’s own performances, and the density made possible by the use of four grand pianos amplifies the archness of “Evil Nigger” and the spiritual aura of “Gay Guerilla.” Two less notoriously entitled pieces, a robust exercise in overlaid patterns called “Fugue no. 7” and a long, barely there exploration of the piano’s innards named “Buddha,” round out a set well worth hearing.

Bill Meyer

loscil – Submers (Kranky)

Submers by loscil

Kranky continues their reissue program of Scott Morgan’s earlier work as loscil, bringing his second album Submers (originally released on CD in 2002) out on vinyl. loscil records tend to operate on two levels, with the immediate/visceral impact of his richly soothing and/or foreboding music (still, at this point, fairly summed up as “ambient dub”) working hand in hand with some sort of conceptual angle for both artist and listener to meditate upon. With Submers, it was submarines, including the Russian Kursk, which had recently lost all hands after a torpedo mishap during a naval exercise. While more recent releases have shown just how well Morgan can fold in the work of collaborators, on this record he’s working strictly from sample sources and composing using a custom-built sequencer, no synthesizers or acoustic instruments involved. The result is an enveloping, suitably aquatic sound world from the shimmering, gently pulsing opening track “Argonaut I” into a solid hour of engrossing deep sound. Morgan has continued to refine his work but there’s a reason Submers brought him to wider attention at the time - it’s still one of the highlights in one of the most solid discographies in ambient music.

Ian Mathers

Lucille Furs — Another Land (Requieum for Un Twister)

vimeo

The first thing you hear is a bassline borrowed from “Come Together,” the second a hazy overtone of keyboards and guitars. Lucille Furs, out of Chicago, are deep into a 1960s psychedelic lode, with hints of Love and the Zombies wafting through their low-key lysergic tunes. Slanty, surfy-toned guitar splinter the air in “Paint Euphrosyne Blue,” chortling organics burble up through the tune. It’s more emphatic than most of these tunes a fuzz-garage raver in line with Black Angels or the Allah-Las. Elsewhere the vibe is sleepier, but still enticing. While not exactly overstuffed—there are only five of them and the most exotic instrument is a mellotron—these songs feel plush and carefully arranged. Baroque garage pop isn’t really a category, but maybe it should be.

Jennifer Kelly

Murderer — I Did It All for You (Toxic State)

I Did It All For You by Murderer

With just an extremely short 2013 demo to their name, Murderer went recording and came back with this 15-tracker released in the dying days of December that picks at a scab of more than just straight-ahead garage vibes: There are the gentle chimes that color the margins of “Piece of Candy”; that lazy, burned-out surf riff on “Cowboy” and “Moonlight”; the creepy dreaming of “Juicy Fruit Dream”; the slightly overbearing keyboard flourish on “A Diamond Just for You”; the fact that there are four different tracks all called “Perfect” here; and so on. Featuring commanding drum work by Sam Ryser (also of Crazy Spirit and Dawn of Humans) and guitar and vocals courtesy Hank Wood of thee Hammerheads, the thing that came to my mind after a first listen was Pink Flag-era Wire, but the taut post-punk goes in enough different directions to get you racking your brain for better analogs from the turn of the ‘80s. “I need it to be perfect / I need it to be real / That’s just how I feel” each “Perfect” intones; in its own way, it certainly is that. Great album for the fuckin’ record reviewer in your life.

Patrick Masterson

Doug Paisley — Starter Home (No Quarter)

Starter Home by Doug Paisley

The title track of Doug Paisley’s Starter Home is the sort of perfect instant classic that most songwriters on the folk/country spectrum spend an entire career hoping they’ll write. While “Starter Home” and its autopsy of middle-class aspiration, repression and stasis could have been written anytime in the last 60 years, it has particular resonance ten years into a housing crisis that only the wealthy think is over. Nothing else here is as good as “Starter Home”, but “No Way to Know,” “Mister Wrong,” “Drinking with a Friend,” and “Waiting” come close. The other four tracks are all worth hearing at least once, too. Like Paisley’s previous records, Starter Home is a better-than-average folk record with a handful of knockouts. He’s going to have an incredible Best Of collection someday.

Isaac Olson

Manuel Troller — Vanishing Points (three:four)

Vanishing Points by Manuel Troller

Rock dynamics shape the music that Manuel Troller makes with Schnellertollermeier. In KvG’s Bottom Orchestra, he shifts nimbly from chamber music to free improvisation to shattered chanson. But when the Swiss guitarist plays solo, it’s all about the possibilities of his gear. Troller could not get the tones he gets without a plugged-in signal chain; with it, his sounds range from feathery cirrus to fractured granite. He uses delays to freeze moments of motion, sometimes to subject them to examination and other times to use chunks of digital stutter as building blocks. This description may sound a bit clinical, but Troller has a knack for turning sound into experience. Sometimes this record feels like flight, other times like you’re stumbling around in a dark and cluttered factory space, but it never feels like a guy just fiddling with his strings and boxes.

Bill Meyer

Jamila Woods — “Zora” single (Jagjaguwar)

LEGACY! LEGACY! by Jamila Woods

The Zora Neale Hurston quotation I keep returning to in listening to the second single from Jamila Woods’ sophomore full-length Legacy! Legacy! is, “I love myself when I am laughing … and then again when I am looking mean and impressive.” The 29-year-old Chicagoan is exuding confidence from every pore on this three-minute track, luring you from the soft power of “I tenderly fill my enemies with white light” to the leveling of “You will know never everything, everything / I will never know everything, everything” to the outright ascension of “I may be small, I may speak soft / but you can see the change in the water.” In a word: Recognize. The gorgeous harp flourishes, sparsely echoing synths and dusty groove of the beat, accompanied with backing vocals mixed to accentuate rather than overwhelm Woods’ lead, further illustrate who is running the show here. As Hurston also once said, there are years that ask questions and years that answer; for any doubters left after 2016’s Heavn (and aren’t there always a few), May’s Legacy! Legacy! should firmly weed them out. Get ready.

Patrick Masterson

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lolablackwrites · 6 years

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Writer’s Retreat (AU), Part 7 - James x MC x Zig

Summary: On the day of James’s wedding, MC (Charlotte) tries to drown her sorrows but finds a surprising savior.

Notes: Thank you to everyone who has been so encouraging and supportive of this series so far, you are all wonderful and I appreciate you so much ❤️ If you’re new to this series, you can check out the previous installments here: Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.

And stay tuned--the next installment is going to be quite NSFW! 😉

Fanfic Master List

When Charlotte opened her eyes on Saturday morning, she only had a blissful few moments before she remembered the date: June 15th, the day of James and Vanessa’s wedding. She hadn’t heard from James since he called her during his bachelor party the previous weekend, her texts sent out like echoless calls into nothingness. Charlotte stared up at the ceiling, in James’s bed in his cabin, and wondered yet again what she was doing. Maybe James had sobered up after the party and realized calling her was a mistake. His silence spoke volumes and if he wasn’t calling her, it was because he’d made his choice. She imagined him, likely having breakfast with his groomsmen or maybe his parents. Charlotte remembered the dining room at his parents’ house, so huge and beautiful and unwelcoming--although perhaps the latter descriptor had only been for her. James, sensing her discomfort in the ornate surroundings, had surprised her with breakfast in bed the following morning. Poached eggs, slightly burnt bacon, and rye toast with a sliced grapefruit and a tall glass of orange juice. Charlotte had known immediately that James had prepared the meal himself instead of outsourcing to the kitchen staff. He was an excellent cook, but he never seemed to get the timing right on bacon, always slightly overcooking it. The man could poach an egg like a professional, but bacon was his downfall. The tray had been decorated with a small vase containing a single yellow rose, her favorite. The two of them had lounged in bed, feeding each other bites like a nauseating couple in a jewelry commercial.

Stop it Charlotte scolded herself, squeezing her eyes shut against the memories. A tear fell from her eye and she roughly brushed it away. He made his choice. He sent you away to the woods so he could marry her.

He made his choice.

Charlotte opened her eyes again and pulled the blankets up over her head. She felt stupid for thinking this would turn out any differently.

Later that afternoon, Charlotte stared at her laptop. The incessant cursor blinked on the screen as she attempted to lose herself in work, but everything hurt too much.

Ana lay in bed and stared up at the empty, unresponsive ceiling. She hadn’t heard from Jack since he called her during his bachelor party the previous weekend, her texts sent out like echoless calls into nothingness. Ana lay in Jack’s bed in his cabin, and wondered yet again what she was doing. Maybe Jack had sobered up after the party and realized calling her was a mistake. His silence spoke volumes and if he wasn’t calling her, it was because he’d made his choice.

Charlotte closed her laptop with a decisive clack. She couldn’t handle any thoughts of James today, not even the fictionalized version of him in her book. This is a joke. I’m a joke. She sighed and checked the time on her phone. She wanted to get out of the house, but Chris had left for a weekend fishing trip with some of his friends. Wait a minute--why did she need Chris if she wanted to get out of the house? With James’s wedding only hours away, Charlotte was free and clear and single. She didn’t need a male escort if she wanted to get out of the house. What she did need, however, was a drink. Several, in fact.

As Charlotte slugged back the last of her beer, the room shifted slightly beneath her. She righted herself and put a hand on the bar to steady herself. The room returned to normal and Charlotte removed her hand, relieved. The sky had grown dark outside, but Charlotte didn’t care. Somewhere in New York, James was probably dancing with Vanessa. Charlotte wondered briefly what their first dance had been. Probably something classic like Frank Sinatra. Maybe Vanessa had picked something overdone like “At Last.” Charlotte ordered another beer and chastised herself. She shouldn’t pick on Vanessa. It wasn’t her fault her fiance was a philanderer and Charlotte was a homewrecker. Well, attempted homewrecker.

“Hon, you should probably eat something,” the bartender said when she delivered Charlotte’s latest drink. The bartender was a blonde woman in her late fifties with a kind face who slid a small bowl of peanuts towards Charlotte.

“Thanks,” Charlotte mumbled. The bartender gave her a soft smile and moved away to other customers. Charlotte knew she should leave soon; one more beer was likely to make the whole room spin.

This is my last one Charlotte thought as she lifted the cold glass bottle to her lips. The beer flowed over her tongue, tasteless after so many that had come before. She set down the drink, disappointed. Charlotte wondered if she should’ve ordered something else, something that would’ve tasted better. Did it really matter though? It’s not like the taste going in was going to make it taste any better when it came back up later.

Oh god Charlotte thought, the mere idea of vomiting making her a little ill. She hesitated, unsure of whether or not she should make a run for the bathroom. Thankfully though, the nausea subsided. Charlotte eyed the bottle. Should she risk it? No, even she wasn’t that stupid. She slowly climbed to her feet, nearly tripping on the bar stool as she did so.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?” the bartender asked gently, resting her hand on Charlotte’s wrist.

“No,” Charlotte said, a little too loudly. She took a breath. “No, thank you,” she said, her voice lowered to a more appropriate volume. “I can do it.”

“It’s no trouble,” the bartender assured her. Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, someone else materialized by her elbow.

“Charlotte, hey,” Zig said. He got a good look at her and took a step back. “Oh, I see I’m arriving at the end of the party.”

“Yeah, I’ve been drinking,” Charlotte said, grumpy at what sounded like an accusation from Zig. Who is he to judge me? I’m a single adult, I’m entitled to adult beverages.

“Holy crap,” Zig said, leaning back slightly. “Thank god smoking isn’t allowed in bars anymore or your breath would catch on fire.”

“I don’t need this,” Charlotte slurred. She tried to take a step forward and lurched. She would’ve fallen had Zig not reached out in time and caught her.

“Okay, I’m going to take you home,” Zig said. He glanced over at the bartender who nodded approvingly, looking a little relieved.

“I don’t need you to rescue me!” Charlotte insisted. “I’m not a damsel in distress! I’m an INDEPENDENT WOMAN!” She fumbled in her pocket for her keys which immediately fell to the floor with a clatter. Charlotte dove after them and fell onto the floor, despite Zig’s best efforts. He sighed and picked up her keys, shoving them in the pocket of his leather jacket before he reached down and helped Charlotte to her feet.

“Yes, I can see that, but you’re also very drunk,” Zig said.

“Give me my keys!” she demanded.

“I will, but I’m going to drive you home first,” Zig said. Charlotte opened her mouth to protest but he shook his head. “It’s not up for negotiation.”

“Fine,” Charlotte gumbled. “But don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Shake your head like that,” Charlotte said, trying to keep the room to stay put. “It makes me dizzy.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Zig said.

Zig led her outside and patiently waited while Charlotte attempted to remember what kind of car she drove. Finally, he just pulled the keys out of his pocket and clicked the beeper until her car flashed its headlights, waving them over.

“Found it,” Charlotte said, suddenly bursting into giggles. She wasn’t sure why this was so funny, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her toe suddenly caught on a break in the sidewalk but Zig kept her upright, carefully leading her to the car. He helped her into the passenger seat and reached to buckle her in, but she slapped his hand away.

“I can buckle my own seatbelt, I’m not that helpless,” Charlotte insisted. Zig held his hands up in surrender and then shut her door after carefully making sure all of her limbs were in the car. Christ, who made car doors so loud? Charlotte wondered as she yanked on the seat belt. She missed the buckle once, twice, three times. She leaned closer, resting her forehead on the center console which felt deliciously cool.

“Need help?”

Charlotte picked up her head quickly and instantly regretted the decision as the inside of the car swam around her. When had Zig gotten into the driver’s seat?

“Yes,” she admitted. “But not because I can’t do it. I just don’t feel like it.”

“Of course,” Zig agreed as he took the buckle from her. He clicked it successfully the first time and straightened the belt across her shoulder.

“Show off,” Charlotte muttered as Zig started the car.

Before she even opened her eyes, Charlotte was aware that something wasn’t right. Her head ached, her tongue felt heavy and tasted sour, and she was still wearing her clothes from the night before. Except for her shoes. Where were her shoes? She sat up slowly, her stomach protesting wildly. Charlotte couldn’t remember coming home last night, but clearly she had if she was in her bed. She peeked over the edge of the bed and saw a pillow on the carpet. Had she knocked it off onto the floor? Suddenly, the door swung open and someone walked into the room, back lit by the morning sun in the hallway.

“Ow, shit!” Charlotte exclaimed as the headache burst across her forehead at the sudden light. “Shut the door!”

The door was quickly shut and Charlotte blinked, trying to adjust her eyesight back to the gloom of the darkened bedroom.

“Sorry about that.”

It took Charlotte a moment to realize Zig was standing in her bedroom in jeans and a white t-shirt and holding a bowl of something in his hands.

“What . . . um, what happened?” Charlotte asked, hoping to force her stomach into submission using sheer willpower.

“I ran into you in the bar last night and you were very drunk, so I brought you home,” Zig said. “I was afraid you were going to choke on your own vomit or something so I slept on the floor. I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course,” Charlotte said, self-consciously reaching up to brush her hair back from her face. “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Zig said as he set the bowl on the nightstand. “If you’re up for it, I brought you some oatmeal. You’re going to need to start detoxing your system at some point.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Charlotte said slowly, still trying to piece together what happened after she left the bar.

“Well, it’s not purely altruistic,” Zig said, a grin spreading across his face. “I was hoping that by making you some food, I could bribe you into letting me use your shower.”

“Oh, of course, please, go ahead,” Charlotte said, gesturing towards the bathroom.

“Thanks,” Zig said. He turned and headed towards the bathroom when a memory suddenly hit her.

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t throw up on you, did I?” Charlotte asked. Zig hesitated, his hand on the doorknob to the bathroom.

“No,” he said unconvincingly. Charlotte dropped her face into her head and wished her hangover would just kill her already.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice muffled by her palm.

“Nothing to apologize for,” he said lightly as he let himself into the bathroom and shut the door. Moments later, she heard the shower start. In spite of how terrible she felt, Charlotte realized that at that very moment, Zig was taking off his clothes and would be standing naked in the very next room from where she sat.

“Oh, god, stop it,” she muttered. In addition to a vague notion she’d thrown up on him, she seemed to remember him holding her hair back while she vomited until her gut ached. Whatever attraction he might’ve held for her before was surely gone now. Charlotte reached over for the bowl of oatmeal and brought it to her nose for a tentative sniff. It smelled warm and comforting with a hint of cinnamon, her stomach only mildly protesting. She scooped up an experimental bite, barely big enough to cover the tip of her tongue, and brought it to her lips. Charlotte let it slide over her tongue and swallowed, waiting. So far, so good. She allowed herself another bite, taking her time, and by the time Zig turned off the shower, she’d managed to eat about a third of the bowl.

When the bathroom door opened, Charlotte was unprepared for the sight of Zig standing there in only a towel. Water droplets clung to his muscled chest and abs and Charlotte noticed the owl tattoo sketched across his shoulder. Fuck me.

“I hate to impose, but would you mind if I washed my clothes really quickly?” he asked. “I don’t exactly have a change of clothes with me.”

“No, of course, go ahead,” Charlotte said, trying not to think about why Zig would need to wash his clothes.

“If you want, I’ll throw yours from last night in with mine when you take a shower,” he said pointedly. Charlotte was about to object until she glanced down and saw mysterious stains on her front and sleeves.

“Okay, thanks,” she said, afraid to smell herself. “Um, if you don’t want to just walk around in a towel, I can lend you a pair of pajama pants or something. They might be kind of short on you and I won’t be offended if you don’t want to wear them. Or you could stay in a towel, I don’t mind--” Oh for fuck’s sake, shut up!

“Sure,” Zig said with a grin. “But only if they’re pink.”

“Is purple okay?”

“Even better.”

Charlotte eased herself out of bed and retrieved a clean pair of purple pajama pants from the dresser and held them out to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll go put these on in the other room, just leave the stuff you want me to wash on the floor in here when you go take a shower.”

Charlotte nodded, very aware that this was the second time in less than two minutes that he’d mentioned she should take a shower. Her face burned and she was glad for the muted bedroom light.

When Charlotte emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered with scrubbed teeth, she headed out into the living room and sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of a shirtless Zig wearing her purple pajama pants which were, indeed too short for him. His tanned ankles tuck out several inches below the hems but it wasn’t his feet she was looking at. Instead, she let her eyes rest on his backside as he studied the bookshelf in the living room. Over the course of her shower during which she’d washed dried vomit out of her hair, Charlotte had given up all hope of anything happening between them, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look. Zig heard her footsteps on the wood floors and turned back to look at her with a smile.

“Feeling a little more human?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks,” she said. “Look, I’m really sorry about last night. And this morning.”

He waved away her words with a flick of his wrist.

“Don’t worry, I don’t take it personally,” he said. “And thanks for letting me use your washing machine. I don’t have one, so you saved me a trip to the laundromat before my shift this afternoon.”

“Oh yeah, no problem. You’re welcome to the washing machine anytime, it’s the least I can do,” she said. A horrible flashback from the night before hit her and she winced. “Did I . . . was I singing last night?/”

“Oh yes,” Zig said with a laugh. “You kept insisting you were an independent woman and during the ride here, you launched into a Beyonce medley. I have to say, I rather enjoyed your rendition of ‘Single Ladies.’ You have a pretty good voice.”

“Thanks,” Charlotte said slowly. Apparently my drunk self wants to ensure I’ll never get laid again. “Um, did you eat?”

“Yeah, thanks. I hope you don’t mind I raided your fridge. I promise I’ll pay you back.”

“No, please, I owed you one. We’re even,” Charlotte insisted.

“So . . .”

“Should we sit down?” Zig asked, gesturing to the couch.

“Yes! Sorry, I’m a really shitty host,” Charlotte said. Zig laughed.

“Hey, don’t be sorry, I’m the one taking all the liberties by eating your food and using your washing machine,” Zig said as he sat down on one of the plush leather couches. Charlotte settled into a matching armchair that tilted towards the couch.

“You had to hear my American Idol audition, I think you can do whatever you want,” she said, blushing almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Reminder: you vomited on him. That is not sexy.

“So what brings you to Hull anyway?” Zig asked. “I don’t think I’ve asked you yet.”

“I’m borrowing the house so I can work. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?” Zig asked, interested. “That’s really cool. I’ve always wanted to write, but I don’t have the talent for it so I just read a lot instead.”

“Well, the jury is still out on my talent,” Charlotte joked.

“What’s your latest book about?” Zig asked.

“It’s . . .” Charlotte hesitated, trying to decide how to frame it. “It’s about a woman who is getting out of a bad relationship and tries to move on with her life.” Zig didn’t say anything so she pressed on. “She gets involved with a married guy and one day, she wakes up and realizes she has no idea how she got there. She tries to extricate herself from the married guy, but things are much more complicated than she expected.”

Zig nodded. “That sounds interesting. I always like books about the relationships between people. Not necessarily romantic ones, but the connections between people fascinate me. There are so many shades of gray in relationships and ending them is rarely black or white--people are connected in so many ways, like the roots of a plant.” He noticed her staring at him and blushed slightly. “Sorry, I don’t know if that made any sense.”

“No, that made perfect sense,” Charlotte said. “I think you need to think about giving writing another try.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I will.”

“I’d love to read it if you do.”

Zig grinned. “Okay, but you have to promise to be nice. We’re not all wildly successful authors.”

Charlotte laughed.

“I’m hardly wildly successful,” she said. “I’m not starving yet, but I attribute that to my editor who puts up with me and makes me sound much better than I actually am.”

“Oh, come on, give yourself some credit,” Zig said. “Your first book was great.”

“My first . . . oh my god, you’ve read it?” Charlotte asked in astonishment.

“When I met you, I knew your name sounded familiar and I figured out why once I got home and went through my bookshelf,” Zig explained. “Don’t worry, I’m not some crazy Annie Wilkes-type stalker, I promise,” he added quickly. “But I have read your book.”

“Even Annie Wilkes didn’t think she was a stalker,” Charlotte teased him.

“True,” Zig conceded with a laugh. “Okay, I don’t know if I can make myself not sound creepy right now, so I’m just going to go check on the laundry.”

Charlotte watched him go, wishing for what felt like the thousandth time that she hadn’t thrown up on him.

After their clothes were done, Zig changed back into his own pants and returned the purple pajama pants to her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to hang onto these?” Charlotte asked. “Purple is really your color.”

“I’d love to, but the other park rangers at the station would never let me hear the end of it if I showed up in those,” Zig said with a grin. “But I do reserve the right to change my mind later.”

“Deal,” Charlotte said.

When his cab arrived, Zig left with instructions for her to keep hydrating and headed down the stairs in front of the cabin. Charlotte leaned in the doorway, watching him go, and when he got downstairs to the waiting taxi, he looked back up at her and waved. She waved back, feeling deeply disappointed to see him leave. The previous night’s events had most certainly caused irreparable damage to any potential romance, but maybe they could be friends.

Charlotte watched the cab wind its way through the trees down the narrow path towards the road and, for the first time that day, she allowed herself to think about James. Last night, he had married Vanessa. Today the happy couple was probably jetting off to some exotic location for their honeymoon, some five star resort that was only open to people on the social register or celebrities like Oprah. Charlotte looked up at the cabin around her; she knew she’d have to get out of this house sooner rather than later because it was time to move on. James had made his choice, and now it was time for Charlotte to make hers. She could let herself pine for James, or she could close the chapter on him and make a fresh start. All in all, Hull didn’t seem like a bad place to do just that. But for now, all she wanted to do was crawl into bed with a cup of tea and watch something stupid on Netflix. However, she’d have to do it in one of the guest rooms because she hadn’t washed the sheets in the master bedroom yet and if her shirt had been any indicator, they were far from clean.

Charlotte closed the front door and headed into the kitchen, singing quietly under her breath.

“All the single ladies, all the single ladies . . .”

Part 8

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