#i was doing a writing assignment about something of mine and i chose my fish. needed to bring a pic to class. i probably got a fine grade.

[peachesncrem-3]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞

I’m looking at the muddy sky, dirty and gray, smelling clear as a crystal bell, but dull as a vocal point. I can feel its mourning dawning on me, and only for a moment I can feel my head intertwining its fingers with the fog, the clouds. Just a matter of seconds, I feel freer than the free. I look away from the sky and down at the crashing waves of the river below me, the bridge I stand on. I can feel my knees struggling to steady myself on the rail, the want to sustain myself was as prominent as the fish in the seas. 

But, my desire to just let myself fall was pulling me like a fish to water, I raised my arms slightly up, horizontally, I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with the sharp cutting cold air, my eyes crying from the emotional pain, of both winds, and I. 

I twisted myself to face the bridge and I fell backwards, and as I’m falling, as my hair is pressured by the winds against my face, my skin, I gasped. I didn’t expect that falling would feel like this, I thought I’d feel gone, like my soul would separate from my body. But, as I was, instead of feeling like that, I could feel my soul trying to cling onto my body, trying to come back to me. 

And I never felt the same again.

“Gail… Gail.” 

I look up from the floor, and make eye contact with Mister Von. He had his arms gently crossed but his husky figure contracted his muscles and made the veins tighten in his hands. I looked up again. “Yes?” I say ignorantly, as if I wasn’t zoning out whilst staring at my raggedy shoes. “You got your head in the clouds, what’re you thinking about?” Mister Von asked, leaning against his copper brown desk behind him. 

I slowly shook my head and cleared my throat. “Nothing- nothing. Sorry. Just…” I pause for a moment, what was I thinking about? “Just…?” He asked. I shrugged my shoulders, and looked down. “Don’t think of this as detention, because you didn’t do anything wrong. I just needed to talk to you about… Well, here.” He turned around and took a piece of paper from his desk and put it on mine. I looked down to see that it was my previous assignment from yesterday. 

I looked up confused. “What?” I asked. He leaned in and pointed at the last question, he read, “If you could say one thing you desire the most in your life what would it be and why… You wrote, and I quote, May My Bones Break Brief So I Can Be Lighter Than a Leaf.” My answer sent pins and needles through my eyes and around the inside of my skull, around my brain and down my body, with hot flushes. I slowly looked up at him, “Most people would’ve said their dream career, or to be with their crush, maybe even meet a celebrity both alive and dead. I mean, most answers were what I saw, but yours was not what I was expecting it to be.” He explained, taking back the paper and placing it on his desk as it was before. I swallowed the spit that was resting in the back of my throat. “Is that something that you truly want? It’s incredible I’ll say, but… What are you meaning when you wrote that?” I didn’t know how to answer him, I thought that what I wrote down would go unnoticed, but it didn’t. 

“What… What did you expect I’d write Mister Von?” I asked, and he pondered. “I thought you’d write something blunt, like for the weather to never change, to let it be always cloudy and gray like how you always address when I asked how you feel about the weather on the days that are.” 

I leaned back and rested it against my chair, I looked outside through the glass windows and saw the rain that accumulated since the first cloud I saw this morning. He’s right. But… “I guess I chose the greater of two evils.” 

“What does that mean?” He mumbled, I stood up and took my backpack off the floor and said, “Nothing, I just- I was thinking of something else when I wrote it, do I still get the extra credit?” I asked, and for a moment he just stood there before hesitantly nodding his head. “Then there shouldn’t be a problem.” I gently spoke before I started to walk away. 

“Miss Glassstone.” I turned to his call, “You write beautifully.” I smiled slightly and gently nodded my head to gesture my thanks to him before opening his door and walking out of my English class. I stepped into the clear and empty halls, I looked left then right and turned left. I pulled out my flip phone and read that it was three seventeen pee-em. I exhaled through my mouth and headed for the girls bathroom, walking into the empty and echo-chiming room. 

My shoes lightly scraped against the marble floors as I put my backpack on the counter, I leaned in closer in the mirror and pressed my fingers against the gray flesh under my hazel eyes and dragged them down to see the lower part of my eye balls. I released the pressure and my pale olive skin bounced back to its normal form again, just leaving a pink print in the shape of my fingers. My dull brown hair sticking to my humid and flushed face. I wet my lips and cleared my throat again.

I started humming creep by radiohead before taking out my ipod and actually playing it. I left my ipod on the counter next to my backpack and walked to the last stall, the song bouncing and dancing throughout the room. I lifted my sweater up a little to unbutton my low-rise jeans, I pulled them down and sat on the toilet. In all honesty, I’m a little grateful that mister von held me back just so I could pee peacefully without the disruption of other conceited girls crowding the mirror and stalls.

I stared at the bathroom floor as the song continued, I tapped my fingers against my thigh as I thought about my father’s car light being broken, I wondered if it was a hit and run, and whoever would show up at the doorstep asking for money we didn’t have. It makes me feel stupid for trying to hide bottles of liquor around the house, he’s lived there before I was born, knows the place up and down, left and right. My attempts are futile, and unethical. His roaring voice ringing in my ears from last night, intertwining with my dog’s barking behind the glass door. The bass of the electric guitar in the song dropped as I remembered him pushing me against the kitchen wall, making dishes fall from the counter. I would’ve slipped if it weren’t for his tight hold pressing me against the wall, head first.

I shake my head and rub my eyes, I take some toilet paper and wipe myself before standing back up, I flush the toilet before buttoning and zipping up my jeans. I walked out of the stall and came back to my stuff. I looked down at my ipod before hearing the door open behind me, I immediately pause the song and shove it in my pocket. I turn on the faucet and run my hands under the water paying no mind to whoever came in.

“Hey.” 

I slowly looked up from my hands and at the mirror to see a girl behind me, leaning against the wall, her hair was manually curled and had copper brown hair that shined her caramel complexion, her gray eyes bored into mine. “Hey.” I said back.

“What’s that song called?” She asked me. I turned off the water and pulled paper towels out and dried off my hands. “Creep.” I answered gently. She looked up and down and asked, “Who’s it by?” Her lips curl into a  coquettish smile. “Radiohead.” 

She hummed and frowned her lips, sort of an upside down smile. “You got a pen?” I looked at her and hesitantly I turned around and unzipped my backpack, I felt around and pulled out a blue one. “That’ll do.” She spoke before taking it out of my grasp, I hadn’t realized she walked closer behind me when I looked for one. She began to write on her right palm, she was a lefty. 

“You got detention too?” She asked while handing me back my pen. I shook my head, “Not really.” I answered, I closed it before putting it back. “Well- I do, the bitch Miss Stevens gave me it for being late to class, and what’s stupendous is that she always spends like a good 5 minutes talking about how she spent her morning, like… What’s there to miss?” She explained while she walked down to the last stall, but instead of going in she opened the window. I walked away from the mirror and counter and leaned against the wall, standing across from her.

She pulled out a pack of eagles’ cigarettes from her pocket, pulling out one with her teeth, in her left hand was her lighter. Igniting it she inhales before blowing out the smoke into the open window, the soft wind blows it away and makes her curls fall against her jaw. She kind of radiates… This citrus tone, like oranges or tangerines, sour and sweet. With her cigarette between her index and middle finger she looks at me and jerks her head, gesturing me to walk up to her. 

I return her coquettish smile before leaning on the window sill in front of her. I could see the song title written on her palm before looking into her gray eyes that were now bright. She offered the ignited cigarette and I softly took it and put it between my lips. “You’re so.. Sullen, but like… coated in a meek way though.” I looked into her eyes with my own before blowing out the smoke out the window, I shrugged my shoulders. I gave her back her cigarette. 

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“Gail.” 

“...Clementine.”

I smiled, “See you some other time?” She asked, I nodded. She flicked the cigarette and closed the window. I walked back to the counters as she went into the stall. I took my backpack and left the bathroom. I stepped into the empty halls again only to run into Mister Von again. “Gail, you haven’t left yet?” He asked, we both continued walking. I shook my head. 

“I was making a phone call.” I lied, he stopped, and I stopped too. He raised his right arm and looked at his watch, “Quite the phone call, you phone your dad?” I shake my head, he then reaches down and my breath hitches, I look down and he picks cigarette ash off my sweater, pins and needles overwhelm my brain again as he rubs it in his fingertips. “Not what I’d call a phone call, would I?” I wet my lips before shaking my head, “Tch, tch, tch.” 

 “Look, I’ll let it slide this time, but that doesn’t mean I will again, okay?” I nod my head, relief engulfs me in an awesome wave. We both continue walking. “How long have you been smoking?” He asks, “Not long.” I answer. 

“Do you?” I asked, his head turned to mine. “Here and there, maybe a couple every week.” I nod my head. I would ask why I don’t ever smell it on him, but that would be weird. 

“Tea.” 

What? I look up from my shoes. “Tea helps dilute the scent. I smoke during my lunch break, and I drink tea after.” He looked ahead but I still looked at the left side of his face, stubble complimenting his jaw. He looked back at me. “Okay. I’ll remember that.” He slightly smiled, only one corner of his mouth curling. “Good.” We stepped outside, closing the double doors behind us. I could feel the cold and muddy air. “Do you have a scarf?” He asked, I shook my head. He pulled his own out of his bag, “Here, take this one.” He offered. 

I looked down as he held his black scarf in his right hand, I took it gratefully and smiled. “Thanks, Mister Von.” I said before wrapping it around my neck. I could smell a green tea and the smell of his cologne intertwine with each-other. It feels like a part of me yearns to hug him, I could feel it pulling me forward, emotionally. 

I flutter my eyes and mentally shake my head as we walk down the concrete stairs. “You can give it back to me on Friday.” I nod my head, brushing my fingers against the fabric. “No worries.” 

I turned left and he kept walking straight ahead where the parking lot was, and I walked home. The wind flew against my face and rest assured my neck was covered nicely, I continued down the sidewalk and some other people did the same headed towards home too. 

I turned and waited for cars to slow down, and as I did this I heard my phone go off in my pocket, I reached in and took it out, opening it I read, Dad. I answer.

“Hello?” 

“Hey- hey, don’t worry about the dishes, they’re clean. I cleaned up the kitchen too, nice eh? Look, I won’t be here tonight but I’m leaving 10 dollars on the counter so you can get some dinner while I’m out.” 

I hear his rugged voice explain, although I was relieved about the kitchen, I didn’t just simply forget about the night before. “Okay.” 

I hang up the phone and put it back in my pocket. By now the cars had stopped and I stepped onto the street and walked across to get to my house. I can already see my father’s car gone. Relief washes over me like a tsunami against California. I can be by myself for the rest of the day and even have my dog inside of the house. I can already see him trying to run to me but his leash prevents him from doing so. “Roger!” I call him, my walking speeds up. 

The doberman boy jumps on two feet, I feel around his neck and unclip him from the leash, immediately he whines in contentment and licks my face. I laugh and scruff the top of his head and give him a long kiss on it. I sit on my knees and he sniffs around my neck, a new scent mixing with mine. “Curious are you?” I ask playfully, he licks my forehead, the cut that I had from the previous night. 

I wince a little but I pet his head in remorse, last night was probably crazy for him as well, I still can remember the panic in his bark. He wines again. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay…” I mumble, not only trying to convince him but myself as well.

I stand back up and lead him back inside. I turn on the living room light and he jumps on the couch. I continue walking down and into the kitchen, putting my backpack on the table. I see the 10 dollars on the counter, but also with a 5. Tip money I guess. I take my phone out of my pocket and place it next to the money and yawn, I open the fridge and just stare at some old condiments and beer. I close the fridge door and turn around and walk out of the kitchen.

I turn and start walking up the stairs to my room. I’m thinking about sleeping through the day, I’ve just been so tired and I couldn’t sleep after that scene between me and my father. I could hear Roger follow soon after, I smile gratefully and walk into my room. He immediately jumps into my bed and I follow him soon after, kicking off my shoes I face-plant my pillow. I roll onto my back as Roger rests his head on my stomach. 

I rested my palm on his head, “I’m so tired Roger.” His ear twitches hearing my voice. I stare at my dull gray ceiling, and take a deep breath in and exhale. As I turn my head I feel something scratchy against my neck, I furrow my eyes in uncomfortable confusion and start taking off Mister Von’s scarf, flipping it over I see a tag that had not only his full name, but his address as well. Callan Von, 122 Baroque Street. This scarf could be of importance to him if he left his address on it. 

I scrunch it in my hands and turn on my left side, smelling in his scent, men’s cologne and green tea. Rodger adjusts his head to rest it on my calf. The cologne reminds me of my father, but the green tea reminds me of him, the weird mixture engulfs my brain with weird emotions, such as fervor and yearning for something fraternal . I exhale the scent I inhaled and close my eyes. 

I jumped to the sound of Roger’s bark, I opened my eyes seeing colorful dots in my vision and realized how dark it got. I repeatedly blink my eyes in a fast manner before turning around and look out the window to see that it got extremely dark out. I rub my eyes while hearing the sound of Roger’s wine as he scratches my bedroom door. I hadn’t known I even closed it. I try to stand up but I stumble in my steps and just collide into the door, wincing I just twist the door knob and open it.

In a haze I flip the light switch and look down to see that Mister Von’s scarf had twisted itself around my ankle. I bend down and unravel it, I drop it on my vanity. I enter the dim hallways and Roger just walks down the stairs faster than me. I exhale through my mouth and yawn. 

I’m not sleeping tonight. 

I continue walking down the stairs and through the window of the front door I see that my father still hasn’t returned,  I turn to enter the kitchen. I could still see the money, and where I left my phone. I take it and open it and see that it was… Five Ae-Em. Jesus! 

I can’t believe I slept that long, I turn to see Roger eating out of his bowl and I turn to the money that was put on the counter. It’s too late to eat dinner, that I know. Still, I take it anyway, and with my phone, I go back into the living room and fall onto the couch. I open my phone and see only one missed call from my father. I press the call button and bring it up to my right ear. I hear the vague ringing going on and on, until it’s picked up by the anonymous woman recorded. 

“At the tone, please record your message.” 

Instead I just close it and toss it on the table in front of me. I sigh and rub my face, not sure why I even tried. It’s like my father and I are everywhere all at once, but he’s not in the same place that I am at the time he is. It is as confusing as it looks and sounds like. I put my head in my palms and inhale, and shakily exhale as the knot in my throat tightens, I can feel my eyes sting and reddened and my hands shake as the emptiness makes the quiet louder around me. 

I swallow the knot in my throat and open my eyes, lifting my head. I see Roger walk into the living room, I look at him and he looks at me. “Who have I wronged for people to hurt me this badly?” I whisper.

I spent that morning on the shower floor, under the hot water bathing in it until it turned cold by the hour, staring at the white, at my pale feet. Hugging myself and resting my chin on my knees, hearing again and again Roger scratching my door. Then, I just got ready for school. That’s all of my mornings. Every night. Every day. Every moment I live my life is either quiet, or loud.

“C’mon Roger.” I call as I open the front door, he follows as I walk out. He walks onto the front lawn and lays down where the flowers are, he’s laid there so many times there’s an indent into the grass in his shape. I step onto the sidewalk and turn left. 

I wrap Mister Von’s scarf around my neck as I pass down the many houses on my street. I can see families helping each other put up fake spider webs and blow up serial killers, and hanging skeletons by the neck over their rooftop. I’d get excited for Halloween too if I had money. Or if I was a little girl again. 

As I continue walking I start to hear my phone vibrate, as I stop to go through my bag to answer whoever’s calling me I fall to the ground with a strong push, slamming my knees onto the concrete along with my palms, my phone falls out of my bag. With a quiet wince I look up to see whoever the fuck just pushed me. “What the hell!” I exclaim.

The man just kept walking as if pushing me to the ground was as sinless as telling a white lie. I looked back down and picked up my phone only for the vibration to end. It was my father who tried calling back. I sighed and rubbed my palms against my pants to get rid of the scrapes. I stand back up and put my phone into my pocket. 

As I look ahead I could see the man that pushed me down wrapping something around his neck which reminds me to touch my own until I realize that nothing was around it. The bastard took my scarf.

“Hey!” I cry as I speed up, he doesn’t turn his head and keeps walking until I come into his view. “That’s my scarf.” I tell the rugged man. “Not anymore it isn’t.” He simply says. “What the hell is your problem?” He stops mid-walk and looks down at me. “It’s mine now.” What the hell? I didn’t know what else to say but I reached into my pocket and took out 10 dollars from what my father gave me last night. “Buy yourself a scarf and give mine back please.” I offer, my left arm raised to hand him the money I’m hoping he’ll take. I really don’t want to explain to Mister Von that I let some stranger take it off me.

“It’ll cost more for a good one.” I scoff and reach to just pull it off of him in desperation but to his avail he pushes me again, I land on my back with a cry as I reach under it feeling that I landed on broken cement. He continues walking, focusing on the pain on my back. I won't try to protest again. I look around and realize that no one was even here to witness my situation with this stranger. I looked around on the ground and realized that not only did he take my scarf, but even took the money out of my hand.

“Damn it!” I exclaim and rest my face in both my palms. The pain on my back subsided only leaving the throbbing. If I didn’t try to take it back I would’ve still had the money for food today. How am I going to explain to Mister Von that his scarf got stolen, and to my dad about the money I didn’t even spend. 

I spent the rest of that walk to school burdening myself with self-shame, I should’ve just left it alone. I mean, what was I, of all people, going to do? Ask for it back? When that man went through the trouble of pushing me down twice for it. And even got money out of it. I follow the crowd into school, merging in with the others and going through them to find my locker. 

I walk up the stairs to the second floor and turn left, right at my locker. Approaching it I take my bag off shoulders slowly, quietly wincing as I could feel twinges shoot up my back. I open my locker and open my bag to take out whatever books I shoved in there yesterday and just put them in it instead. Leaving out Algebra, and my algebra journal. “Well hello, Gail.” I looked up to my left to see it was Clementine again. 

I smile a little. “Hey, Clementine.” 

She walks up to me with a grin. “Wish I was carrying a math textbook right now, I have gym first period, totally blows my every Wednesday too. I don’t like math, but I'm good at it.” She said, leaning against the locker. “I don’t like it very much either, but I’m not that good at it.” I admit, closing my locker. She shrugs her shoulders. “Math like that isn’t going to matter to you in about 5 years, unless you want to be a mathematician or something like that.” I look into those warm eyes of hers and jokingly scoff. 

Then I look back up and I feel that with this warm feeling I get whenever she’s around that I could trust her with miniscule things, for now. “Can I show you something? I just need to ask you for a favor.” Her smile subtly calms down and nods. “Sure, what is it?” I cock my head to the left where the bathroom is headed and we walk into it. Although a group of girls were crowding the mirror I led her to the last stall, with some odd looks. 

But, it’s a common thing, it wasn’t something I was worried about. She shuts the door behind her and I put my books down on the floor. God forbid I put it on the toilet seat. I look into her eyes before opening my mouth to speak, but she says “Are you okay Gail?” She asks, tilting her head to the right. 

I nod my head, “I just need you to look at my back, I… Fell while walking to school.” I explain while turning around. She slowly puts her fingers under my cotton white shirt and lifts it up, she reacts with her teeth and I could feel her face scrunch. “That was a pretty hard fall Gail, it’s pretty bad.” My back twitches in pain as I feel her fingers touch the wound. “Sorry, sorry.”

“What does it look like?” I ask. “It’s a big red scrap, it might even just bruise.” I shake my head and roll my shirt back down and turn around. “I’ll clean it when I get back home, thanks for helping me out.” 

“What happened?” She asks, leaning against the door. “I was… I was getting ready, and I slipped on my shoelace, and fell on the cement steps in front of my house.” I explained. Shaking her head she says, “Well, you’re not going to reach very well back there, why don’t you come to my house and I’ll help you clean it up properly?” She offers. “Yes, please.”  I answer fast, I hope that it didn’t seem desperate, or too quick. It’s been so long since I’ve… Not been in a dark and quiet home. “Give me your hand.” I tell her, I reach into my pocket for a pen. She gives me her right hand, and I could see a very faint word from yesterday. 

I wrote my phone number.

 She smiles, we look into each other’s eyes, pausing for a few seconds, although it felt like many, it was only 3 before the bell rang and made us jump. She turns around and opens the stall door while I pick my books up off the floor and we walk out and follow the small crowd of girls exiting the bathroom.

During lunch I spent whatever money I had left on a sandwich and a cookie from a vending machine, in 11th grade there are only 17 students, and most go out to eat, so like everyday I spent my lunch below a large window that faces the dull gray sky, every now and then you see leaves fly by. I put my bag down below my stool and put my food in front of me. I took out my phone to see if I could text my father. 

I text, Will you be home soon?

Closing my phone I set it aside before unwrapping my sandwich, resting my chin on my left palm I take a bite watching everyone else sit at their tables, hearing the clasps and collisions of their trays hitting against the tables every now and then, even the banging of the edge of their trays against the plastic of a garbage can. 

I look back down and pick up my phone, seeing he texted back. I open my phone and read, Not tonight, kiddo. Maybe tomorrow. 

Where does he go these days? I hate being alone, my home just feels like this hard thick knot in my throat that I have to swallow to keep these tears at bay, like this makeshift gauge. I can feel my eyes sting a little, so I began to text him. When will you be back? 

“Hey.” I look up from my phone to see a tall, lean and pale boy, his hair dyed a jet black and his nails painted the same color, he carried a tray with his right hand while he carries this ragged old bag on his left arm. “Hello.” I say.

“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” I shake my head. Sitting down he adds, “It’s the emptiest table.” I nod my head swallowing my bite. “You’re right, are you new?” I asked, he looked up from his tray and shook his head, his black hair covered his cornflower blue eyes. “It’s just, I wanted to switch classes, I’m in 12th grade, but 11th grade has the only creative writing class so I transferred to that one.” 

“Mister Von’s class?” I asked. He nods his head. “Well, I have that class at the end of the day.”��

“Me too.” I smiled a little, “Do you- do you like to write?” I asked. He nods his head. “What’s your name?” He asked me. “I’m Gail.” 

“Like the nightingale?” 

I shake my head, “No, it’s with an I.” I explained. “Oh, well my name is Ravin.” 

“Ravin?... Like  the Raven?” He exhales a small laugh and shakes his head, “No… It’s with an I.” I smile, and he smiles too. I look under the table to count all the rips in his jeans, and sit back up and say, “A bit cold isn’t it?” He tilts his head to the right with a little smirk. “Nothing I can’t handle, Gail.” I imagine a butterfly appearing in my stomach, like warping itself out from its original state of its cocoon and flying around, exploring. 

We parted ways for our own classes. I didn’t see Clementine for the rest of that day, and I spent my last class with Mister Von in the shadows, although Ravin was late, I’d occasionally exchange looks from him from time to time.  I was nervous about how Mister Von would  react to his scarf being missing, I should have been more careful with it, and because I was feeling this way I didn’t make eye contact with him. Instead, I just spent my time looking at the pattern of the wood on my desk, making weird and odd faces and shapes. And when he’d pass papers, I could feel him spend an extra second on putting the paper on my desk than everyone else's. I know he wanted me to look at him, but I couldn’t bring myself to. 

The bell rings and it pulls my head from the clouds, I lift up my pen and realize that all I was doing was creating an ink stand in the middle of my sentence. I sighed and folded the piece of paper and put it in my bag, hanging it on my shoulder. I hear, “C’mon Gail.” I look up to see Ravin gesturing for me to come out of the hallway. I begin to walk out until I hear, “Gail, can I talk to you?” I stop in my tracks. I slowly turn around and nod, looking back at Ravin he nods and starts walking. I turn back to Mister Von. “Yes?” 

“Let’s talk.” He simply replies, curling his fingers up and down. I walk up to his desk. “What’s goin’ on? You had your head down this whole class.” I shrug my shoulders. “You wanna talk bout’ anything bothering you?” His voice makes my skin bumpy and my heart skip. I look up as he slicks back the black curls from his face. Just looking into his dark brown eyes makes me just spill out like a cup of spilled milk. “I- I lost your scarf, Mister Von.” 

He leans in from his laid back position. “What happened?” He asked me. “This man, this morning he pushed me down and just took it off me, I tried to bribe him with some money but he took that too.” 

“Are you alright, Gail? Are you hurt?” I shake my head, “Not really, but your scarf, it’s gone.” He huffs, “Oh, Gail. I hope you know that I’m not mad at you, or upset. It’s just a scarf, I’ll get a new one, I’ll get you a new one too.” 

I look up from his desk and into his eyes again, he smiles and nods, telling me he means it. I smiled, “Really?” 

“Really. That wasn’t in your control, it wasn’t your fault.” He explains, standing up, he walks around his desk and in front of me. “If something happens like that again, don’t hold it against yourself, just talk to me about it, alright?” I nod my head, “Good.”

Although I felt this odd urge to hug him, I kept myself at bay, because that itself would be odd. But, he pulls me into one instead. Although it felt nice to have his arms around me, it was short lived when I winced, making him stop. “Are you alright?” 

I quickly nod my head. “Sorry- sorry, I just have a… scrape on my back.” I told him. “Oh, I see.”

In the distance, at the doorway I see Ravin. I start walking away before saying, “Bye, Mister Von.” 

“Bye, Miss Glassstone.” 

I walk with Ravin down the now empty halls, “I waited because I thought I’d ask for your number.” He tells me. We slow down and I stop. “Sure.” I mumble, I reach down and take his left palm into my own, taking a pen from my pocket, he looks down at me as I write my number on his head. “There.” I say before closing the pen, I look up and he smiles. “Cool, thanks Gail. I’ll call you when you get home?” 

“Well, I might not be home after this but you could call me around 7?” and he nods. “Sure, I won’t forget.” 

Ravin went his way to where he lives, and I went towards mine, although I did get a call from Clementine when I saw my house in the distance. “Hey, Gail. You’re still coming right?” 

“Yea, yeah sure.”

“I can pick you up, what’s your address?” 

I cleared my throat and hesitated, I didn’t want her to see where I lived, what my home looked like. I didn’t know what else to tell her either. “Uhm, you know what, I’ll just meet you at this stop, it’s…”

I looked up at the sign in front of me. “Bere Street.” 

“Okay, I’m getting in my car now, I’ll be there in like… 5.” 

I close my phone and turn to see a bench. I walk up to it and sit down, leaning my back against it. Before putting my phone in my pocket I felt my phone vibrate, I opened it back up to see my father finally replied to me. I read, Whenever I want to. 

I shake my head, I reply, I need money for food. 

I close my phone and put it in my pocket. I look up and to my right I see a car slow down in front of me, it was a small pink one. I can see Clementine roll down her window, and she exclaims, “What’s a girl like you doing all by herself?” I scoff and start walking around the car and open the door, sitting down in the passenger seat. “Just waiting for her white knight.” I answer sarcastically. She laughs while I close the door. “It might just be your lucky day.” 

She starts driving again. Her car smells like somewhat of a beachy side glass of lemonade, it smells good. Very neat, classy. Her steering wheel is customized with this pink cheetah pattern. “My house isn’t far from here, I use this street as a shortcut actually.” She explains before turning right. “Me too.” 

“I have a first aid kit in my bathroom sink, I don’t use it often, well, I don’t get injured often.” 

“Well…” I begin to say, I thought I’d just say I don’t get myself injured too often either, but as I remember what my father did the other night, and what that stranger did to my back, I kind of caught myself. “Nevermind.” I said instead. I feel my phone vibrate and I take it out of my pocket so I can read my father’s reply. Figure something out, I read. I just stare at my phone, not knowing what to say to that, how to even react, am I surprised? No. No, I’m not. I could feel this hunger in my stomach churn itself into nausea. 

“Everything alright?” I look up to Clemintine who looks at me for a second before looking back at the road. I nod my head, “Yeah, yeah.” I shake my head before closing my phone. I pull my back off the floor and put my phone in one of the pockets. The car slows down and I look at her home in front of us. It was really nice, a nice suburban home, she had a garage too, and the bushes in front of her porch were trimmed regularly. “It’s really beautiful.” I comment. “My mom’s a lawyer, and my dad’s a welder.” We step out of her car, “They’re not here, during the weekdays they work until 9.” She explains as we walk up the steps to her door. “Do you miss them?” She shakes her head before taking a key from under the doormat. “On the weekends they make up for it I guess, I mean, I like being alone, lot’s of freedom.” 

She opens the door and I follow her in. It was spacious and her interior was painted with this pale blue that brought light to her wooden floors, her living room was carpeted too. It was really nice, leather couches and everything. “Just follow me into the upstairs bathroom.” 

I put my bag down on the ottoman next to the front door and followed her up the stairs. The stairs don’t creek. We walked into this bright hallway, it was spacious too. We passed many doors until we walked into her bedroom. “I didn’t have a chance to make my bed this morning, I was late because I forgot to replace the batteries in my stupid alarm.” She explains, I shake my head. “No worries, it’s okay.” I reassure her. I mean, she had this queen size bed with two nightstands beside it, her laptop on her own desk and a closet with two doors. Her walls were painted a subtle pink shade that complimented the blue carpet under her bed. 

It was really pretty. An unmade bed was the last thing I noticed. “Here, take off your shirt.” She suggests while walking out of her bathroom with a bottle of peroxide, ointment and a big bandaid. “Thanks for helping me out.” I say before taking off my shirt. I sit on her bed while she sits behind me. “Like I said, your white night to the rescue.” She jokes. I giggle. 

She moved my hair to the right and I could feel her finger tips against the large scrap, it was cool. They move to the opposite side of my back, and I turn my head a little. “You know, you have a bruise right here… and here.” I closed my eyes, it was really nice having someone gently rub their fingers against your skin. Especially if you don’t get it often, it deprives you. “I uhm, I tripped over my dog, Roger. It was a couple days ago, really.” 

“Ahh, okay. Roger did a number on you.” I nod my head, I could hear a bottle shake a little before she pressed a damp cloth against the scrape, I cried out feeling it sting. “Oh shit, sorry. It’s- you know, cleaning it.” I shake my head. “It’s okay, it’s fine. Just, maybe a warning.” I suggest, I feel her nod. “Yeah, yeah okay.” 

I felt another cold sensation on my back but it didn’t sting this time, my guess was the ointment. “You eat, right?”

“What?” 

“I dunno, I mean, you’re really skinny. Which isn’t a bad thing or anything, I mean, you bruise easily and-”

“Yeah, I- I eat… I guess.” 

“Well, we could order pizza or something after this.” 

“Sure, that’d be great.” 

Eventually she finished, she put a large bandaid on my back and I took my shirt off my lap until I saw that a few holes had torn through the fabric. “Shit.” I mumble. “What happened?”  “Look.” I pass my shirt to her and turn around, sitting back down so I could face her. She laughs. “Well, well. I could lend you one of mine, what size are you?” She asks before standing up and walking to her closet. “Uhhh…” I look on the back of the shirt. “Medium.”

She scoffs and shakes her head, “Yeah right- here.” She tosses a light brown shirt with some gems on it. “It’ll look cute on you.” 

I put it on as I can kind of feel it cling to my waist, “It’s supposed to crop above the pant line to show your low rise jeans. Show your figure.” She explained it to me. “Thanks, Clem.” I say while shoving my old shirt into my bag. 

#the blue birds #chapter one #psychological #teen #teen fiction #2000s #novel #teen drama #dull core

[rainy-day-gracie]

To Lose a Bet

HELLO !!

This was a request for Spencer and Reader to be dating and have a bet going on who out of the team has figured it out. 

FILLED with fluff, and implied smut :) thank you for requesting, I had so much fun writing !! 

MASTERLIST

__

“I’m sure Hotch has already figured it out,” I joked to Spencer in the elevator. “He can see things through walls, everyone knows that.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I don’t even know if Hotch really even cares if he does know… Who else do you think knows?”

“JJ knows something’s up, but she doesn’t think that we’re-” The elevator opened, making us in earshot of Garcia and Morgan who were deep in a compliment battle. I nodded my head, as if we were in the midst of a professional conversation. “So, yeah… I’ll let you know about those reports-”

Spencer huffed, playing along. “Yes, I’ll review them and get back to you… whenever.”

I tried to suppress a giggle as I heard Morgan pull Spencer aside by the elevator. “Man, do you know if YLN is single? Because a woman like that… there’s no way she’s single… is there?”

Garcia jumped in, adding to the conversation as I walked away. “I saw a hickey on her neck the other day, she tried to hide it but there’s only so much powder can do.”

I stopped by the water fountain, laughing into the faucet as I heard Spencer’s reply. “Um, I don’t know… I don’t know, if she’s single I mean, or about the hickey. Um, I’m getting coffee, you guys want any?”

Once in my office and my laughing fit had passed, I texted Spencer. 

You are one smooth dude

His reply made me laugh even harder. 

Don’t I know it? :)

__

Spencer dropped a stack of files in my office, a sticky note stuck on top. He put the files on my desk and left, a hint of a smile across his face. The sticky note was covered in Spencer’s chicken scratch handwriting. 

$200 to whoever is the closest My bet: Hotch, Rossi, Prentiss know Garcia, JJ, Morgan don’t know

Later that day, I was briefing the team on a new case in Seattle and slipped a note in his pants pocket as we left to board the jet. 

My bet:  Hotch, Rossi, Garcia know Morgan, JJ, Prentiss don’t know You’re on pretty boy :)

Spencer was determined to embarrass me on the jet. I could see it in his face, the twinkle in his eye. 

“Hey YLN, what were you saying about the new guy you’re seeing?” Spencer asked out of the blue while reviewing the case. 

The team was suddenly extremely uninterested in the case, paying close attention to the question Spencer had asked me. 

“Do you have a new man?” Prentiss asked, eyeing me closely. 

A smile came to my face, and I hit Spencer lightly on the arm beside me. “Reid, I told you that in a private conversation.”

Spencer just shrugged innocently. “Oops, forgot that part.”

“I knew you were seeing someone!” JJ said with a grin. “No single person smiles as much as you have in the last few months.”

I tried to hide the blush on my face by looking down at my files, thankfully saved by Garcia’s video call.

“Why is everyone smiling?” She asked, examining the faces of everyone on the jet. 

“YLN is just getting a little lovin’, that’s all.” Morgan replied, a smirk coming to his face. 

Garcia gasped, then furrowed her eyebrows in curiosity. “Who is he?”

Spencer looked over at me with a sly grin. “Yeah, who is he, YLN?”

I made a mental note to slap him when we were in private. “He is going to be a mystery man for now.”

The jet groaned in disappointment, and Spencer winked at me when no one was looking. 

I slipped him a note while Hotch was giving assignments. 

Prentiss didn’t know, Hotch and Rossi didn’t even blink Hope you have $200 to spare, genius

__

After solving the case in two days, Hotch agreed to let us have the night off and enjoy the city of Seattle. 

Spencer shot me a text as the team started to leave the police station. 

I think your stomach hurts. 

I furrowed my eyebrows, looking at him from across the room. He quickly explained, sending another text. 

I think your stomach hurts and you need me to drive you back to the hotel.

I tried not to laugh, faking a grimace as JJ walked past me. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah... my stomach just hurts really bad, probably something I ate.” I held my gut like it was hurting, and I saw Spencer coming up beside JJ. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t go out drinking with the team, we don’t want you do be sick,” JJ put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and Spencer spoke up. 

“I can drive you to the hotel, I didn’t really want to go out tonight anyway,” Spencer said, looking to me then back to JJ. I tried not to laugh at our stupid lie, JJ rubbing my shoulder like the mom she is. 

In no time at all, Spencer and I were in the SUV driving back to the hotel. 

We piled up in the room I was sharing with Prentiss, watching a stupid soap opera and drinking out of the mini bar. 

Two characters on the screen started having sex, their butts and boobs concealed by carefully placed furniture. 

“Do you wanna do that?” Spencer whispered in my ear, his arm resting across my shoulder.

I laughed at his question. “Wow... that was so smooth, Spencer.”

“So... is that a no?”

I swung my leg over his lap, straddling his hips. “When did I say that?”

Spencer laced his hands roughly in my hair, crashing my lips onto his. Drunk hookups were rarely any fun, but buzzed hookups were where it was at. 

His tongue pressed gently against mine at first, and he suddenly flipped us over to where his heart beat over mine on the bed. 

“We do have some time to kill before the team comes back,” Spencer murmured, his lips attaching to my neck. __

“What the hell?” A voice yelled, light from the hotel hallway illuminating the dark room. 

“Oh shit,” I murmured sleepily against Spencer’s bare chest, turning my head towards the voice. “Prentiss, you’re back?”

“You’re asking me the questions? Do either of you even have underwear on?” Prentiss stared at us tangled up in bed like she had we’d grown a third eye. 

“Nope,” Spencer answered before I could stop him. “We were both tired after... you know, so we just went to sleep.”

Prentiss just opened and closed her mouth, and JJ at that moment chose to join her in the doorway. 

“Oh my God, Garcia was right.” JJ said with raised eyebrows. 

I tried to understand what she had said in my sleepy brain. “Garcia was right about what?”

“That you two were dating, we had a bet going. Prentiss just thought you guys would drunkenly hook up, I thought you were just friends, and Garcia was totally convinced you were dating,” JJ said flatly. “Guess Garcia wins, since neither of you guys are drunk.”

I turned back to Spencer, who was staring at Prentiss and JJ with wide eyes. “I told you, pretty boy! I am so getting at 200 bucks!” __

Breakfast the next morning was... awkward to say the least. The team all sat around a table, eating the hotel breakfast in silence. Finally Morgan couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s going on? It can’t be just me getting weird vibes.”

Prentiss looked to Spencer and I across the table and smirked. “I found an... interesting view when I got back to my room last night.”

Morgan furrowed his eyebrows. “What was it?”

“Reid and YLN are dating, and they lost track of time last night, as you might say.”

Morgan was completely dumbfounded, looking from me to Spencer then back to me. 

“Close your mouth Morgan, you look like a fish. Those two have been dating since April.” Rossi said casually, taking a sip of his coffee. 

Hotch nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, but they’ve only been sleeping together since late June.”

I laughed hysterically at their comments, gaining the attention of the people around us. “How... did you... know that?” 

Rossi and Hotch just shrugged. “Profiling.”

I giggled, patting Spencer on the back next to me. “Oh wow... you officially owe me $200, genius.”

Spencer just down at his coffee with a blank expression. “This is the first time in my life I’ve ever lost a bet.”

TAG LIST : 

@squirrellover1967 @yomama-umbridge @vixengustin88 @tiktokslut @ sknnymnne

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #dr reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds imagine

[vespiiqueen]

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the ask box of the last 10 people who reblogged something from you (if you want !! 💛💖)

Wow I rambled a lot with this but i can't add cuts bc I'm on mobile rn DHSISHSJ sorry :"))))

.

.

1. Ik Ik "haha how cringe are you" of me to say, but honestly? Homestuck. Homestuck helped me in a time of need and when i so desperately wanted something to latch onto. Finally, I caved into my friends telling me to read it-- and it's been a blast!! The epilogues / hs^2 make me feel kinda sad though, because so much of what I loved about the original was yeeted through the nine circles of hell and into the trash. I love Y/ffany's (I call her Yippi tho) design, the art is really pretty at times, Harry is a major dork, I LIVE for seeing Vrissy bc honestly?? Her design is 10/10, very early 2000s emo style and I also live for that. Tavros is cute and a nerd and I think that's swell!

But in terms of story and how any of this happens, it makes me sad to see it happen. If Vriska could return as Vrissy, why not OTHER beta trolls? Where's my Eridan fish man, writers?? Give me the boy or perish by my fury.

2. Also super "haha how cringe are you" but,,, murder cats (Warriors), esp the early 2005-2015 amvs and stuff. I remember watching Flightfootwarrior's "I Will Not Bow" Scourge amv for HOurs and having no clue what was happening, but all these edgy kitties were KITTIES! It's introduced me to a lot of music I still listen to to this very day (Imagine Dragons, Young/the entirety of Hollywood Undead, Breaking Benjamin). And yknow what?? This new arc is absolute chaos, but in the good way.

I'm an "OG Fan". I prefer the first arc, The Prophecies Begin, to almost any of the other arcs. I just could never get into the other arcs-- not to say I haven't read them, I HAVE and the Fire Scene was probably one of my favorite moments beside grumpy Jaypaw, god complex Lionblaze, and fear the gods Hollypaw. I thought the build-up for it was SUPER satisfying. Gray Wing is my baby and I fully embellish in the Gray Wing is Silverpelt theory.

This new arc is definitely something new for the universe. While I didn't read aVoS (but I may do that if i can find the files for it), and so I don't know the major events of it other than what I've seen M.A.P.'s (Multi-Animator Projects, for clarification,,, bc unfortunately that term is also something disgusting). There's fucking cat possession and all the Clans questioning their belief system, yo. Shit be on fire.

Also the Imposter is 100% Ashfur, that's canon now, yeah??? Also im sorry but fuck Root x Bristle that's the dumbest shit I have ever seen. Give me Root x Shadow or face the wrath of my dragon plushies.

RiverClan is my Clan and my gov assigned warrior name is Fireshell 🌟🌟

3. As much as I hate the author,,,,, Harry Potter. It's been a major part of my life for as long as I can remember. I can never really remember why, but I've always just loved it- the movies, the books, the extra little merch that would pop up in my local Walmart. Of course my favorite character is Draco Malfoy. I could go on and on and ON about how I think his character arc was SHIT and JKR didn't have the balls to make him a confident gay man that was always implied through the text (at least, my lesbian ass thought it was implied but i may just be projecting, idk). I could ramble about Draco for HOURS and what I think his character SHOULD have been and how his parents are horrible (more specifically, Lucius bc Narcissa [?] Actually showed a few good moments), and a child should never have to pay for their parents sins.

Oh noo, Draco's a villain because he's a victim of major abuse and peer pressure? He's a villain because a literal child can be horrible and they'll always always always stay as a horrible little fiend?? Fuck that. He's a child.

Unlike manchild grease pan Snape, who was a racist piece of shit and shouldn't have became a fucking school teacher but it's okay because he was ~~~in love~~~. No, fuck you, he was a creep. James Potter n Co may have been a little posh bitch to you, Snape, but that's no fucking excuse to continue to bluntly be a little cunt all the way into adulthood. You're an adult who flatly changed your PATRONUS to imitate Lily's. You have no excuse. And Harry went and named his child after you LIKE JESUS CHRIST, DID RON'S SISTER NOT HAVE A SAY IN THE NAMES TOO?????

I also fully adore the idea that Muggles can run into Hogwarts and their patronus can 100% be a made up, fantasy creature. Imagine you learn the patronus spell and suddenly fucking ARCEUS comes from your wand. Imagine learning the spell and CHTULU (i did not spell that right but im so tired) comes from your wand-- an entire ass fucking Lovecraftian, Eldrith horror is just the embodiment of you. What if it was a fucking Homestuck character like Vriska? How fucking METAL would that be?? Hskajssowjjsjs get on it fandom.

4. Hee hee very evident by my url but Pokemon is another major thing of mine. While vespiquen isn't my favorite (that title goes to Hydreigon), it is definitely up there!

I've ALWAYS enjoyed the idea of Pokemon. You run around, training up these fight monsters and collecting them. I remember playing my sister's Ruby version on her flip-up Gameboy. I couldn't even read but I ran around catching god only knows how many of the same pokemon wherever she was. Apparently, I had fought for hours in the same area and leveled her Blaziken up to lvl 50 something and left her lvl 30s in the dust LMAO.

I got my first game when it was Pearl/Diamond. It was Pearl, and it still holds a very fond place in my heart. I could barely read, I could barely write-- I had named my Turtwig something along the lines of "MmorpHy" and my player boy "ZbsibJ". Yes I remember the names slightly. I really didn't get far-- I barely got to the first gym but I was just so happy to play it.

I eventually lost the game, as a 5 year old would do, but I can still vividly remember what was happening when the game arrived. I had just came back from the dentist and was quite tired from fighting the dentist bc I was super scared. Mom suddenly handed me a box and said it was mine-- my overseas (at that time) dad had bought me Pearl and my sister Diamond, because I lost my shit about it when he visited one time.

Well, tdlr, I played it for about five minutes while struggling to stay awake against the loopy gas they made me take. I fell asleep listening to Twinleaf Town's soundtrack. Every time I play a rom of Pearl and I get to where the player's house fades in and I hear that first tune of the song, I get a huge smile on my face and cry-- as.. Weird as it sounds.

A few years later, I had gotten Pokemon Black bc I liked Reshiram on the cover. Now, this one I could actually READ when playing, but I don't remember a lot of things about it. I probably lost this one too, as a 8/9 year old would do. I DO remember, I chose Snivy and my sister chose Tepig (hrmm there's a theme here of grass/fire goin on......) and vibing to the music. I was so amazed by the sprites moving, I just kept getting into encounters to see the sprites move (oh boy, no one tell younger 7-9 y/o me about Zelda......oh wait....)

Playing Pokemon NOW, as a 17 year old """gifted""" chick, I stil have very fond memories. I recently beat Pokemon Black again and GOD the OTS SLAPS. I fucking adore the soundtrack-- the track that plays when you battle a trainer, the low health dings being turned into a legit song that also slaps, the battle! gym leader themes-- and oh my gOd, the legendary theme is amazing? It really tells you just how glorious these pokemon are supposed to be. It's not intimidating like Groudon/Kyroge/Rayquaza's themes. It's not action packed like Palkia/Dialga's is, it's not filled with tension like Giratina/Arceus's is-- but it radiates the GLORY that the beasts portray. And I live for that. (Also, Kyurem's version is my favorite because it glitches in the beginning and that's rly cool)

P/D/P and BW/BW2's stories, imo, are some of the greatest ones. Yeahhh, US/USUM's is cool and I haven't played XY nor SwSh-- but the ones I can find memorable are PDP and BW/BW2. I love N. I love Barry. They're my sons. Ghetsis is fucking terrifying, Cyrus needs a hug. Giratina scared the piss out of me when I was younger, which was NOT helped by Giratina and The Sky Warrior.

I think my favorite movies are the gen 4 ones. The Rise of Darkrai having a tear-jerking theme for such a mysterious pokemon (i still tear up when i hear Ocarion), Giratina being spiteful is a mood and Shaymin was cute, Arceus being angry is also a mood. Yeah, Pokemon 4Ever made me cry my eyes out over Celebi, Mewtwo Returns made me again cry because Mewtwo accepting who he is, I remember how vastly different the BW movies are-

I just. I have a lot of memories with the series, even if Gamefreak and Nintendo kinda do the series dirty a lot (your top-grossing thing and you made That monstrosity for the Switch? How dare you.). It's comforting to be stressed and pull up my roms for the games and to play them. Mystery Dungeon is incredibly fun to play, Pokemon Ranger is really fun with the concept (Shadows of Almia continues to kick my ass to this very day and FUCK the Jungle Relic, I hate the Water Challenge fucking gyarados bullshit). I remember the pokemon I got for MD (I got Time, my sis got Darkness) was Mudkip, if that is any help.

I love my little fictional pixel monsters.

5. Yup, someone told tiny 7-9 y/o me about console games. The legend of Zelda. My first Zelda game was Twilight Princess on the Wii and BOY did I play the fucking SHIT out of that game.

Honestly, looking back and looking at playthroughs now-- I still love TP. Twilight Princess is still one of my top favorite Zelda games-- yes, even after playing OoT, Majora's Mask, Wind Waker, Skyward Sword, the anniversary four swords edition for the DS where you could play by yourself (Nintendo pls bring that back, I don't have friends to play it with ;-;), Phantom Hourglass- ect.

Something about Twilight Princess grabbed me by the head and yeeted me into the world. I can remember playing it for hours with little to no breaks. I, a tiny 9 y/o, had gotten the hang of the controllers and managed to get past the tutorial quite easily. And then, I was launched into the game and I wasn't stopping for NOTHING. Mom and Dad would have to force me to save and get off to go and eat dinner. THAT sucked.

I had done everything on my own up until the first temple, the forest temple. Not where/when you saved the dumb kid, but when you were saving the spirit's light. Theeeeeeennn I got stuck on the fucking Forest Temple for deadass six months straight. I'd play for hours, running around in circles, unable to figure out where to go, and because I didn't grasp the temple's purpose of being that way- I'd get angry and get off. It wasn't until dad looked up a walkthrough and talked me through what I was supposed to do that I learned how to get through temples.

I had gotten to the last little fight with Ganondorf before the Wii broke and i could no longer play. Despite the Wii being broke and we got rid of it, I was ADAMANT on keeping the game, and I kept that game for YEARS. It was an original copy out of a sealed box, and I eventually lost it when I left it accidentally at my now ex-friend's house.

She had a Wii and I went "hey I have a Wii game!" And I brought my Zelda over. Worst fucking choice of my goddamn life. Mom called me to come home and said I couldn't sleep over like the original plan was, and that was it. My ex-friend stashed my Zelda and I never saw it again. And, even if I wanted to-- I couldn't get it back, which makes me upset. We had a BAD falling out. She likely doesn't even remember it's there, or sold it to the local game junkie kid who buys ALL games.

But I still love the game. Midna was amazing, and I loved how snarky she was and she has a very cute design! The game's OST is fucking phenomenal. Midna's Desperate Hour makes me cry bc goddamn it really sells how serious that situation is. I love Hyrule Field's theme in this game. I love the Twilight Realm's song. Zant was fucking hilariously scary. Ganondorf's design in this game scared the piss out of me when I was younger.

Midna and this game's Link and Zelda are def my favorites. Yeah yeah, Sheik is cool and all I Guess but dhsushwishs Midna holds the special place in my heart. She was totally my gay awakening BUT

For other game antagonists, I adore Ghirahim-- let's go you funky little queer-coded villain. Skull Kid was great, I love the entire dynamic of him. Prankster lost soul stumbles upon Majora's Mask and the mask makes him act out due to powers-- which, I actually took very heavy inspiration from for one of my OCs. The moon falling to Hyrule was a fucking terrifying looming threat.

But the game series holds a place, and I've yet to be able to play BoTW-- although, I'm fairly certain I'll like it. The playthroughs I've watched of it are all fairly decent! I just. Gotta save up enough money to buy it haha.

Dang guess I gotta go watch a Twilight Princess playthrough again.

Honorable Mentions:

Avatar: the Last Airbender, specifically Book 3

my OCs definitely make me happy, they're my children and I'd ramble A LOT longer if given the chance WHEEZE

My friends, but I didn't add them here bc it's more fictional stuff, I presume

Baking. I love to bake cupcakes.

Painting is fun. I'm an artist and goddammit im going to use painting as an excuse to make a mess.

Fire. I rly like fire, down to a pyromaniac level. However, i hate the fires that happened to my home town, the Great Smokey Fires of 2016-- THAT pissed me off. How dare you burn mountain landscapes to the ground. Perish.

History. I'm a history nerd.

I'm also a science nerd.

But fuck math, I cannot comprehend math to save my life.

For some reason, I rly like learning how the human body works??? like did you know, organs are actually sticky when touched by a bare hand?? Did you?? How fucking cool is that.

Bakugan. I love Bakugan, esp the DS game. I love my Darkus Leonidas. Give me back the online world, you peasants-- I want my Darkus Dragonoid. (Also fuck all my friends from when I was in kindergarten- my theory that Alice was Masquerade was somewhat correct.)

#admin ace #admin ace speaks #communistvriska #inbox tag #homestuck #warrior cats #harry potter #pokemon #legend of zelda

[despiteinspite]

On Shop Windows and Being

         “I include the personal here to connect the social forces on a specific, particular family’s being in the wake to those of all Black people in the wake; to mourn and to illustrate the ways our individual lives are always swept up in the wake produced and determined, though not absolutely, by the afterlives of slavery.” (Sharpe 2016, 5)

----

       In one of my classes, my peer, Joi, shared her experience as a black ballerina. Their practice space was in a closed-down shoe store. The floors were replaced. Big mirrors and balance bars were installed against the walls, and across from the door lined tall shop windows. On the first day of class, at ten years old, Joi and the rest of the dancers sat cross-legged as their instructor introduced themselves. After sharing their names, their instructor told them, "Now as black girls - as black ballerinas, there aren't too many of us. Remember, they can see you." Joi explained to us the importance and the pain of this message. In her practice space, in her learning space, she did not feel free to make a single mistake. Because if she did, she'd not only be disappointment to her own reflection in the practice mirror, but reflect failure to those behind the glass.

       What does it mean to be black, to be girl and constantly balancing, expanding, stretching, and splitting yourself into perfection? What can that mean for this body? Claude M. Steele makes Brent Staples' experience whistling Vivaldi the title of his first book in his decades-long career. Steele's work is to examine stereotype and how it affects all of us in a way that prevents us from living without burden or stress. In understanding identity and stereotype's threat to identity formulation, Steele shares Staples' experience as an example of not only the cognition a person experiencing stereotype threat may have, but tactics to cope. For Staples, he deflects fear against him and within him by whistling classical music. In this way, Staples reads as safe to passersby on his walk. As Steele writes, "This caused him to be seen differently, as an educated, refined person, not as a violence-prone African American youth." (Steele 2010, 7) And as I read this in class, I immediately think of another boy marked by youth and dark skin. Emmett Till, 14 years old, was deemed unsafe - in fact, deemed lethal target - due to whistling.

And whether or not Till did whistle does not matter, for many reasons. What matters is that it was reason enough.

For Till, whistling was justification for torture. For Staples, whistling was the only safety net he could think of. It strikes me how truly precarious being black is. There is no singular trick that can be universalized to promise our survival. Be it whistling, walking home, driving with your kids, being President, being President's daughters. There is no safety in this black skin.

       When I think back to what my past career plans were and how they and my current experiences have shaped my future goals, I think it was always rooted in attempted escape. For the ability to slip into an imaginary that hugged me, a world that embraced me. For a long time, I coveted for a reality that loved me. I decided to use this space to explore each previous career plan that I translated to an iteration of Me. Be it writer, President or policymaker- I chose these titles because I could feel it projecting a Me the world could love.  I yearn(ed) so much for a world that would just love Me.

----

       Vocabulary was never my strong suit. It still isn't. And, when we were made to take those spelling tests in elementary school, I drilled myself as much as possible. Before test day, I'd eat alphabet soup for good favor from the Letter Gods; Give me that S on my paper. Even then I knew after all the preparation, I was never going to find myself using the words. Humongous? Big would be fine enough. Be damned synonyms. Be damned precision. I knew enough words to say what was on my mind without needing to do all that studying. But, I wasn't gonna be caught slipping on something everyone else was excelling in.

       In fact, that's how I knocked out my two front teeth. My siblings were losing their teeth left and right, purchasing freeze pops after the Toothfairy's fair bargain. So, I grabbed one of my wood blocks, and knocked any loose tooth I could find. Twisted them until my gums gave out and gave up. And now here I am, teeth at a slant and still craving those sweets.

       This vocabulary test offered extra credit, something I knew someone in my state - bloody gums, sticky fingers, alphabet soup brain - would need. We were told to make a short story, 10 sentences max, using at least 5 of the vocabulary words. So I made Ten, a young girl aged 9 with too much time on her hands, trying to whack her teeth out. Only thing I remember is that she rode a humongous hot air balloon, tied a brick around her teeth and chucked it into the air. The tooth went with it. Poor Ten. She was a Junie B. Jones copy to be sure, but she got me my S. My teacher pulled me aside and told me I was a great writer. A writer. Suddenly, it felt fitting to call myself: Stephanie, the writer. The one day published author. I had a definition of Me that felt so much cooler, so suave compared to my peers. I was going to be a writer.

       I wrote all through middle school. Finished the Saga of Ten, started writing collaboratively with my best friend through Google Docs. What a joy it was to share this fun with someone. We'd swap our names and faces with the leading starlight of our time (regretably and instructively for two girls of color, it was Bella of Twilight), switch the heartthrobs to our Middle School Day Dreams and giggle and shy away and praise and write and write. I really had so much fun then.

       I was lonely for much of my time in High school. I knew no one. I knew nothing. It felt like everyone knew which clubs to join, which teachers to meet with, knew what it meant to have a counselor AND an adviser. One for high school troubles and the other for career services. I was 14. But, they were too. And yet, they knew.

       I was still Stephanie, the writer though. I did well in my Presentation classes and got along really well with my 9th grade Lit Teacher. She was so sweet to me. I think she knew I was a fish out of water. To find someone who loved writing like I did, like my best friend who rushed along at a different high school that felt like it was in a different time zone, to find someone like that again was a joy. It seemed like no one else connected to All Quiet on the Western Front or the Edgar Allen Poe like we did. I was still cool, suave writer Stephanie in the face of the unknown.

       Then, we read Huckleberry Finn. Then, everyone was attentive. Everyone wanted to read along.

       Then I heard my classmates say Nigger more times than I could care to count. I remember shooting up. Looking and being reminded that this wasn't Middle School anymore. These faces didn't look like mine. Hair didn't look like mine. Speech wasn't like mine even if they tried to copy. I was black girl in a white room, admiring a white teacher who let these white kids say Nigger. I didn't finish reading Huckleberry Finn. I stopped writing.

       I wanted to cry, but what will the people think watching me? What will I think of Me, crouching, hiding near squeaky-clean glass? How is it possible to be stare at and unseen? I think that's why I was so angry after reading Recitatif. I fell for it too. Just like they did. Saw something unseeable, assigned roles to hair smell, to motherhood, to two girls with lapsing memory. Had I really not learned from my own pain?

       I think that Lit class was the first moment that I realized I was behind shop windows too.  Before, I thought I was a fellow admirer, struck by the fabrics spinning amongst themselves, silks sliding down cheeks, cotton snuggling up to noses. I'm always watching in awe as a They walk freely, playing in such pretty dress-up. I wanted to be out there. I wanted to feel silk. I wanted cotton to be comfort, not a reminder.

       In 11th grade, I enrolled in AP US History. I scored well enough on Social Studies SOLs and when that happens, the counselor or adviser (one of em) trains you to take 4 or 5 APs at a time. So, alongside AP Psych, AP Environmental Science, my Monday and Wednesday would feature US History. My professor was very honest about expectations, even getting us to start classes over the summer to cover all the material due to be on the exam. We started with the Reagan Era and it didn't take long for me to realize Republicans were not for me. Then we talked about Clinton's crime bill and I wasn't too sure about Democrats either. This was two years into Obama's second term and I knew support for him in my house was fading too. As simplistic as this sounds, I really thought: if the republicans didn't care about black people, and the democrats didn't seem to care either, who did? Mixing resentment, pride and a loud mouth didn't make for the most principled Stephanie, but it did allow me to vocalize my frustrations. With Reaganomics, with capitalism, with prisons, with black boy death. Be it my teacher knowing many of the sentiments shared here or simply my being black, he asked me to read the Black Panthers' Ten Point Program. And my, oh my, did I find home there.

       These were policy makers. These were the people who had the guts to demand, the power to make some changes. Fred Hampton, Stokely Carmichael, Angela Davis and their inspirations in Fanon, DuBois - I found inspiration in them too. I was going to be whatever they were. Policy makers for their community. I was going to learn from them.

       From there, I became incredibly elitist. But, I could also answer to the beauty of my blackness. Like many children decades before me, Black would be a political title - one of love and resistance, love in resistance. This elitism carried me into my first year of university. I glowered at anyone who admired the works of Jefferson in my Political Theory class (as if I had not done the same), I scuffed at Alexis de Tocqueville and every other white dude we were made to read. But, I wasn't acting in an antiracist framework. I was still resentful. I was still behind the glass. Now I was just shouted silently at the silk dresses and cotton scarves. But I still wanted to feel them.

       Really, it wasn't until Beloved that I could begin a journey of understanding this embroiled joy of black womanhood. I realized how much I fought against my own happiness in the pursuit of a Me that I constantly tormented. As if this precariousness wasn't torment enough.  Through Morrison, I was able to learn more about Angela Davis and the struggles her black womanhood had in the face of black men in her community. So many of my political thought leaders too were tormentors, liars, abusers. The men were wounded and bleeding, resented our zealous in the berries they picked. They said it was for us. We gave it to the community. They shame us for it. We bake our own pies, we feed our neighborhood and our neighborhood's resentment, our own deafening shame silences our collective ear, binds our collective feet. Once again, I tricked Me. You loved another abuser. Daydreamed of standing next to another tormentor. Admired another liar. How foolish to give your heart away again. Today, I begin to despair a bit when I think of my previous trajectory - so constantly struck by idol worship and never a Me that I had made for myself.  But with Beloved - Oh my, to be so tenderly reminded that this body is mine. Just as it speaks to body(s) like mine, past and future. This heartbeat I feel expresses MY Joy, my sorrows, all mine. What a wonder it is to learn Me. She's waited so long to speak to me. I am so honored to hear her.

[allisondraste]

In-Character Interview

Rules:

1. Choose a character

2. Answer as them

3. Tag 5 people!

I was tagged by: @haledamage

I’ll tag: I feel like all my typical tag-ees have done this before with multiple OCs, but if you happen to see this and want to do it, feel free! Consider yourself tagged by moi, and mention me when you fill it out so I can read it!

I’ve done this meme before for both Lucia and Niamh, but not for dear sweet Liss, so here we go!

What is your name?

“Elissa Odette Cousland, but most people call me Liss. I prefer it to my full name.”

Do you know why you are named that?

“My mother had a childhood friend named Elissa, I think. I’m not actually sure.”

Are you single or taken?

“Well… I’m not single, but I wouldn’t say I’m taken. I don’t like to think of relationships like that. Love isn’t possessive, you know?”

Have any abilities or powers?

“I’m proficient with a sword, or so I’m told. I’ve been practicing since I was a child. I remember winning against Fergus once. He was twice my size at the time, and so embarrassed because Oriana was watching.”

Stop being a Mary Sue!

“I’m not Mary Sue, but she sounds like a remarkable woman. I would very much love to meet her!”

What’s your eye color?

“Dark brown. I used to be self-conscious about them —all of the other girls I knew had lovely jewel-colored eyes, and mine were like… dirt or something. I don’t think of them that way anymore.”

How about your hair color?

“Technically, I’m blonde, but when I’m outside there is a reddish tint that comes out in the sunlight. ‘Strawberry blonde’ my mother always called it.”

Have any family members?

“As far as blood relatives go, Fergus is the only one left, but I don’t think family ends with blood. There is, of course Nate, Delilah, and her son Thomas. There are also the Wardens. In a way, my family has never been bigger.”

How about pets?

“None right now, but Fergus said that one of his hounds just had a litter. He’s asked me to visit and see if one imprints on me.”

That’s cool, I guess. Now tell me something you don’t like.

“Rendon Howe. Next.”

Do you have any hobbies/activities that you like to do?

“I love reading and writing! I’ll have to share my favorite books with you later. I think you’ll like to read some of them.”

Have you ever hurt anyone in anyway before?

“Many times. I speak and act before I think, and that impulsivity has caused people I care about a lot of pain. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for getting mixed up in Alistair’s relationship (although I’d argue that was his fault, too).”

Ever...killed anyone before?

“Yes. I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

What kind of animal are you?

“A lion. Grrr.”

Name your worst habits.

“Like I said before, I’m impulsive. I do dumb, foolish things on whims and then always regret them later.”

Do you look up to anyone at all?

“I looked up to my parents while they were alive. My mother was a force to be reckoned with and my father was always so gentle and good. I miss them.

“I also admire Queen Anora. She’s one of the smartest people I have ever met, and such a competent leader too. Long may she reign.”

Are you straight, gay, or bisexual?

“That’s certainly not very many options is it? What if I didn’t fit any of those categories?

“To answer your question, I’ve been with both men and women. I like both men and women. I suppose that makes me bisexual.”

Did you attend school?

“Sort of. I had a tutor, Aldous, but I always learned faster than he taught. I read all the assigned readings and had the lessons memorized before he taught them, so I had a reputation for not going to class and getting up to all sorts of mischief. Fergus got in trouble a lot for covering for me. Aldous thought I was a rotten child, so did Nan, but my parents knew that I was just bored.

Ever want to marry and have kids some day?

“I think so, yes. I know I always did before all this mess with the civil war and Blight. I chose to become a Grey Warden because I admire them and what they do, and because it’s something to be a part of, a purpose that I lost. That makes a family more difficult, but not impossible.”

Do you have any fangirls/fanboys?

“Not that I know of, no.”

What are you most afraid of?

“Losing people I love. I’ve already lost so much. The thought of something happening to Fergus or Nathaniel or anyone else I care about… it keeps me up at night sometimes.”

What do you usually wear?

“Warden-Commander Lucia tells me it’s impractical to wear skirts while traveling, so I’ve begrudgingly agreed to wear the standard warden uniform while we’re on the road. I think it looks rather nice actually.”

What is one food that tempts you?

“I have quite the sweet tooth. Father once brought home these delicate little cakes from Orlais - Macarons, I believe they were called. I’d kill a man for one of those.”

Am I annoying you?

“Of course not! This is quite fun.”

Well it’s still not over!

“Oh good!”

What class are you (low/middle/high)?

“I suppose, as the sister of a Teyrn, that’d make me high class. I had all the privileges of the wealthy growing up. It’s been rather a shock to see how harsh the world is outside my safe castle walls.”

How many friends do you have?

“Too many to count. I seem to know people everywhere I go. Although, as far as good friends go, I can count them on one hand. There’s Nate, Alistair, Queen Anora, and Bria the Blacksmith. I think that the Wardens here will count among my friends too. I just need more time to get to know them, is all. “

“I would include the Warden-Commander too, but I’m not sure she’ll be able to forgive me for what I…did.”

What are your thoughts on pie?

“I prefer cake, but it’ll do. So long as it’s not that Starkhaven fish pie. Blech.”

Favorite drink?

“I love a good cider!”

What’s your favorite place?

“Until a little over a year ago, I would have said home, Highever. Now, I’m not sure. Denerim was rather nice… Amaranthine is too!”

Are you interested in anyone?

“It’s weird to say it out loud, but yes, in a way. It’s been this kind of unspoken thing between Nate and I for so long and it’s so different than anything else I’ve ever experienced. I don’t know that “interested” is a strong enough word for it.”

That was a stupid question…

“No! There are no stupid questions! Don’t beat yourself up like that.”

Would you rather swim in the lake or an ocean?

“Lakes seem safer, but it might be nice to take a dip in the sea sometime.”

What’s your type?

“You’re probably expecting me to say something like ‘grumpy dark-haired archers with daddy issues,’ and I’m going to disappoint you greatly. I don’t have a type so specific as that. When I think about people I’ve been attracted to in my life, they’re all so different. Some of them polar opposites even. They have all been kind, though. Kind and smart and good. I suppose that’s my type.”

Any fetishes?

“I don’t kink and tell.”

Camping or outdoors?

“As long as it’s not cold. I hate the bloody cold.”

#dragon age #my ocs #liss cousland #cousland #memes #thanks for the tag friend!!

[hereforsumbucky]

Sometimes silence is louder

Summary: Getting no message is also a message apparently to bucky.

Bucky x reader

Warnings: angst? slight angst?

word count: 1425

A/N: This is my submission for @imhereforbvcky ‘s canon challenge #meescanonchallenge !! I chose the prompt “Your silence told me everything I needed to know” AND MY OH MY I WROTE THIS WITH A HEAVY HEART. LOL. HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT!! PLEASE GIVE FEEDBACK I WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE THAT! I JUST STARTED WRITING AGAIN AND IM LOVING IT, AND I GUESS YOUR FEEDBACKS WOULD HELP ME ENERGIZE LOL 

(gif below ain’t mine, whoever made it mad props/credits to ya)

It’s just a mission. Just a mission. Just a mission. Just a mission.

I repeat myself every damn day.

When he laughs,

It’s just a mission.

When he hugs me,

It’s just a mission.

When he kisses me,

It’s just a mission.

I still remember how and when this begun.

“..and agent you will be assigned to your mission” he slid the folder across the table to me

“wo-wawait, what do you mean by ‘watch over’? do I always have to be wherever he is?”

“not technically that, we prefer a much more… how do I say this.. undercover?”

“undercover” I repeated, “jesus christ”

I remember it like it was yesterday,

It was fall, the season of pumpkin spice latte everything at every damned coffee shop, and lucky enough for me where I work had a whole menu of it.

It was his coffee shop, every morning he’d stop by for a cup of coffee and soon left.

And one day,

“could I get a cup of coffee, black, to go.”

“ah the usual”

he looked at me questioningly

“ah – I mean it’s what you order everyday”

“so you memorize people’s order?” he attempted to tease “I don’t , I no , what ,” I laughed nervously “yep sure I’ll get that for you”

I try to retrieve myself to the coffee station but then remembered and just cursed to myself, shit.

“uhm so I couldn’t get your to go..”

“and why is that?” he smiled leaning his elbows to the counter.

“well I don’t know if you’re aware but it’s pumpkin spice season, I mean fall and we’re known for the all pumpkin spice menu.. so there’s no..”

“ah I get it” he retrieved his arms to his side “thanks anyway” he tapped on the counter.

Headed towards the door he was about to leave but he came back,

“in that case, care to join me on a quest to find regular coffee in this damned town?”  he squints at me waiting for my answer

did he just.. asked me out?

“well?”

I laughed,

“I don’t see why not? As a barista I should help a customer in need” I smiled to him sheepishly.

I wish it stayed like that.

I wish that date never followed by another and then another and another to where we are now. I find myself awake for the past week thinking what I just got myself into  

This was supposed to be a mission, not a confession.

“hey honey, what are you doing up?” he looked at the bed side table rubbing his eyes “it’s 3am, what’s wrong?” he sat up and patted the spot next to him. embracing me, rubbing my shoulders I could hear his breathing, his heartbeat and somehow it calms me.

“you okay?” he looked at me with reassuring eyes, I stared at him for a moment and placed my head on his chest.

“I hope so” taking a deep breath he played with the strands of my hair and basked in his smell till I fell asleep.

I wake up squinting my eyes how bright outside was from my window, yawning I find myself alone on the bed. he must’ve been up and in the kitchen by now.

A beep distracted me from my thoughts. I checked my phone and opened a message again from my boss asking for status reports on bucky. Messaging me almost everyday but everyday I ignore it.

But today I thought I’d give the guy something so he’d lay off with the texts.

“who are you texting this early in the morning?” I looked at him almost startled by him leaning on the door.

I looked again on my phone

“meet me at the local market, now.” Shit. Rumbling all my stuff in my bag.

“it’s no on- it’s my boss apparently there’s a fiasco happening with the coffee machine you know the old man can’t live without me” I smiled reassuringly cupping his face

“Ditto, but this early though?” looking into my eyes luring me almost convincing me to stay but I snapped out of it. Those eyes goddamnit.

“stop with the eyes bucky” I shrugged followed by a laugh pushing him away from me

“what?” he held his hands up “I didn’t do nothin’ doll” he laughs followed with his sly smile

“I’ll see you later, pick me up after my shift?”

“of course” kissing me on the forehead

slamming his body on the bed he felt something hard, her phone. He got up quickly hoping to catch her before she leaves but failed.

He placed her phone on the bedside table to charge it instead. Walking towards the bathroom he heard a beep, then another, one followed after that.

Curiosity struck him wondering what the fuck does this guy needs from her now. He opened her phone and saw messages from her “boss”

“where the fuck are you, agent.”

“you’ve been ignoring all my mission report requests for the past week, what the fuck is happening with barnes” suddenly his grip tightened on the phone, his breathing got deep as he opened another message “I gave you that mission because I know you take your job seriously. Something’s up and I want to know now.”

An agent. A fucking agent. He sure know how to pick em he snickered to himself. Thoughts clouded his mind making him nauseous. Making him fall on the bed with his hand on his forehead. A mission that’s all what he was, and that’s all he’ll ever be.

Soon he was woken by the slam of the door “hey I’m home!” foot steps echoing the apartment, “ Where have you been thought you were gonna pick me up?” as she throw her keys on the couch then sits down pulling out her hair tie massaging her head tired on how her day went with her boss.

“bucky?” She called

walking down the hallway to the bedroom he saw him sprawled across the bed.

“bucky?” leaning against the door then walking towards him on the bed “hey what’s wrong? Who kept you tired huh? you’re still right where I left ya” followed by a light chuckle

after few moments of silence he finally got up with his head lowered.

“everything alright?” rustling his hair out of his face, “what happened?” cupping his face trying to make an eye contact

But bucky replied shaking his head getting her hands off of him “no” he finally had the urge to speak “you tell me.” Meeting with her eyes “tell you what?” confusion etched in her face “tell me how I’m doing. How’s the mission?”  he finally got up and crossing his arms standing in front of her. “i-I don’t understand buc-“

“oh but I do.” He shrugged “I knew, I knew all of what I did in the past will bite me in the ass. But this? I didn’t see this one coming.”

She couldn’t speak even she wanted to. It was all too much. The stress, her boss, now this. It all piled up to shit.

“what? You’re not even gonna explain yourself?” raising his voice “ho-how you played me just like what they did?” He took a deep breath “controlled me, convincing me what I’m doing was right, no I think this was worse than that. You manipulated me, thinking all this was real.”

“buc-“ but her tears muffled all the words she wanted to say to him. How she loved him, how bucky means the world to her, how she wanted out on this mission now and just to be with him instead.

“you know they should’ve sent you instead before since you’re good at what they do best.” He hissed under his breath

“you know, all my life I’ve been a mission to somebody and I was fine with it. I dealt with it and tried to understand why they did it. But now I jus-“ clearing his throat “I’m done.”

A complete absence of sound is the only thing that could be heard. Aside from her muffling her tears. Standing and waiting for answers is all bucky could ever do

“ya know what,” fishing something out of his pocket “here.” He handed her phone “you fucking left it on the bed” and walked towards the door to leave “no bucky wait. Please. Just just let me expla-“ she tried collecting herself wiping her tears

“no” shaking his head “your silence told me everything I needed to know agent.”

(another) A/N: AHHHHHHHHHHHHH just tell me if you guys want a pt. 2 on this cuz i’ve been boiling (?) something up for part 2! :D and also congrats for 7k !! @imhereforbvcky !! you’re amazingggg!!

#meescanonchallenge #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky x reader #bucky imagine #bucky fic #bucky fanfic #bucky fan fiction #bucky angst #marvel fic

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 7: Icarus

After our fourth swimming lesson, I invited Ari over to my house for lunch. My parents were curious to meet him (and they claimed I hadn’t stopped talking about him since Monday). My mom was still at work but I knew my dad would be home. He’s an English professor and was spending the summer researching and writing his latest book, which to me looked a lot like hanging around his office all day reading and drinking tea. Not a bad gig, right?

“My dad’s in his office. Let’s say hi then we can make some lunch. I could make peanut butter and jelly, tomato soup or heat up some frozen pizza bites. We could eat those with leftover black beans and rice?”

“Pizza bites with rice and beans? Well there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

We went into my dad’s office. I could tell Ari was nervous. He didn’t move too far past the doorway and he kept his eyes locked on his shoes.

I sat down on the arm of Dad’s big brown leather chair and gave him a kiss on the cheek. His chin was scratchy (again). “You didn’t shave this morning, Dad.”

“It’s summer.”

“That means you don’t have to work.”

“That means I have to finish writing my book.”

“Writing a book isn’t work.”

Dad laughed his big belly laugh (my favorite of all his laughs). “You have a lot to learn about work.”

“It’s summer, Dad. I don’t want to hear about work.”

“You never want to hear about work.”

I didn’t like where this conversation was headed so I tried a diversionary tactic. I pinched at his chin scruff and asked, “Are you going to grow a beard?”

“No, it’s too hot. And besides, your mother won’t kiss me if I go more than a day without shaving.”

“Wow, she’s strict.” I never minded the ticklish way my dad’s chin felt when it was stubbly, but I guess Mom could lay down the law where her own lips were concerned.

“Yup.”

“And what would you do without her kisses?”

I knew I was getting close to the amount of teasing he’d tolerate. He smiled and turned his attention to Ari, who was still hovering in the doorway. “How do you put up with this guy? You must be Ari.”

“Yes, sir,” Ari said. Sir! Who knew Ari had such good manners?

My dad got up and shook Ari’s hand. Ari’s eyes got all wide. “I’m Sam,” my dad said. “Sam Quintana.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Quintana.” Wow Ari was really gunning for polite friend of the year award!

“You can call me Sam,” Dad said.

“I can’t,” Ari said, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear him.

Dad nodded and said, “That’s sweet. And respectful.” Dad turned his eyes to me and said in his trying-to-be-authoritarian voice, “The young man has some respect. Maybe you can learn something from him, Dante.”

“You mean you want me to call you Mr. Quintana?” I sassed. Dad was trying hard to keep a straight face in front of Ari but I was onto him. Dad gave me a look before turning back to Ari. “How’s the swimming?”

“Dante’s a good teacher,” Ari said. I was proud he said that and I liked how my name sounded coming from his lips. He snuck a quick look at me through the curtain of dark hair that half-covered his eyes, almost like we were sharing a secret. He had this way of shaking his head forward every now and then so his hair stayed in a swoop over his eyes. I hadn’t noticed this cute tic of his in the pool when his hair was wet before. I had the sudden urge to tussle up his hair but knew that would not go over well.

“Dante’s good at a lot of things. But he’s not very good at cleaning his room. Cleaning a room is too closely related to the word work.”

I knew where Dad was headed with this and I didn’t like it. “Is that a hint?”

“You’re quick, Dante. You must get that from your mother.”

“Don’t be a wiseass, Dad.” If Mom were here she would have scolded me for using a curse word, but I was taking a chance that Dad wouldn’t mind it. Turns out I was wrong.

“What was that word you just used?”

“Does that word offend you?”

“It’s not the word. Maybe it’s the attitude.”

I rolled my eyes. Ok, maybe I was showing off in front of Ari a little bit. Bravado and all that. I sat down to take off my sneakers.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Dad said. “There’s a pig sty up there that has your name on it.”

Drat. I’d rolled the dice on the sass-o-meter and lost big time. I was hoping I’d be able to spend all day doing nothing with Ari but it looked like Dad was choosing today of all days to play dictator.

I kicked off my sneakers and wiggled my toes. Ari looked at me a little funny and reached down to take off his shoes, too.

“Oh, you can leave your shoes on if you like,” I said. “I just like having mine off. ‘Free the feet’ is basically my life’s motto.”

“Ok, good. Because my socks both have holes in the toes,” Ari dead-panned and my dad and I both laughed.

“Ari and I need to eat lunch, Dad. You can’t expect me to starve our guest just because you are hell bent on enforcing dictatorial rule about the state of my room.”

“Lunch first. Then clean.”

“Ok, ok.”

For lunch Ari decided pizza bites and black beans was an abomination so he decided to make his “special secret recipe” of fish-stick tacos instead. I was his sous chef and responsible for the chopping. He was a real stickler for chopping, let me tell you. He showed me the best way to hold a knife and the difference between mincing and julienning. I may have known all the technique when it came to swimming but he sure had me beat in knife skills. When it came time for me to chop an onion he got a big grin on his face.

“What?” I asked. “Are you going to laugh when the tears start streaming down my face?”

“Ok, I read this thing about onions in a magazine once but have never got to try it.”

“Try what?”

“Apparently if you wear goggles it will stop you from crying.”

So we put our goggles on and it actually worked! We liked wearing them so much we spent the rest of the time preparing the meal pretending like we were underwater. I don’t normally like cooking but I didn’t mind it with Ari.

After we’d eaten and cleaned up we went up to my room.

My dad was right (darn him), it truly was a mess.

I had of burst of nervous jitters in my tummy now that Ari was on the threshold of my room. I did a quick scan to make sure there wasn’t anything super embarrassing like dirty underwear in plain sight. Nothing too bad, just the normal hodgepodge. I hadn’t felt nervous at all when we were downstairs, but being alone in my room felt different somehow.

I started picking up the dirty clothes and putting them in my hamper. I didn’t want Ari to smell anything foul and think I was a heathen. He was doing the same hover-in-the-doorway thing he’d done in my dad’s office so I decided to put on some music, hoping to set a more relaxing mood.

I chose Abbey Road, basically the most perfect record ever made.

“I can’t believe you have an actual record player,” he said.

“It was my mom’s. She was going to throw it away. Can you believe that? Vinyl. Real vinyl. None of this cassette crap.”

“What’s wrong with cassettes?”

“I don’t trust them.”

He laughed at that. But I sort of knew he would before I said it. “Records scratch easily,” he said.

“Not if you take care of them.”

He gave my room a thorough once over. “I can see that you really like to take care of things.”

He had me there. I laughed and handed him a book of poems that was sitting on my nightstand. William Carlos Williams. I had been reading it last night before I went to bed and had a dream I was stringing up a mountainous stack of white sheets, shirts and dresses on a clothesline in the middle of a prairie field while a big storm was brewing overhead. The white sheets flapped in the wind like a whip. I liked the dream though it was unsettling, too. Good poetry will do that to you.

There was a particular poem called “Icarus” that when I read it last night it reminded me of Ari. I wanted to tell him that, but I thought he might think that was a little strange, telling him I was thinking about him while I was reading poetry. So I handed him the book, instead. Maybe he’d read the same poem and think of me and we’d both be none the wiser. “Here, you can read this while I clean my room.”

“Maybe I should just, you know, leave you—” he said and flicked his hair forward. I could still see his eyes looking all around my room. “It’s a little scary in here.”

Scary, ouch. I mean, my room was a little chaotic maybe, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it scary. Ari and my dad seemed to be on the same page about the optimal cleanliness of rooms, I guess.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t leave.” (I really didn’t want him to leave). “I hate cleaning my room.”

“Maybe if you didn’t have so many things.”

I looked around. To someone else’s eyes I could see how it could leave the impression that a tornado had just breezed through: clothes, shoes, books, records, notepads, polaroids, sheet music, old homework assignments and tests, and all the pictures I’d torn out of magazines for my inspiration board were scattered everywhere and covered nearly every available surface. Yeah, I guess there was a lot of stuff, but who doesn’t have a lot of stuff?

“It’s just stuff. If you stay, it won’t be so bad.”

“Ok, should I help?”

“No. It’s my job.” I knew my mom would really tear into me if she found out I’d roped my new friend into cleaning my room for me. I’d never hear the end of it. And knowing me, I wouldn’t be able to not tell her. That’s the funny part.

We chatted a bit about our moms and dads. Ari hadn’t told me much about his parents and I was curious what they were like, how Ari got along with them. It seemed like Ari had magically entered my life like Athena emerging fully grown out of Zeus’ skull and I was having trouble picturing him as a baby or with his family. I told him that I understood my dad—heck, I’d had his number since I was a little kid. My mom, not so much. She’s a psychiatrist and helps teenagers for her job and so she knows how to keep her cards close. My dad and I are more alike. Both big open books. Ari, he was more like my mom, I realized: inscrutable in certain ways, clear as day in others.

“Read that book while I clean.”

He opened it up and thumbed through a few pages. He looked up at me and I could read it on his face that poetry was not his thing.

“Poetry,” I said. “It won’t kill you.”

“What if it does? Boy Dies of Boredom While Reading Poetry.”

I tried to keep a straight face—after all poetry is an important art form and has a bad rap!—but that worked just as well as it always works when Ari is looking at me with the corner of his lips upturned in a half-smirk and a sparkling gleam in his dark brown eyes. I shook my head in mock offense and started attacking the monster task of getting my room in order.

My comfy reading chair had become a catch-all receptacle for all the random things I hadn’t bothered putting away over the last few weeks so I told him to clear it off so he could sit there and read.

“What’s this?” he asked, picking up one of my sketch pads.

I froze momentarily.

“A sketch pad.”

“Can I see?”

I shook my head no. “I don’t like to show it to anyone.”

It wasn’t that I was embarrassed about my drawing skills or that I thought Ari wouldn’t appreciate some of the drawings I’d done—in fact I bet he’d especially dig the comic book characters I liked to do sometimes for fun. But there were a few drawings in there of a boy sitting on the edge of a pool that I didn’t want him to see.

I picked up the pad and put it away on my desk and changed the subject back to the book of poetry. “Really, it won’t kill you.”

Ari sighed dramatically but then settled in to reading with little complaint after that. While I cleaned up I snuck quick peaks at him to see how he was enjoying it. His eyebrows were knitted together the whole time he read and he had a habit of biting his lower lip when he was really concentrating (I had noticed this at the pool as well when I was giving him detailed instructions) but he kept at it until he’d read the whole book.

Late afternoon in my room is my favorite time of day. I have westward facing windows and when the golden light spills in you can see little dust particles floating in the air in an almost sparkly and magical way sometimes. The light hit the white pages of Ari’s book and it reflected back up onto his face, making him glow almost.

After Abbey Road was done I switched on Pink Moon. I’d found the record at a junk shop and liked the surreal picture on the cover so I bought it even though I’d never heard of Nick Drake before. It quickly became one of my favorite records.

Believe it or not, I do have a system once I get going organizing my room. Books especially. My shelf is alphabetical by author’s last name (the library way) and my ‘to-read’ pile on my desk goes in ascending order of excitement about reading. Once all the dirty clothes are in my hamper it’s pretty easy to sort the rest of my clothes out, too. I like folding everything in neat stacks by type of clothes (undershirts, tshirts, button down shirts, shorts, pants) and by color. I find it soothing to see them all stacked up in rainbow order in my drawer. My painting and drawing area also needed some attention. I organized my drawing pencils, charcoals, pens and paints in my plastic storage bins. I soaped up all my paintbrushes that had gotten stiff. I organized my records, alphabetical by artist.

Every now and then Ari would make a “hmm” noise or a soft grunt. I was dying to ask him what he thought about the poems he was reading but I kept focused on my room. The sooner I finished, the more time we’d have to talk and hang out.

I finished up my room and looked around, satisfied with my work. I took the book of poems from Ari. I found one I particularly liked called “Death” (uplifting title, right?), which is about a dead dog. Whenever I read this poem I thought of Ringo, my old dog. There’s a picture of us on my bulletin board. He was old when he died. He had cancer. Reading the poem aloud felt almost like giving him a eulogy again (I had insisted my parents and I all give speeches when we buried him). It still hurt thinking about him, but I liked how reading the poem aloud made my memories of him feel alive inside me. Like I was marking an important moment by remembering him aloud, even if the remembering was only for myself. I didn’t tell Ari about Ringo just then because I was afraid I might tear up. I knew I’d tell him one day, though.

He’s dead the dog won’t have to sleep on the potatoes anymore to keep them from freezing

he’s dead the old bastard—

I smiled at that last word, thinking of Ringo and also because here, alone in my room with Ari, I had free reign to say curse words like ‘bastard’ without the cluck of my mom’s tongue or my dad’s raised eyebrow. We had our own rules up here, ones that we could make up on our own, together.

While I was reading aloud, Ari had shut his eyes. Not because he was sleeping or bored, but because I think he was really trying to listen to the words. His face was peaceful then. The crease between his eyebrows smoothed over. I felt bold enough to continue reading more poems to him. I wanted to keep that peaceful look on his face for as long as I could.

When I got to “Icarus”, my heart started beating fast, I don’t know why. It’s not like he would know that when I read the beautiful words I imagined Ari falling from the sky like a shooting star and landing in a sparkling, clear blue sea with barely a splash.

According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring

a farmer was ploughing his field the whole pageantry

of the year was awake tingling near

the edge of the sea concerned with itself

sweating in the sun that melted the wings’ wax

unsignificantly off the coast there was

a splash quite unnoticed this was Icarus drowning

My voice quivered a little when I read the last line. If Ari asked about it I could just claim it was allergies.

#ari and dante fic #aaddtsotu

[evangelineartemiasamos]

Calorn AU Part 2 - Queenstrial

Note: This is a Red Queen Retelling in an AU. Things are a little more different from canon.

Find this on wattpad

Part 1

Part 3

Kilorn POV

For the first time in years, I slept as long as I wanted to. No one woke me up, commanding me to ge the boat ready. Because there was no one but me in the small house. It was a strange stituation, but one that wouldn't last long. Soon I would be a soldier, probably getting even less sleep than a fisherman.

Sleep wasn't nearly enough to chase off the hangover plaguing my body. I felt nauseous, my head felt as heavy as an anchor and I had to force myself to eat breakfast. Yet I smiled at the memories from last night, if only to keep the fear at bay. Cal. I whispered his name to myself. Cal. Cal.

I didn't expect to see him again, but I would cherish what we had last night, hoping it would get me through the rough time coming.

Cal was also the reason I felt so sick this morning. He'd had always the same drinks as me, but he couldn't get them down. I'd finished them for him while he'd promised to do better next time - he didn't and at the end of the night, hours past midnight, he had still been the drunker one of us.

His intoxicated giggles were the most adorable sound I'd ever heard.

Not that I'd remained sober in any way. I'd started to spill my story after a few drinks. About how my father had died and my mother abandoned me, about how I'd become a fisherman. I'd talked about how I'd lost my heart to Shade and he'd never managed to give me a yes or no; while his sister Mare was my best friend who would like to see the world. And I'd confessed that my hopes and expectations - if any Red had such - had been shattered with my Master's death.

Cal's face had turned serious the moment I'd mentioned this. His already well-defined and sharp-lined jaw tightened and his eyes, a golden orange similar to Shade's, had grown dark under his frown.

He had touched my shivering hand laying on the table and murmered, "I've been to the war before. I know how it is." He'd started to caress my fingers and I'd noticed my ragged breaths calming.

"How did you make it out alive?" I'd whispered, but then I'd wondered. "Don't you have a job? Why were you there?"

Cal had blinked for a moment. "I - my boss needed me there. He's quite the important veteran, you know? But - " he'd looked at my frown - "how the Reds have to fight, that's not, umm, how it's supposed to be. Never was."

I'd chuckled glumly and raised my glass. "Certainly not!" And Cal had drunk with me. He'd coughed at the vodka's spirit and I'd stared at his aquiline nose as he'd turned his head away from me. Once he'd finished, facing me again, I'd touched his stubby cheek and his eyes gazed into mine. As if on instinct, I'd kissed his brow. "How 'bout you give me some hope and tips for survival?" I'd said.

Again his lovely giggling. "I know some ways to stay alive among soldiers," he'd answered. But what he'd told had been mostly dirty jokes and bad puns. It was all I needed to hear.

It wasn’t the knock on the door that alarmed me, the noise from outside was telling enough. Soldiers. A raid. Conscription. I thought of Mrs. Keats, Master’s daughter, again. She had to have reported me after all. I swallowed, trying to gather my things. I wasn’t sure if I preferred it this way or not, without saying goodbye to anyone. The Barrows have been good to me, when will they know?

I had barely grabbed some clothes as the door opened. I straightened, drilled to submission as a Red was supposed to. But it was only a servant who was greeting me. She blinked as she noticed my nervous posture. She seemed familiar.

“Kilorn Warren?” she asked, and with her voice, my memory returned.

“Ann?”

“Ähm, yes. I’m Ann Walsh.” She frowned at my informal address. “Mr. Warren, you’re hired to serve in the Hall of the Sun from today onwards. Please come with me.”

I looked at the security officers behind her. They even had a transport with them. Was this just a trap?

“Excuse me?” I tried to dodge her, but Ann came closer, looked straight into my eyes and hissed in a low voice, “you have a freaking job now, Warren. Don’t ask, just come with me, you lucky jerk.” She took a step back. “It is about time, Mr. Warren,” she said suddenly as sweet as sugar, “we have need of every hand today.”

“Sure … I mean, yes, ma’am!” I replied. Ann smiled at my mocking tone. She sighed. “I see I’ll have to instruct you first.”

My thoughts rattled during the drive. I could only conclude that that Cal had organized something for me, he’d hinted at this once. But how was this possible, and so quick? Half of the kids in the Stilts craved a palace job – good food, clothes and work in a warm building. And glamour to be seen, by being around the o-so-noble Silver High Houses. The other half was proud to be disdaining the Silvers, if they didn’t fear them outright. I didn’t know to which side I was leaning to right now.

I listened to Ann, who wanted to be called Walsh now, and I put on the red and white servant uniform. I tried to remember the hallmarks in the palace, and to figure out which people I could asked for advice when needed. And I would need them, as I couldn’t write or read any notes.

There was to be a huge event today, in an indoor arena. Apparently, the entire nobility of Norta had gathered in their private balconies already. I did my best not to gape at them and their clothes, decorated with an obscene amount of gemstones and embroidered with rich imagery. I wondered how many these stitches had been made by Gisa and her needles? Those were now a limited rarity and worth more than any of the jewels. But I never flinched at the Silvers, I smiled and obeyed and stayed silent as I sidled through the filthy richness. I listened to the prattling of the Silvers and the Reds alike and grasped what this event was about: The traditional Nortan Queenstrial, a big showing-off of the daughters of the High Houses to find out which of them was awesome enough to marry the crown prince.

What a hoax.

I evaded the view of the show deliberately. I didn't need to be in further awe of the Silvers, they were intimidating enough while I served them, as they taunted me just while passing them, like "accidently" letting their plates drop to the ground and calling Reds to clean up.

How would this continue? I would have to do this every fucking day know, and I could only hope not to be assigned to an exceptionally cruel Silver House. If we were lucky, the most of these nobles would disappear from the Hall of the Sun after this Queenstrial thing was done. If I was lucky. I had no idea about court protocol, maybe they would stay for the rest of the summer? I faintly remembered grand progresses from the past. And afterwards? Would I travel with the court to the capital? Even if I couldn't read a work contract, I had to know the odds of this game. Would I live in the palace or had I to return to the Stilts after my shifts? Would Mrs. Keats throw me out anyway or would she let me rent the old house? Could I affort to rent something at all? The Master hadn't paid me much, and most of times, he deemed feeding, housing and dressing me as enough payment.

I searched for Walsh in my free moments, but those were rare, and they had to be for her too.

Loud chirps pulled me from my ponderings. The balconies rumbled as the High Houses rose to their feet to greet the royal family. As I turned around, I noticed that I had a good view on the king who was yelling about the rebel attack so close to home. I just wanted to continue my work and stay safe despite his familiar hate-speech as the princes caught my eye.

Holy waters and fish crap.

All my puzzles fell into place as I realized that the crown prince who was chose his bride today was Cal.

A dirty laugh escaped my throat. Two servants heard me but went on without frowning at my common behaviour. Do they even know that their prince likes boys? was my first thought. My second one wasn't so funny. He was a bleeding liar, to say the least. To be honest, I'd suspected he wasn't a Red like me, not nearly as poor. And I'd shoved away the suspicion that he possibly wasn't a Red at all. I hadn't cared. What for? He'd been nice to a thief, and I hadn't expected to see him again.

Maybe I really would not. Unless he wanted to use his royal status to command me to him as he would see fit. I chased the thought away. Cal had enough to worry about, like his poor and vicious bride-to-be, and I had to assume he'd done enough for me by getting me this job so he could forget me. I would in his place. I didn't want him to remember me, or did I?

Nah. The pleassnt last evening had been a castle of sand and lies. If Prince Tiberias the seventh, heir to the kingdom of Norta and the Burning Crown, had any romantic interest in a scrappy Red boy like me, I would either do my best to avoid him - or exploit it. For me, and for Mare and her family. I giggled quietly at the idea. What a pipe dream to think I had power over a prince just because I'd drunk with him one night? Shall I spill his terrible secrets? That he went down after two beers?

The cheers in the arena grew louder, like crashing waves. A name was chanted, but not the name of the king.

"Samos! Samos! Evangeline Samos!"

I peeked at a screen in a private box. A girl stodd in the ruins of the arena, exuding pride and haughtiness, even more than the other Silvers. Light glittered in her silver hair like gems. She drank in the cheers like booze, yet the smile on her cattish face seemed real. She was the winner of the Queenstrial, apparently, and she was truly happy about marrying the crown prince. It would be too funny to see her reaction when she learned that Cal liked boys probably more than her. I'd been at the Nortan court for five hours and it was already obvious that Silvers didn't care about honest and gentle feelings.

To make things "perfect", I had to serve the plates of the royal family during the betrothal dinner. Only Cal and I realized the awkwardness of the situation but I was too proud to let anything show on my face. I wasn't surprised at all that he was a prince. His doggy eyes when he looked to me as I placed his soup before him was pleasant though. He seemed almost desperate,  unlike his betrothed, the Samos girl who controlled metal as she was keen on showing. She beamed with her smile, her metal dress and the jewels she wore, shining brighter than the chandeliers above us. She chatted constantly wiht the queen or the black-dressed girl next to her, who didn't seem disappointed to have lost in the Queenstrial at all. The second prince seemed equally elated, raising his glass to toast to the "happy" couple several times. One moment, he thought he smirked right at me. Then again, I noticed that the servant boy behind me wore a very similar grin. He patted my shoulder. "Hey, newbie," he said. "Don't stall. Things are going according to plan, if you wouldn't interfere." I blinked at him.

"Right," I answered with a pinch of salt. "I would never disturb the royals in their revels. And my name is Kilorn Warren"

The other boy nodded. "That's the right attitude. I'm Thomas Mayfair."

Commentary:

Thought I could hint at Thomaven right now ;-)

Sorry to all of you who expected Kilorn to become the Lightning Boy or the Red Nymph or something. I may made him gay, but otherwise, he still isn't a Newblood. As I concepted this, I've thought it interesting to include how things would have been if Mare wasn't not part of Elara's scheme and things go according to the original plan. @dewydrael @redqueenfandom @lilyharvord @maudthebookeater @didmavenkillyou--metoo  @lunardemigod @marelicious  @liz-cavallaro @marecal-trash @agarotado27dejunho @stiinaofficial @incantationalice @universegamer @ibeswaraa @sybillsilver @the-little-lightning-queen

#calorn #calorn au #red queen fan fiction #red queen fanfiction #victoria aveyard #tiberias vii #kilorn warren #red queen retelling #red queen au #evangeline samos #thomaven #my fan fiction #crackship #m/m ship #gay ship #shonen ai #cal calore #shade barrow

[patrickube-blog]

(h x r)

[i honestly feel really strongly for this piece of writing i did about two years ago, it never fails to make me emotional. a lot of the stuff i wrote in the past has identifiable influences – like a movie i’d just watched, a book i loved, a game i just played, or some real life personal thing that happened to me. this story bemuses me because i don’t remember how i even came up with the entire idea, or the weird structure of it. but i think it’s quite lovely and skeletal, so, i hope this gets you feeling something as well,  my nonexistent followers!]

–

The Beginning

We had English after lunch. All of us were caught in a mad, exuberant flurry of motion, scuttling around like schools of fish to finish our essays on Romeo and Juliet.

The sun was smoldering, the clouds whisked briskly into hiding, the breeze faint and whispery. We sat in our customary, rickety red bench, the table-top scrawled with adolescent blather. There were lyrics to hit songs; prancing stick figures; crude swear words; male genitalia of different sizes; names etched inside swollen, crooked hearts, then scratched out and blotted with angry ink.

There was five of us then. We grew together, then grew apart. I remember Travis, always joking, always coy. I remember Lila, sharp as a tack, harsh, slim from weekly track meets. I remember Henry, foppish and vibrant, good-hearted. As for Rose, was the smartest in our group. Naturally we sought her assistance that day. She glowed under the attention. She set about patiently correcting grammatical errors, pointing out muddled sentences, indicating softly which areas needed elaboration.

I noticed Henry was sitting alone during this time, scratching his head, furrowing his brow, staring at his essay in concentration. Travis was teasing him.

And then, like a guardian angel come from the golden gates of heaven, Rose left her gaggle of students and sat beside him. Henry smiled. Nervous, tentative sweat slicked his forehead.

We laughed about it then, me and Travis and Lila, but deep down we were jealous that the inevitable shifting of our group’s dynamic had taken place, and none of us were a part of the equation.

The Middle of the Beginning

“I think I like her,” Henry said frequently afterwards when it was just me and Travis with him. “I think I do. A lot.”

We sniggered collectively, played along. It became a game. “What do you like most about her? Are you gonna marry her?” we would ask with false sincerity.

“Everything about her, I like,” he’d reply importantly, “And, yeah. Maybe I will marry her.” We all laughed. There was no doubt in our minds then that poor, hapless Henry was dreaming up this big romance, borne from Rose’s simple kindness.

“I’m going to ask her to dance,” Henry said one day, out of the blue. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask her.” We grinned. Travis nudged his shoulder boyishly. Someone else who happened to be sitting with us that day made up a bet on whether or not Henry would pull through. I just smiled. Poor, hapless Henry mistook our amused, youthful mockery for pride.

The following week, the dance took place. We gathered in our little group excitedly, flashing smiles, pretending that we couldn’t care less. The gym was bedecked in fluorescent neon lights, strips of flashy, glittery gold paper wrung from the ceiling, music pumping from the domed roof. Lila bragged about how much of it was all thanks to her creative ambition, since she was a part of the dance committee. The girls were resplendent in their skimpy dresses. We wore our flashiest, priciest clothes.

Henry showed up late with Rose in tow, causing quite the fuss. His brown eyes were bright. Rose’s smile was small and shy, her honeydew hair glimmering amidst the neon lights. We stared, pointed, bobbed grins and cheeky laughter across the hall. Travis spat out his drink. Lila arced an eyebrow. We were collectively in awe. Hapless Henry had turned a new leaf.

The girls fawned all over them; we resorted to a thumbs-up.

The Ending of the Beginning

Henry went to a different high school than the rest of us. He moved house early in the year we all started a new chapter in our lives. I wasn’t to see him for years. I was too caught up in the difference of high school to contact him.

In my second year, I dated Lila. She was vivacious, a fresh breath of air from the old days. We laughed about our middle school-selves. I asked her constantly if she knew anything about Henry and Rose, whose quiet popularity in middle school devolved into anonymity. She frequented the library and acquired a new circle of friends, long-legged girls with swathes of hair. I only had to glance to know they took her for granted, accepted her only for the gleam of her blond hair rather than the understated perception of her mind. Lila told me that the last she’d heard, she and Henry had split. I felt duly crushed. Those two were akin to glowing, golden idols from a better, simpler age. Like the rest of us, they’d succumbed to change and rust.

Three shitty parties, one pregnancy test, and two ‘break ups’ later, Lila and I split. “All you ever talk about now is ‘those old days’ as if they were years ago, as if they were amazing all the time. They weren’t. God, get a grip on yourself, you’re pathetic,” she’d said at the argument that ended it. After that, brilliantly angry and youthfully, foolishly bitter, she spread the rumor that I carried STDs. I remember Travis laughing in my face the day after. He made a quip about girls being bitches, about how he was taking Maria Henderson to a party that weekend, about how I should come and use the STD-thing as a sob story to get laid.

I skipped school for a week, pleaded sick to my blank-faced parents. Days were spent staring up at the billowing, far-away clouds from my bedroom window, lost in thought. Escapism. All I wanted was to envelop myself again in the golden warmth of the before, not the now, with stressful deadlines and assessments and new social pressures and angry ex-girlfriends.

The Beginning of the End

-During my final year of university, an unregistered number called my phone while I was walking to a class.

It was Henry, though I still didn’t make the connection when the voice said, “it’s Henry, hey, it’s me.” He had to awkwardly introduce himself twice more. He sounded tired. He asked how I was doing, what I was up to, what university I attended, inquired about assignments, deadlines, and my parents. He confessed, with sheepish laughter, that he’d gotten my number off of Lila, who Rose still saw every now and then. He added in serious undertone, that he never for a second believed those old, filthy rumors.

I had a multitude of questions clamoring in my head. For one thing, I did not appreciate him bringing up the STD-drama. Also, what was he calling me for? After years of silence, hearing him speak while I weaved through other students staring into their phones was a surreal experience.

There was a new, tense quality to Henry’s voice that I’d never heard before. He suddenly apologized, for falling off the radar, for being too busy to keep in touch. Things with Rose were rocky, he admitted quietly, in a resigned sort of way. Before I could ask when they’d gotten back together, he quickly slipped in that he loved her. A lot. They’d gone on-and-off a number of times.

“Look, I know this is…weird, since we haven’t spoken in years,” Henry said shakily. “But you were always the most considerate of the guys. I know that you’ll help me.” There was a long pause. I waited. “Rose is pregnant. We didn’t plan it. She’s totally against, ah, abortion. And, I mean, so am I! She says we have get married…quickly. Fast. She doesn’t want the kid to be labeled a bastard, and I guess she just…” Henry trailed off. “I think she just doesn’t want to be alone.”

He sighed, sounding older than he really was. I didn’t know what to say, or what exactly he was calling me for. “Please,” he went on. “I need your help. Her parents hate her for all this business, and my dad…you know how he is, ever since we were kids, always just…sorry. Ah, when are you free next?”

The Middle of the End

I helped arrange mostly everything. I found a reception hall in town. It was a small, humble, exquisite building that didn’t make a big deal of itself. Henry, Rose and I went down there a few days after he called. I skipped my afternoon lecture.

I did most of the talking. Henry was taller, a bit leaner, though jittery, his smile nervous. There was a new tentative energy in him, the sadness in his eyes never quite going away. Rose, though, was very lovely. Refined, cool and calm. The gaggle of loud, unappreciative girls that used to surround her in a stifling circle were nowhere to be seen. I wondered where they’d gone. Her belly swelled under the blue blouse she wore.

They chose a day, a time, talked over some meaningless technicalities. We had coffee afterwards. It seemed like the decent thing to do, though I could tell both of them just wanted to go home, retreat back into whatever form of shelter they had built for themselves upstate. I felt out of place meeting these two old friends I didn’t actually know anymore. My brain was momentarily confused, attempting to re-arrange itself; I remembered Henry as a flushed, messy-haired youth with gangly arms and a hapless grin. On the last day of school, he’d hugged me tightly and rather desperately, only letting go when Travis shoved a pencil up his ass. The day before he moved, we hung out in the arcade and then the beach. After everyone had gone and the sun began to vanish in the horizon, my mother had dropped off Rose first, then Henry. The three of us sat in the backseat, making small talk, and as we neared Rose’s house, Henry had grabbed both our hands without preamble. Even after Rose left his hand kept clutching mine.

Now he was suddenly taller than me, dressed in a modest suit-and-tie. He had never been solid and leery like Travis, always floppy, but sitting in that café, there was a solidity about him.

The youthful vivacity that was in Rose once was gone; it was replaced by a wide void, reduced as she was to a politely-smiling, well-mannered, chagrin adult. She used to get all the boys’ attention, even in high school. Mature and level-headed, Rose hardly ever went to parties, but when she did, she always vanished upstairs, swallowed up by the inky darkness of the stairwell. I always assumed she and Henry’s split was official. Their hastened marriage date said otherwise.

The café was small, but busy, bustling. Its homey interior and cream walls watched as we slowly took a sigh of collective relief, our stress and tension melting away gradually, mingling with the steam of mochas and lattes.

Henry sincerely apologized for all the sudden fuss, asked again what I was majoring in and when I’d graduate. He asked after my parents and what they were getting up to. He shared some funny stories, but Rose never laughed, she only maintained her frozen little smile. She herself congratulated me for my academic successes, sympathizing with me on how Lila acted all those years ago, affirming she was different now and still asked about me, sometimes. I told them how well they looked, how happy I was for them, what name they were considering for the baby, and did they know yet if it was a boy, or a girl? I didn’t get to pose the questions I really wanted to ask, since I could tell they were both terribly tired of things. Whether it was from work, or each other, or the baby bombshell, or all of the above, or some hidden factor they kept to themselves, I still do not know.

What I knew: they were only alive by the love they shared, weakly binding them together. It was quietly, tragically beautiful.

The End

-Their wedding day fell on a midsummer, lukewarm Friday afternoon.

Henry and Rose invited only a few people, less than a handful: Geraldine was the bride’s sister. Carlton was her boyfriend. As for Lila and I, one could say we were close in school, but Travis wasn’t invited. Was Lila merely a sop for me? Was it a feeble, girlish, chick-flick attempt to get us back together? Was Henry and Rose’s social circle just that closed-off? Were they afraid and ashamed of others knowing about their marriage and Rose’s pregnancy? Had they alienated themselves that much? Like many things about them, I don’t know.

Geraldine picked up the girls, while Carlton and I were put in charge of Henry. It was quite a beautiful day. Sunlight dappled the trees lining the sidewalk, while buildings reached up into the unfathomable sky. There was not a cloud in sight.

We got to the reception hall first. Henry, in a sharp blue suit, paced back and forth erratically in one of the rooms the kindly receptionist directed us to. I had helped him get ready in my flat. Carlton could tell we had history and he was destined to be a mere footnote, so he politely complimented Henry, made some light jokes which we responded to politely, and then he left before we did, saying he’d meet us at the hall. His car was parked in the lot, four spaces from mine. He was browsing through his phone when we pulled up. I thought it prudent to wait for Geraldine to arrive before calling out to him.

While Henry paced, I mused aloud how the girls were faring. Perhaps Rose had cried a little, then switched to happy laughter while her hair was done up artfully.

He was implacable, in that small window of time when it was just us two. I attempted small talk: why his father or her parents weren’t invited (the look he shot in my direction was, I guess, the only answer I needed.) Did they not want anyone else to come, any other friends? That didn’t provoke a response, but I filled the silence with noise anyway. I spoke wistfully of the increasing difficulty of my university assignments, about Travis, about the beauty of the afternoon. Henry was unresponsive, curt. It took me awhile to accept that I simply did not understand the entire situation, and I left him alone with his own thoughts for a bit. Happy nervousness leaked from his every pore as he walked back and forth, back and forth.

He wouldn’t stop pacing. Without a word, I placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. The effect was electric. Henry spun around, looked at me with wide, trembling, damp eyes and kissed me. I only began to respond when he drew back again, as fast as he’d leant forward. He was flushed. “I doubt the baby’s mine,” he said abruptly, absurdly. Then, “I love you. Thank you for being here. I mean it. I love you.”

There was a knock on the door, and Geraldine asked how things were coming along. I could have addressed what Henry had just blurted out and the way he’d kissed me, but I didn’t. His eyes met mine, and without flinching, I told Geraldine we’d be right out and that Carlton was in his car. Her heels faded away into the warm afternoon. Before we left the room, Henry kissed me again. I let him, not reciprocating this time.

Rose was a vision of loveliness, a divine apparition. Her back was facing us as we walked up. Daisies were wrung prettily in her hair. When she turned, her face wore an expression that I couldn’t read. The corners of her mouth were upturned, but I wouldn’t say she was smiling. I saw her rounded belly, remembered Henry’s suspicions, his desperate kisses. But I could not harden my heart against her. How could I, with her standing there, her white dress whispering as it danced across the floor in time with the wind?

Geraldine walked in with Carlton and Lila in tow.  “Shall we?” Lila announced with theatrical grandeur. She shot me a glance. The lot of us had dinner a few nights beforehand, a perverted version of the five our original group had, plus Carlton, very handsome, very respectful, shaking my hand firmly over glasses of wine. Geraldine, I knew slightly growing up, a stately, assertive girl who had none of Rose’s subtlety. As for Lila…she was much the same. Harsh green eyes, a smirk instead of a smile. The only thing of note was a tattoo of a pale lily on her thigh. I told her that it was really clever and witty, when we had sex in my flat that same night. She said that I’d gotten myself a nice pad, and allowed that she missed our middle school days sometimes, especially the science lessons where we were partners, fucking up all of our tests. I took that as her apology for the STD rumors. We didn’t mention it.

The sunlight spilled in from the doorway and doused Henry in soft brightness as he stepped forward and took Rose in his arms. She was crying. Her small shoulders trembled demurely. He whispered words to her that the rest of us didn’t hear. Geraldine patted her back. Carlton shifted in place. Lila linked her arm with mine.

There was a small wait inside a depressingly-clean room where no-one really said anything. Shortly, a middle-aged man donned in priestly garb approached us, calling for “Mr. Henry and Ms. Rose.”

It happened so fast. The designated room was jarringly empty. Geraldine, Carlton, Lila and I crowded the front seats, the chairs behind us devoid of any life. The girls had, in an attempt to spruce the state of things, blown up a few listless balloons and scattered a handful of daffodils on the aisle. It was beautiful in its own doomed, sad way. I imagined the lily on Lila’s thigh blooming open for me. Sunlight alighted on each flimsy white petal of the flowers in Rose’s hair.

When Henry and Rose kissed as man and wife, melting into one, trembling, Geraldine let out a sob. Carlton clapped earnestly, then hugged his girlfriend with one arm. Lila touched my shoulder. Her eyes leaked mascara-stained tears. My throat became constricted with emotion.

“I never saw this coming. Never. I mean…not like this. Did you?” she asked me, her green eyes softening, causing me to almost fall in love with her all over again.

The makeshift priest watched as the six of us left, Henry and Rose leading the way with damp cheeks. His sad eyes were full of hopeless love, and he’d given me a look pregnant with apology and confusion as he walked past; he reached out as if to touch my cheek, but instead clasped my arm. The bride’s honeydew hair was aglow, blinding us all.

In the parking lot, Henry and Rose leaned into each other and so did Geraldine and Carlton, shadowing them. Lila kissed my cheek, and I remembered Henry pressing his lips into mine, not once but twice, his suit clinging to his slim frame, his shoulders set. It seemed to have happened a million years ago. I like to think that we were all, in that moment, happy. The waning afternoon sun embraced us and congratulated our exit.

But I suppose that deep down I knew it was temporary.

X

-Lila called me well over a year later.

We’d kept in touch after the wedding, making half-hearted attempts to reconnect, to start over. We had sex two more times afterward, but the second time, I made the mistake of asking her why she did it, all those years ago in our second year of high school. When she feigned sleep, I touched her lily tattoo and waited until she was actually slumbering. We were in her flat, so I left. Taken away from the pale, sentimental magic of that reception hall, I noticed that her green eyes had hardened again. I realized: I did not love her anymore, if I ever really did. I didn’t bother maintaining contact, and neither did she.

We were there, however, for the sake of appearances, when Henry and Rose left on their honeymoon to Florida. I remember Rose waving a lavender handkerchief at us as Henry drove them away. Carlton took me home, doing the same for a friend of Rose’s who’d been invited, some girl co-worker. He asked how things were going with Lila. I said that things were definitely going. He shook my hand when we reached my flat, and I wondered what he would do if I kissed him in the semi-darkness of his car. Later that night I hit up the girl co-worker whose number I’d procured at some point, and drove to her place and had sex on a pull-out bed. She was ensconced at a friend’s for the moment because of personal issues I did not care to divulge in because I had enough of my own, enough of Henry’s, enough of Rose’s, so I fucked her again before she could open up.

I wasn’t present when Rose gave birth five months after, but I was at their infant girl Victoria’s one-month celebration. She was an exhilarating, lovely thing, but she had brilliant blue eyes. Neither Henry nor Rose had blue eyes.

Lila was there, too, but she didn’t look at me once. The girl co-worker arrived late with a guy who I thought at first was Travis, and I was so shocked I dropped the small sandwich I was eating into Victoria’s crib. Carlton told the guests about the promotion he’d received, and Geraldine gushed over her niece, imploring to her in sickly-sweet coos that the girl would have a cousin in due time. Henry never left Rose’s side once, and when I said goodbye, his hand was sweaty. He lingered a second too long, just like at our last day of school, his scrawny arms nearly suffocating me.

When Lila called almost two years after, she did so with a dead voice. Henry had shot himself in the mouth, in the upstairs bathroom of the Victorian-style house he and Rose had bought a year prior.

Lila told me Rose had come home to hear Victoria’s wail of irritation and hunger from bedroom on the second floor. She’d rushed up the stairs, and saw the bathroom door closed. Blood leaked from the space underneath, staining the fresh carpets. And, somehow, Rose had known. I asked what Lila meant by that, but she stuck by what she said. Somehow, Rose had known.

So, she went back down and sat in the living room, called her sister to come over as soon as she could, and remained in the couch for almost an hour, listening to her child’s pitiful, escalating wail, letting her dead husband drown in his blood in the upstairs bathroom.

When Geraldine arrived, everything came undone.

I hung up after telling Lila I’d make it to the wake.

I remembered his warm and perpetually melancholic brown eyes, the lovely honeydew of her hair, the way he kissed me twice in that warm, fuzzy, almost pastoral waiting room with dust dancing in the space between us. I remembered how their initials were etched onto the red bench outside our old classroom. “HxR.” There, forever. ♦

#writer #writing #story

[trendingnewsb]

Dr. Daves Field Guide to Bad Cocktails

If the idea of sitting in a dark, elegant bar, lapping at a small, icy pool whose waters have a way of smoothing the furrows in your brow and oiling the trunnions of your tongue appeals to you, then as dark as these times may be there is at least one recompense. It is now possible to get a perfect cocktail, or close enough, in every city in America. Ten years ago, it was not. That is a positive good, then, and sometimes a very positive one indeed.

But it doesnt always go that way, though, does it? You do your part OKgetting to the bar, finding a seat, putting your damn phone away, ordering a drink, looking expectantand the bartender does a stylish job of picking bottles, measuring and mixing, and pours your drink into a steaming-cold glass with a precise, crisp flourish. Then you take a sip. Oh no. The drinks list billed this Transitive Nightfall of Diamonds as a subtly-accented take on the classic Dry Martini. What you got instead is potpourri-tasting gin, cilantro-infused vermouth and aggressive splashes of bitter gentian aperitif and crme de violette, with a huge swatch of bergamot peel squeezed over the top. It smells like Victorian hand soap. It tastes like Victorian hand soap. It costs $15, before tip.

The expansion of the Cocktail Renaissance (as its aficionados have come to call it) from a few bars in New York, San Francisco, Seattle and a couple of other places to hundredswho knows, thousands?of bars practically everywhere has depended on a concurrent expansion in the amount of bartending and mixological talent and knowledge. But good bartending has expanded not as air does when filling a balloon, where theres an equal amount of it in every part, but more like how Legos fill a hallway when, on your way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, you kick over the huge tub of them your kid left out. Although it doesnt happen with every step, every part of the hall holds the danger of putting your foot down on something fun that has turned diabolical.

What I mean to say is, not all tattooed young bartenders are the modern-day Jerry Thomases they think they are, and not every cocktail they make is the nectareous, brow-smoothing trunnion oil you hope for when you order it. Some, alas, are just plain bad.

The badness of many modern cocktails has been discussed widely and often, and by discussed I mean ranted about. Its easy to go off on the excesses of eager young mixologists who apparently watch too much Adventure Time and let its deadpan randomness infect the drinks they come up withlamb-fat washed rye-corn-barley eau de vie, citrus colloid, Indonesian palm sugar and brick dust, finished with a beet-Malibu foam; like that. What we need, however, is not more rants, as fun as they might be, but some basic science.

Before we can solve the problem of bad cocktails, we need to know the different ways a cocktail can go bad. We need a botany, a zoology, a classification. Every creeping thing that slideth over the bar must be known by his kind, that thou mayst order him no more. (I think it said that in the Bible somewhere, although I might be getting some of the words mixed up.)

Thats not a simple task. At first glance, it seems like cocktails follow Dostoyevskys happy-family rule; that the good ones are more or less all alike, or at least fall into a handful of common patterns (bitters-sugar-booze; bitters-vermouth-booze; sugar-citrus-booze, etc), and the bad ones are each awful in its own peculiar way.

Upon soberish reflection, though, one can identify two main realms of error, each with its inevitable subdivisions. The Strategic and the Tactical. Here, then, is a subjective, preliminary and open-ended attempt to sketch out the different ways mixed drinks can go bad. In this, Ive left out the main one, statistically speaking, which is the old Garbage In-Garbage Out: shoddy, artificial ingredients mixed sloppily together will rarely yield anything drinkable. Fortunately, most modern cocktail bars are out of that phase, at least. These, then, are higher-order errors, the kind you can make with booze that costs more than $20 a bottle and mixers that dont come out of a gun or a #5 can.

But before I get into the details, let me just say that as a mixologist Ive made drinks that fall into just about every one of the following categories and foisted them on the general public, whether at bars Ive consulted for, at charity events, at parties, during my occasional bartending shifts, or via the printed or pixelated word. I write, in other words, from inside the House of Bad. Its partly from making so many wrong drinks that Ive learned to make the occasional right one. Bearing that in mind, Im going to give examples here, some of mine, God help me, but many drawn from actual bars, lightly disguised (the purpose of this isnt to assign individual guilt, of which there is plenty to go around).

STRATEGIC ERRORS

Drinks with strategic errors will never be right because theyre wrong from the get-go; not even an Audrey Saunders, a Jim Meehan or an Alex Kratena, some of the top bartenders out there, could make them taste good without major surgery to the recipe. Here are a few of the most common mistakes.

Historical Errors

Warning signs: David Emburys recipe

Bad drinks, like disease, have always been with us. Some of them have interesting backstories. That does not mean they should be revived. Some of the most respected mixologists from the past, including Charles H. Baker, Jr., author of the legendary, and damned amusing, Gentlemans Companions, and particularly David Embury, the great theorist of mixing drinks, did not know how to balance a cocktail. Even the great 1930 Savoy Cocktail Book has far more wretched drinks in it than brilliant ones. Some whole periodsthe shockingly booze-forward 1950s; the sweet and sticky 70sare largely devoid of good drinks (the 70s ones, for instance, tend to require major surgery to make them drinkable, such as Jeffrey Morgenthalers addition of 125-proof Bookers Bourbon to the Amaretto Sour). You fish in these waters at your peril.

I learned this lesson back in 2005, when I was asked to provide an opening cocktail for a dinner featuring a few of New Yorks top French chefs, including Jacques Ppin and Andr Soltner, two of my culinary idols. I chose the Henri Souls Special, a drink recorded in Ted Sauciers 1951 drinks compendium Bottoms Up. Soul was the formidable presence behind Le Pavillon, New Yorks leading French restaurant in the 1940s and 1950s, and since Ppin had gotten his start in the city there I thought it would be an appropriate tribute.

Here, however, was the drink: 2.5 ounces Cognac, 1 teaspoon sugar, half a teaspoon lemon juice and two pieces of orange peel, shaken with ice and strained into a cocktail glass. OK, perhaps a trifle strong, I thought, but that was how they liked em then. That may have been true, but it was not how they liked em now: Ppin took one sip and left his on a convenient shrubbery-pot, and few people got through more than a few sips. They were right: the drink tasted like California jug wine fortified with rubbing alcohol. A good story does not fix a bad drink.

Also, see below under tactical errors.

Thematic Errors

Warning signs: garnishes fashioned to resemble known objects

A very fertile source of bad drinks is the idea that the drinks name should determine its ingredients. This can make for perfectly lovely drinkstake the Rob Roy, a Manhattan where Scotch whisky has been substituted for American ryebut it is risky, as it can lead to the choice of ingredients for reasons other than flavor and texture. A prime example is the drink I came across recently called the Indian Itch, where a few slices of the little, blisteringly-hot green Jwala pepper so common in Indian food were muddled in Indian rum, shaken with pineapple juice and a hearty pinch of curry powder (thats right, curry powder), strained into an ice-filled glass and topped with ginger ale. Yes, it conveyed the idea India. No, it did not also convey the idea drinkable.

A great deal of modern mixology flirts with this error: many modern drinks are thematic, and use unorthodox ingredients, from distilled dirt (seriously) to pigs eyeballs (again, seriously), to reinforce their themes. Are such drinks always bad? No. Should you be wary? Again, pigs eyeballs.

Volume Errors

Warning signs: bartender is either unenthusiastic or too enthusiastic at your order

By volume here I mean not the amount of liquid in the drink, but the amount of flavor. Some drinks have too little, but given the choice between, say, light, blended Irish whiskey shaken with lemon juice, simple syrup and a dash of elderflower liqueur, and Navy-strength gin, green Chartreuse, Fernet-Branca, Pimiento Bitters and rich, concentrated and sweet Pedro Ximnez sherry, Ill take the dull one. Two or three strong-flavored ingredients played against each other can work well, but with each additional one you risk the whole thing falling apart.

Unclubbable Ingredient Errors

Warning signs: herb garden behind the bar

The unclubbable ingredient is the one thing you add that refuses to get along with others, either by being loud and bullying and entirely blotting them out or by being passive-aggressive and persistent and speaking through all the silences. Smoky Scotch, Chinese baijiu, some mescals, absinthe, Fernet, and some pot-still rums all are dangerous in this way. But so are herbs, such as tarragon, chervil, and the like. They dont drown out the other flavors like the big spirits do, but they have a persistence that makes them linger when all the other flavors are gone. Thats not to say they cant be used well, just that they very often are not.

Brown Drink Errors

Warning signs: over 5 ingredients

Just as all colors, when blended, create brown, theres a flavor profile drinks tend to take on when theyve got too many ingredients. Sorta sweet, sorta bitter, sorta herbal, a little bit fruity, maybe sourish, too. Inexperienced mixologists, faced with a drink that doesnt quite work, have a tendency to keep adding ingredients until the thing tastes OK. Eventually, almost any drink, as long as it doesnt have an unclubbable ingredient, can be made to taste OK if you add enough stuff. But just mediocre isnt worth $15. For that, you want a drink that is focused; that doesnt taste like a little of this and a little of that, but rather has a point of view and a harmonious identity. The only way to get there is to strip away ingredients and start over with different ones; ones that get along well together. Knowing what those are takes experience. The older the mixologist, the fewer ingredients he or she tends to use. As the great jazz trumpeter Roy Eldridge once told Dale DeGroff, dean of American bartenders, when I was younger I used to play all the notes; now, I just play the right ones.

So much for strategic errors.

TACTICAL ERRORS

Drinks with tactical errors are fundamentally sound, but something has gone wrong in their execution. Here, Im not going to bother with simple incompetencereaching for the wrong ingredient, under-stirring, pouring fruit-fly infested liquor or spoiled lime juice, serving a drink in a warm glass, things like that. Thats just bad bartending, not bad mixology.

Historical Errors

Warning signs: Imbibe, by one David Wondrich, and a collection of other history books behind the bar

Some drinks are bad because their makers have gotten hold of a piece of knowledge from the wrong end and are letting it mess them up. For example, a common error I encounter occurs with the New York Sour, a whiskey sour with a float of red wine and one of my favorite drinks. Sometimes when I order one the bartender will add egg white to the drink. Historically, some sours used egg white, but never this one. The egg white produces a layer of froth on top of the drink, which clashes with the layer of red wine also being added to it, and you end up with a drink topped with an unattractive, pinkish muck, rather than a visually-striking, thin red line. Here, history has trumped common sense.

Another historical error involving egg whites occurs when the bartender, following an old recipe, adds a whole egg white to a drink, not realizing that eggs were much smaller in 1918 than the supersized jumbo ones we get in 2018. A little egg white adds a nice texture; a lot, and youre tasting egg white. Nobody wants to taste egg white.

Arts & Crafts and Food Tech Errors

Warning signs: more than two house-made ingredients on the cocktail list, or bar uses purchased simple syrup

Its fine to make your ingredients if you can do them masterfully and theres no other way to get them. Alas, too many bars make theirs just to say that they did. I cant count the number of times Ive had an overly sour Jack Rose (apple brandy, lime juice and grenadine) because the bar makes its own grenadine from pomegranates and sugar rather than using the commercial stuff. Admittedly, the ingredients of the supermarket brands are fairly appalling, but at least theyre really sweet and brightly colored, which is why grenadine was called for in the first place. Nobody ever talked about the stuffs flavor. A good house-made grenadine will duplicate the heavy sweetness and intense red color of the commercial stuff, leaving out the high-fructose corn syrup, the artificial flavors and the dyes (okay, sometimes a little food coloring helps). A bad one, as one encounters more often than not, will be sour and brownish and will neither adequately sweeten nor color the drink. Then there are the clumpy orgeats, the gritty tonic waters, the weird-tasting bitters, the infused vermouths that no longer taste like vermouth. Homemade ingredients can be great, but they have to be great, so to speak. Nothing so-so should go in a drink, no matter who makes it.

Which brings us to the other side of the equation; the crappy commercial products that are mucking up a perfectly good drink. Otherwise-crafty bars that purchase things like simple syrup (sugar and water, mixed), lemon and lime juice and Bloody Mary mix should be avoided. Theyll charge you three times what the corner tap will for the same quality of drink, or worse.

Helping a Brother Out and Helping a Sponsor Out Errors

Warning signs: More than 10 bottles youve never heard of; no bottles youve never heard of

These are the booze versions of the Arts & Crafts/Food Tech errors. We live in an amazing time where literally hundreds of new, small distilleries are making every kind of spirit imaginable. Some of them are even good at it. Many of them, though, are not quite there yet. When I see a local gin I havent heard of being used in my Martini, I start to get very worried. The Martini is a pitiless drink, and it demands a tight, focused gin. All too many of the new brands, in an understandable move to differentiate themselves from whats already out there, employ wide ranges of non-traditional botanicals. These can make for a weird Martini. A Martini should not be weird.

The same goes for whiskey. Too many of the new brands are under-aged, which mean that Old-Fashioned will be hot and fumey and redolent of the wet-dog aroma of new-make grain spirit. Thats not what you want. On the other hand, if the bar carries only big national brands, or has the whole line of Large Producer Xs flavored vodkas or rums on display behind the bar, it might not be the place for a fine cocktail.

Glassware Errors

Warning signs: All the drinks look like a giant, translucent version of a kids cup-and-ball game

Many new cocktail bars, having expensive and elaborate ice programs, like to show off by putting as many drinks as possible in bucket glasses (basically, large whiskey glasses), each holding one huge ball or cube of ice. Thats fine for an Old-Fashioned. Its not fine, or even acceptable, for a vast range of other drinks that want to be straight up in a stemmed glass. If I have one more Last Word served to me on the rocks I swear I shall go to a mountain cave and speak no more.

We could go on with all this, and perhaps in the future we shall. In the meanwhile, be warned and drink well.

Read more: https://www.thedailybeast.com/dr-daves-field-guide-to-bad-cocktails

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2sPnBLC via Viral News HQ

#IFTTT #Viral News HQ