#i. ⌜ mobile. ⌟ ― a dance ’round the memory tree.

[romantichopelessly]

Not a Cinderella Story

This is my contribution to @dukexietyweek 2020! The prompt was Fairytales and I followed it... very loosely. This is also a bullet fic because I scrapped my plot no less than three times over the course of writing this.

Pairing: Romantic Dukexiety, Implied/Background Mociet

Words: 2072

Warnings: jealousy, misunderstandings, toxic behavior

Synopsis: When Remus, Roman and Virgil were young, they were inseparable. They always played pretend--castles and princesses and dragons. But everyone has to grow up. Things change.

----

Remus Sanders and his twin brother Roman have always been close. “Attached at the hip” some would say. Specifically, their mother, neighbors, and preschool teachers.

They always do the same things. They like the same juice. The same snacks. They play with the same toys, and they always laugh at the same things.

Their bond is unbreakable. They are the perfect duo. They never need anyone else.

Until they meet Virgil Storm.

They meet him early in their second grade year. Virgil is… a weird kid. He wears a purple jacket with cat ears on the hood in the middle of August. He doesn’t try to talk to anyone at lunchtime. He wears different colored socks and carries a lunchbox with cartoon spiders on it that says “Happy Halloween” even when it isn’t October.

He’s odd.

Remus loves him. And because Remus loves him, so does Roman.

The three of them make quick friends, underneath the tree on the playground, sitting in the grass and sharing easy smiles, as children do.

Roman suggests that they play a game that he and Remus invented all on their own--Knights and Dragons.

Virgil is quick to agree, because young children don’t have anything to worry about beyond silly games with their peers.

Remus believes that Knights and Dragons is a much more fun experience with three people. Sometimes Virgil is a knight, with Roman, and they both chase Remus around the school yard, giggling and waving sticks like they’re swords. And other times, Virgil is a dragon with Remus, and the two of them roar and yell and flap their arms like wings.

Virgil makes Remus laugh in ways that he thought only his brother could. Virgil laughs with him, not at him.

Of course, all good things come to an end, and soon, for the imaginative boy that was Roman Sanders, Knights and Dragons is not enough.

Knights and Dragons are boring in the eyes of a third grader.

Roman suggests one day that they add a princess to their game of Knights and Dragons.

Remus (rightfully) thinks that this is a very stupid idea. Princesses are for Disney movies and fairytales. Remus Sanders most definitely does not live in a fairytale.

But Roman loves fairytales. And Roman loves Disney. And, unfortunately, so does Virgil.

So they add a princess to their game. Oftentimes, this princess is played by Virgil, but sometimes Roman steps into the role. Remus is just glad that he gets to stay a big scary dragon.

That is… Until just a princess being kidnapped by a dragon and saved by a courageous knight is not enough for young Roman Sanders.

No, Roman wants more. Roman wants to emulate his favorite movies and his new favorite theme of said movies--

Romance.

So Knights and Dragons and Princesses turns into… Playing Cinderella.

There definitely wasn’t a dragon in Cinderella.

Remus is quickly shoved into the roles of the ugly stepsisters and stepmother. Don’t get it wrong! He loves playing the villain. He loves laughing maniacally and calling his brother funny names and getting away with it without punishment, because it was just pretend.

He doesn’t so much like sitting in the grass of his own backyard, watching while Roman and Virgil twirl around, holding hands and “dancing” to imaginary music while they “fall in love.”

It’s boring.

He’s almost glad when Roman’s phase of playing pretend Disney princesses ends.

Except that he can’t be. Because it ends with the three of them turning twelve and entering the dreaded halls of middle school. It ends with Roman joining the school theater club and making a whole bunch of new friends.

It ends with Virgil and Remus suddenly being left to walk home from school alone one day.

Despite his brother’s popularity, both Remus and Virgil are… outcasts of a sort. And since they just downgraded from a trio to a duo, their friendship is a bit more… strained. They still have the closeness of five years of best friendship, but there’s something… missing.

Cue Janus Duncan.

Janus is also an outcast. Janus is like a fairy godmother who comes in to save the poor outcasts at the last second, turning bleak days into wishes come true (if eating school lunch under the bleachers and snorting with laughter as they mix all the slushie options at 7-11 into one cup can be considered wishes come true), and wearing a super cool leather jacket that was two sizes too big, but definitely influenced Remus’s punk phase.

Because, oh yeah. They definitely both start their punk phases after meeting Janus Duncan.

Honestly meeting Janus really is a wish come true for Remus. A miracle among the comedy of errors that was his teenage years.

Because after about a year of Virgil, Janus and Remus being the perfect trio 2.0, Remus starts to… notice some things.

One thing is the way that his heart seems to inflate like a little balloon in Remus’s chest when Virgil smiles at him. The way that his guts squirm when Virgil laughs at one of his jokes, true and bright. The way that Remus catches himself staring at Virgil’s crooked smile, or his chipped nail polish as his fingers twirl around in his hoodie strings.

The second thing has… a lot of the same signs honestly.

Because Remus starts to notice how Virgil always watches Roman when he’s over at Remus’s house. The way that Virgil always smiles and waves at Remus’s twin brother when they pass one another in the hallway at school, his pale cheeks flushing a soft pink.

It makes a terrible, sickly green emotion curl in Remus’s stomach.

Jealousy.

So when Virgil tentatively brings up trying out for the school play, and asks Remus if Roman would mind running some lines with him, Remus does something he isn’t proud of.

He snaps. He tells Virgil that he shouldn’t try. That he won’t even make it. That he isn’t popular kid material. That Roman isn’t his friend anymore, god, Virgil, can’t you take a hint?

He watches it happen like he isn’t the one controlling his own body. He sees the shock take over Virgil’s features. The years of easy trust crumble before his very eyes as Virgil reels back in horror. He can taste the jealousy on his tongue.

As Virgil leaves, Remus knows that he is the villain of this story.

He can see it as plainly as if he had shattered Virgil’s dreams right in front of him, like so much of a shattered glass shoe on the palace steps.

That night, Janus comes over and lets Remus have it.

For about five minutes, before Remus breaks down and tells the truth to his now one and only best friend and lecturing quickly turns to comforting.

By the time that they start high school, the original trio has withered down to just Remus. The other two thirds are nearly distant memories. One a locked door down the hall, and the other three lockers down, speaking to new friends.

Anyone would choose the prince over the ugly stepsister. He couldn’t blame them.

The spring of their sophomore year, the school announces that they will be putting on a production of none other than Cinderella.

Roman auditions, of course. He gets the role of the Prince.

Virgil doesn’t audition, but he offers himself up for the role of stage manager.

Virgil and Roman’s friends Patton and Logan audition. They get the roles of mice, but they don’t seem at all upset by that fact.

Janus auditions. He gets the role of the fairy godmother.

Janus asks Remus to audition.

Remus refuses. He doesn’t want to play a campy version of the ugly stepsisters in front of the entire school. He may not care about this hell hole, but he isn’t going to make his remaining two years any worse than they have to be.

Janus drags Remus to rehearsals anyway. Kicking and screaming.

By some miraculous happenstance, Remus suddenly becomes the set designer for the show.

He may be imagining things, but he is pretty sure that that has something to do with what Janus, Roman and the director were whisper-arguing about in the first week of rehearsals.

Remus is grateful for it. Not that he plans on saying so. He still can’t bring himself to apologize to Virgil, but watching him from afar still brings those butterflies to Remus’s stomach.

One night, after rehearsal, Remus is putting the finishing touches on the carriage prop, which has quickly gone from inconsequential to him to his very own magnum opus. He’s just testing out its mobility when he hears soft laughter.

Naturally, he follows the sounds.

Stage left, hidden in the wings, Remus sees his brother, in full costume, standing across from Virgil, who is chuckling and gently smoothing his hands across the front of Roman’s costume.

Remus sees green. His old friend Jealousy curls around him like the dragon that he used to love to play.

He barely restrains himself from breaking the very set that he worked so hard on.

Funnily enough, that is progress.

The night before the play opens, there is a house party. Remus isn’t quite sure who is hosting, but the cast and company are the only people invited.

Remus doesn’t want to go.

Janus makes Remus go.

Begrudgingly, Remus has a good time. He has a good time drinking soda and watching the other stage hands tell stories about past productions. He has a good time laughing at Janus as he unsuccessfully tries to flirt with the boy in the bright blue sweater who plays a mouse.

He is still having a good time when the girl who plays Cinderella herself caps a plastic bottle and places it on the ground, calling for everyone to gather around for a game of spin the bottle.

Remus finds himself sitting between Janus and his giggly mouse boy, and some other techie who wears sunglasses indoors.

There are a few fun rounds. Roman has to kiss the girl playing the stepmother. One of the mice has to kiss Cinderella. It’s all in good fun.

That is, until Remus isn’t really paying attention and the mouth of the bottle is suddenly facing him. He blinks.

From across the circle, the studious looking mouse speaks up. “Janus clearly touched the bo-” The hand of one of the set designers covers the mouse’s mouth.

Remus blinks again. “So who’s the lucky bastard I’m making out with?”

All eyes turn to Virgil, who looks like a startled mouse himself.

Shit.

Virgil is up before anyone can say anything, backing away from the circle and spinning on his heel before making a beeline for the kitchen. Remus follows, standing up before his mind even catches up with his body. He sees Roman making to stand up too, but he holds out a hand.

Even after years of not being close, Roman can tell what he means without a word.

Remus follows Virgil into the kitchen and finds him leaning against the counter.

“Didn’t want to kiss the ugly stepsister that badly, huh?”

“What?”

“You… You know, Emo, like that stupid game Roman always made us play when we were ankle biters.”

“Wh- First of all, you and Roman are identical twins. You look exactly the same. That was just a game.”

Remus shrugs, as if he hasn’t carried that game and all it implied with him for the entirety of his teenage years.

“And… No. It wasn’t- I just didn’t want to kiss you in front of everyone.”

Remus pretends like that doesn’t make his heart shatter into a hundred tiny pieces.

Virgil seems to see it anyway. “I mean that I don’t want to… have my first kiss in front of all of them. It’s nothing against you, they just- they just all know about my crush.”

Virgil says it like it’s something stupid. Like being in love is something shameful. Like liking Roman Sanders isn’t something that literally everyone in that room except for Remus has in common.

“Your crush on my brother?”

Virgil looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot on the face of the earth.

He probably is.

Because he doesn’t see it coming for a second when Virgil steps closer, cups Remus’s cheek in his hand like he is made of something precious and priceless, and closes the gap to kiss him.

#dukexietyweek2020 #dukexiety #remus sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #Logan sanders #patton sanders #Remy sanders #sanders sides #ts sides #ts remus #ts virgil #ts roman #ts janus #ts deceit #deceit sanders #ts logan #ts remy #ts patton #intruxiety #remus x virgil #virgil x remus

[chrisbailey814]

The Tick

The tick was burrowing into the soft pale flesh on the inside of his right arm. Just above his elbow crease but below his bicep. Or rather, where his bicep would be, if he wasn’t limp with fear at the sight of the invading parasite.

“Get this fucking thing off of me.” he almost yelped.

It was quite pathetic. The others laughed at the change in tone.

“Gary was that a castrata?” Dylan’s quip provided a second barrage of laughter.

“The kid has cooties. Give him a lollypop.” Alice added. A third round. Around the camp no one seemed to pay much attention to the group. Gary stared at the small lump on his arm with a panicked look. His eyes wide with the fear of Lyme’s Disease and the rest of his face scrunched down around clenched teeth. The rest of them carried on laughing and joking at him around the fire. The light and the dancing shadows making it more difficult to see, and the not knowing made the pain more agonizing.

“Stop fucking laughing at me. It’s not funny. I don’t want to die.” His protestations fell on deaf ears as the rest of the group continued their discussion about the thirty kilometres they faced tomorrow.

It looked like a piece of tree bark that had splintered and lodged itself in his skin. It looked like he could pull it out with a pair of tweezers.

“What are you doing?” Alice asked as he moved over into her tent, rooting through her rucksack.

“You’ve got tweezers haven’t you?”

“What? No! And even if I did I wouldn’t want your fleas on them. Jesus Christ Gary, just relax. It’s just a bug.”

“It’s not JUST a bug. It’s a fucking parasite. It transmits Lyme’s Disease and unless you want to fucking carry me, you’ll help me figure out how to get it out of my FUCKING skin.” His tone had changed. The rest of the camp noticed. The word ‘parasite’ had caught everyone’s attention. The word ‘disease’ too. Despite Gary’s ordinarily annoying mancunian accent, the sound of ‘dizeeeeze’ fizzed in their heads.

“You can’t pull it out.” Eric’s voice boomed from his tent. His feet sticking out through the canvas flaps in desert boots were all that could be seen of him.

“Why not?” Gary’s question slipped back across the camp unchallenged. The boots started to shift. He was sitting up, you could hear him sit up. When he moved, it sounded like ropes being pulled and stretched. Parts of his body creaked and other parts clicked and snapped. He groaned and his feet disappeared from view for a moment.

“Because if you pull it out, then only part will come out. And the part that stays behind, will leech Lyme’s into your blood.”

“So what do we do with him?” Dylan asked.

“Nothing. At least not for now.” Eric’s reply was not exactly helpful to any of them. “Everybody just calm down. It’s only a tick. We’ll deal with it tomorrow when we have some light.”

The camp was made of four tents in an x shape. The doors facing inwards towards their opposite. Each tent had four people in it, except the tent Eric was in. His was slightly smaller, but older. The poles were metal not carbon fibre, the fabric heavy weight canvas rather than lightweight polyamides. Eric’s tent was his. Everyone else had just grabbed what they could. They had split the carrying so they each had part of a tent and could share the load. Eric carried his tent. It must have been heavier but he didn’t show it. Apart from his tent, he travelled lighter than the others. The same boots, the same clothes. A bar of soap in a ziploc bag, a mobile phone with a charger, a lighter and a multitool. Everyone else had more stuff with them. Two pairs of shoes instead of one, several changes of clothes. Nothing extravagant, but it weighed them down. It slowed the group.

As the campfire dwindled, the light turned a darker red and and only really lit the group’s skin in particularly muted highlights. The conversation too began to soften and quieten. Some of them had gone to bed already, the last few sat around talking in not much more than a whisper.

Dylan turned to Gary. “Does it hurt?”

“Fuck off Dyl.”

“Oh come on mate. I’m sorry, we were only joking around.”

“Yes it hurts. It feels like it’s burning my arm.”

“Eric will get it in the morning. Try not to worry about it.”

“Easy for you to say.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. The final crackling sounds of the dying fire filling the still night. The silence lasted until it became too uncomfortable to exist in, but too heavy to break. Alice decided she would be the one to break it.

“What do you miss?”

Gary thought before speaking. “I know it sounds stupid but I miss my bed.”

“That doesn’t sound stupid.” Dylan had been thinking the same thing.

“It’s not just my bed though.” Gary continued, “I miss being in it and watching telly. I miss -” he paused for a moment, “I miss Paul. I miss feeling his heat next to me and just watching shit on the telly.”

The others couldn’t see it but a tear, slid down Gary’s face, down his jaw line and onto his jumper.

Dylan and Alice looked at each other. “I miss…” Dylan dragged out the word as he thought aloud. “KFC. I fucking miss KFC.”

“Eugh. Sick.” Alice grimaced, “I can’t believe you ate that stuff. It was so gross. It always tasted like slime and saltwater covered in crispy shit.”

“You make it sound alien.”

“It was alien. It was disgusting. Cottage Chicken. That was the best.” She smiled, remembering the taste of chicken. It had been so long since any of them had eaten anything resembling junk food. The food they had now was junk, but not in a good way.

They both looked at Gary. He smiled weakly. He had tried to open up but they had shut him down. He didn’t know how long they would be together once they made it to the border. He thought he might not stay with them. He was an outsider to most of them and if he had had a choice, he probably would have waited, but the time had run out in the end.

“I miss chocolate.” He joined in. It was frivolous and cheap, but at least he could pretend to enjoy it. They all groaned, the memory of chocolate filling their mouths. The rich, imaginary flavours created a temporary unguent from their saliva, and they laughed - together this time - before retiring to their tents.

Morning arrived, and the camp woke up. Tents were dismantled and folded into rucksacks. Ash from the campfire was covered with earth and trodden down. The stones thrown randomly back into the woods and any amount of litter or unnatural dirt was removed so as not to draw attention. Eric sat on a fallen tree, his bag packed and ready. He held his multitool blade over the flame of his lighter and watched it heat up.

He shouted across the camp, “Gary. Come here. Let’s get that thing out of your arm.”

As Gary came closer, Eric spoke calmly, “This is going to hurt a bit, but soon we’ll be safe and we’ll find you some antibiotics.”

Gary winced as the hot blade made contact. The tick crackled for a moment before popping out of his arm. “Better safe than sorry.” Eric put the blade away and picked up his bag. “Let’s move” he said, so they did.

#short fiction #short story #amwriting #writing #writingcommunity #post apocalypse #lgbt

[thosch3i]

40 if you're feeling up to it!

hhh okay hello I decided I was not done dropping characters under that plum blossom tree and making them sad but then shen wei didn’t seem like the type to talk to himself anyway so–

hmm where am i going with this

oh yeah! sorry i got emo about shen san again hahaha also it got kinda long (a little over a thousand words, which is…not a drabble, apologies) so it’s below the cut. if i’m not lazy i may drop it on ao3 later for organization purposes.

send me a prompt from here! (i will probably only write weilan fair warning)

Edit: read more is not showing up on mobile this is fine

Prompt 40: “Do you promise?”

“Do you promise?” Zhao Yunlan smiles coquettishly, dark eyes gleaming with lecherous mirth—an entirely too common expression for him. The question he asks follows several related inquiries about Shen Wei’s plans for next Saturday evening, catching Shen Wei entirely off guard on the way to Dragon City University. When Shen Wei had expressed a tentative willingness to accompany him to a local art exhibition, Zhao Yunlan had gleefully pounced on the opportunity like a predator hunting from the shadows.

By all means, it’s a simple question.

“Do you promise?”

A question that grips his chest in an ice-cold vice grip and squeezes his last breath from his lungs. The set of Shen Wei’s jaw tightens, and he blinks rapidly to dissuade the burning behind his eyes from erupting into an outward show of grief. His hands, resting neatly as his sides, tense almost imperceptibly, but he keeps his palms flat against the side of his thighs, resisting his heart’s warring urges to reach out and pull Zhao Yunlan into his arms and never again allow him to leave, or flee the scene altogether.

Zhao Yunlan picks up on Shen Wei’s distress regardless, and his expression turns from teasing to calculating in a flash. “If something at the University happens to pop up last minute, I won’t hold you accountable, of course,” he says, scanning the length of Shen Wei’s body with a piercing gaze. “But you’ll have to make it up to me later,” he adds, a hint of lascivious humor returning to his voice, lips curling once again into a pointed smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I…” Fishing for a legitimate reason to retreat, Shen Wei is left floundering for several nerve-wracking seconds. “I’ll let you know,” he manages to force out, haltingly. “But I have a meeting with a colleague in fifteen minutes; I need to…go.” The lie flakes on his tongue, as flimsy and as tasteless as rice paper. As flimsy as his promise to—?

“Apologies,” Shen Wei adds, voice tight and restrained.

“It’s no problem!” Zhao Yunlan responds cheerily, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets and bumping his shoulder against Shen Wei’s. “Professor Shen shouldn’t lose his impeccable reputation because of someone like me.”

“I…goodbye.” Shen Wei doesn’t waste another second before breaking away at the next intersection, knowing that being trapped by Zhao Yunlan’s shrewd gaze—a clever ruffian with endless devotion in his smile—is the worst possible position to be in.

He hardly wastes his time rounding a corner before vaulting himself into a portal and stumbling out back into his apartment, almost uncaring, for once, of being caught by Zhao Yunlan or anyone else. 

His bedroom is dark, and Shen Wei flicks on the light switch. The portrait of Kunlun remains the largest, but painting next closest in size…

How many years had it been? He knows exactly how many, down to the month, to the day.

Didn’t he promise?

“Xiao Wei, wait for me. Don’t leave, just stay in this yard. If there’s a next life, I will come to find you, alright?”

Zhao Yunlan shares the same whiplash smile, crafty mind, casual indifference towards society’s expectations, and firestorm of a heart. A fiercely burning flame that had been snuffed too soon.

It’d been Shen Wei’s fault, then, how it had ended.

Shen Wei doesn’t know how long he sits in his room, staring unseeingly at the endless wall of paintings and photographs, lost in memories of what had been, what could have been, what never will be. When he eventually forces himself onto his two feet again, his heart has already decided on a destination.

The cottage remains untouched after centuries have passed, tucked into a corner of the fabric of existence, away from mortals’ greedy, prying eyes.

Shen Wei clutches a jar of wine in one hand. It’s silly, but he thinks the wine would’ve been appreciated more than flowers. He had nearly brought a chessboard on impulse, but who would he play against? The fleeting memory of someone’s smile?

A lone plum blossom tree stands across from the cottage, branches dancing gently in the crisp breeze. It’s not the same one from those years gone, but Shen Wei had obsessively returned every decade to collect cuttings from the last tree and plant a new one. 

Shen Wei sits with his back ramrod straight against the bark, legs folded neatly. He rests the jar of wine beside him.

The ground where the body lies had long been covered by mossy green grass, but Shen Wei always knows where it is, a few meters from where he sits. There would be nothing left after all these years, he knows. Not a shred of evidence that a singular, spectacular man had crashed into the quiet solitude of one ghost king and had never left him, not really.

The air is thick with humidity, the taste of rain only hours away.

What is he here for? Every year, without fail, when the plum tree is in bloom, Shen Wei finds himself resting against its stolid trunk, beneath its waving branches. The delicate early spring petals thrum with the blooming of a new life, a stark contrast to the homely, abandoned mountain cottage, wearing away at the seams.

A stark contrast to Shen Wei himself, with a soul darker than the depths of the Underworld, draining the life from the sole person he cherishes with his whole, just-as-black, heart.

“It wasn’t the next life, but you found me.” Shen Wei is not one to soliloquize. His single statement drifts into the wind, equal parts melancholic reminiscence and placid statement of fact.

Perhaps there are hundreds, thousands, millions, infinite thoughts he can never bring himself to voice aloud. His hands, resting neatly on his lap, clench into fists. The faint pressure of his nails, no longer sharp enough to tear flesh, digging into his palm does little to dissuade him from sitting motionless, staring unblinkingly ahead, all his words lodged somewhere in his throat.

Didn’t he promise?

Shen Wei ducks his head with a faint, unamused laugh. Even now, all of his instincts scream for him to return to Zhao Yunlan, never let him out of Shen Wei’s sight, strangle him with his embrace, consume him whole. To indulge one more time, for just a fraction of his all-but-eternal life.

His suit is dusty and stained from the earth when Shen Wei finally stands up. He leaves the jar of wine and walks to the unremarkable patch of grass a short distance from the plum tree. “I’m sorry,” he says to an empty grave.

When humans visit a grave, Shen Wei’s heard, they speak about themselves—everything from new relationships formed to silly innocuous details of their day-to-day life. How they’ve survived, endured, moved on, with their loved one no longer by their side.

Shen Wei doesn’t say anything else.

He survives only to protect the seal. He endures only to watch Kunlun’s reincarnations from afar.

Move on? Move on?

It won’t end like last time, Shen Wei swears to himself. He’d die before he’d that happen again.

This promise, at least, is one he knows he can keep.

#guardian #weilan #镇魂 guardian #镇魂 #巍澜 #willowcatkinblossom #my fic #ask #shouting into the void

[betterlatethannever2]

THE ALLY PALLY CONNECTION

I recently came across a photo, taken from Mountview Road, near Crouch End, where I lived as a child.  I was amazed to be able to see Alexandra Palace on a further hilltop, which I am sure was not visible from there in the 1940’s.  Grandma and Grandad Hoad (my mother’s parents) lived at 103 Rosebery Road, Muswell Hill, which was barely a stone’s throw from the Palace, and my mother and I were frequent visitors there.  This was the house that was provided for my grandparents after their own house at Nunhead (102 Drakefell Road) suffered war damage.  These visits are among my earliest memories, and I certainly remember being there in June 1944 when a telegram was delivered to announce that my Uncle Leslie had been killed in a motor-cycle accident on Malta.  He was on War Service but wasn’t involved in hostilities at the time.  I remember the grief, but it was stoically borne, in my presence anyway.  I was four at the time.

The second sad event at this address was the cot-death of my first brother, Anthony.  We must have been staying for the night.  This was totally unexpected, and I remember my mother’s devastation.  For a few weeks it seemed as though I had become the responsibility of Grandma, and my Auntie Marjorie who was still living at home at the time.  Nobody spoke to me about the tragedy, and I had to work out for myself why my mother was unable to cope with my care, and why she did not wish to speak to any body.  I do not recall being present at the funeral, but I presume my mother was able to regain her composure once all the procedures had been dealt with.  We manage things very differently now.

My grandparents were still at this address in 1947, and by this time I was trusted to go and see them by myself on the bus.  The bus stop, at the bottom of the green sweep, and on the road that curves round and up to Alexandra Palace was still there fifteen years ago, and I am sure it is still there now.  I would get off the bus and make my way through a small cutting, turn left, and then right, and straight on down Rosebery  Road to 103.  The semi-detached house, in an area now beloved by TV executives, had a very relaxed appearance, and a certain ‘graciousness’ inside.  There were two quite large and formal rooms on the ground floor, and stairs down to the kitchen, where we all sat unless there was a big family gathering.  the front room was very rarely used, but the back room could accommodate a sizeable party, and I enjoyed one or two of these, at adult knee height.  This room had french windows which led out onto a raised wooden veranda overlooking the garden.  I can smell the damp woodland feel its slippery surface under my feet, even now.  I loved all these visits.

I was the first grandchild, and while not actually spoilt in that sense, I enjoyed lots of affection and attention.  On my arrival, Grandad would reach for his ’sweetie’ tin on the piano, and while intoning Fe Fi Fo Fum, would invite me to plunge my small hand into the  sweet smelling and sticky selection.  I was particularly fond of pear drops.  Grandma had a selection of toys, wind-up tin animals and vehicles, simple construction sets, and jigsaws.  And of course, there were the Just William books.  I was never, ever bored, and always happy to listen in to the adult conversation, without making that too obvious.

Grandad was a very practical man, and was always making useful gadgets and small pieces of wooden furniture, and even toys.  He also repaired the family shoes on his lasts - a great saving then, as shoe repairs were very costly.  His workshop was a small room tucked away under the veranda.  He was also very proud of his garden.  His new potatoes, garden peas and strawberries have never been equalled in my experience.  I can just about summon their exquisite flavour, together with that of the pears from the trees  that grew in the garden.

On a Sunday morning he would take me to the newsagent’s to buy a comic for me, and a couple of the less salubrious Sunday papers for him, together with Titbits.  I read them all!  In the afternoon he would pack up his leather cases, and take his bowls up to the Muswell Hill Bowling Green.  I still have the smaller case, and I treasure it - not with the bowls in unfortunately.  I expect other members of the family took care of those.

Grandma, or more often my Auntie Marjorie, would take me to play on the swings in the grounds of Alexandra Palace.  On the top terraces, you had a wonderful view over London.  On one unforgettable occasion, my mother, Aunty Marjorie and myself dressed up in the beautiful dresses my mother had made out of  nylon parachute material.  Mine was white with red silk thread embellishment to the frills, and theirs were yellow with jade thread.  We were off to the Ball at the Palace.  Even at the time I thought it was very nice of them both to take me too, but with hindsight, I guess I made a useful chaperone.  They didn’t have to dance together all evening, there were gentlemanly invitations too.  I am always trying to reconstruct that evening in my mind, and comb the television screen whenever there is an event at Ally Pally, but it always eludes me.

These memories have been stirred by finding the paperwork connected with the requisitioning of the house that Grandad actually bought in 1933, located between Nunhead and New Cross.  He was a draughtsman by profession, and went to work in a suit, white shirt and tie.  His recent ancestors had been boatbuilders at Rye, hence his handyman skills, but clearly he was ‘upwardly mobile’.  The house cost £650.  By 1953, and after a great deal of ‘argy bargy’ about the war damage repair costs, and who was responsible for them, the house was valued at £350.  I have not been able to follow the line of argument, but clearly my grandfather knew when and how to dig his heels in when necessary, but he may have lost out on value as a result.

My grandparents were delighted to be back in their own house at last, and I hope that I never let on that I much preferred the house at Rosebery Road.  The railway ran at the bottom of their garden which was interesting, but noisy.  When I was ten, or eleven, my father (long home from the army by then), accepted a transfer of his post with the Public Trustee (a branch of the Civil Service, dealing with wills and probate) and we moved north to Manchester, settling in the nearby village of Romiley, then in Cheshire.  I was very homesick, but my parents allowed me to travel back to Grandma and Grandad’s for some of my school holidays.  I had the sort of freedom I would tremble to give my own grandchildren now.  Nunhead station was just down the road, and I would regularly take myself into central London to explore.  I also enjoyed visits to places like Kew Gardens, and to see other relatives, with Grandma and Auntie Marjorie.

When I watch TV programmes like ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ I know I am very lucky to know exactly who I am. 1st June.2020

[hiromisuzukimicrojournal]

A Longer Trip Back Home

...

✽

Hey, have a cigarette?

She always asks me if I have a cigarette when she has emptied the last box. Of course I do not have it, she knows. My mother spends all her wages on cigarettes. My mother, a waitress at a café in the center of a suburban residential area at the edge of the world. In the afternoon, the café is filled with ladies. They are housewives coming from elegant houses at the edge of the world, killing time. Mother and the ladies play mah-jongg every Wednesday at the café, in the center of the town, where the smoke of cigarettes wafts stronger than the scent of coffee.

You must go straight home and study, Mother says, as a mother would.

I always stop by a used record store on my way home from high school. Music is the heart of my mind. Today, my favorite tune, “Running Away,” is playing in the store. The Raincoats’ version, not Sly & The Family Stone’s, which is actually called “Runnin’ Away.” I sing to the music.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

The vinyl collector is smiling wryly.

Delightful tune, but ironical lyrics, he says. I have a 30-year fixed-rate mortgage. I wonder how many more years I have to work. I want to sell this store and get away to San Francisco, the heart of the world. Why? You can see the ocean from the top of the hill. That is all.

His 11-year-old son, strangely mature, enters the conversation while listening near the cash register.

How about your boyfriend? No lover? If you are not in love yet, it is too late. But dad is too young for an affair.

The boy’s eyes twinkle with curiosity. There is a big Himalayan cedar in the back of the record store, and sometimes an owl appears on a branch. When I am staying in the store, forgetting time, I hear the owl tu–whit tu–whoo. A small river flows at the root of the cedar, and there is a small old church on the marsh.

When I was a child, a wedding was held by the side of this river. I was a bridesmaid, and the cedar was decorated like a Christmas tree. The guests carried an enormous red sea bream into the kitchen in preparation for the ceremony. My mother and the vinyl collector’s wife poached the eggs to a beautiful golden colour and boiled four dozen white asparagus as a side dish. On a Swedish glass dish in bas‐relief with dandelions, the butter slowly melted beside the radishes.

Yes. It was spring.

Someone knocked on the door of the kitchen. Ladies in aprons looked around. They thought the knock was the prank of a spring storm. But it was the bridegroom. He rushed to the kitchen sink and turned the tap to gulp down some water. An old woman named Eliza shouted to him from her house across the way.

Too late! The bride has gone somewhere! She is a wayward girl!

Too far! It took a million hours on a bus from Shibuya station! he joked, spouting water from his inflated mouth and soaking his bow tie. He was a chipmunk that came to this marsh on a gondola of chicory leaves.

The bride was beautiful. She was clinging to the cedar, and as she reached out to the star ornaments shining on the branches of the tree, a warm wind teased the hem of her champagne dress. Guests grew excited, little by little. The sky was getting dark. I was crouching alone on the bank of the river at dusk. The chipmunk ran away from the banquet and gave me a leftover chicory leaf like a tiny boat. The boat left my hand. The boat drifted on the river, far away.

Where does this river come from?　I questioned the bridegroom.

A mountain? I do not know. Ha! he answered.

Where does this river go to?

The river reflected the sunset. The chicory boat was floating freely on the water.

The sea? Ah, Tokyo Bay, the Pacific? Ha! Ha!

Tokyo Bay? Little did I know a small river in my small town flows into the infinite ocean. I had never seen the sea.

A girl in a swimsuit with a yellow floral pattern is swimming in a murky pool. Someone beckons her, seduces her. She becomes a little fish and approaches him trembling with fear. No. The girl dives in the ocean for the first time. Not the pool. A blowfish hides at the bottom of the sea. White round blowfish like clouds shine in the sunlight breaking through the faint waves. The blowfish has poison. She keeps swimming in pursuit of poison. A blowfish with white belly inflated does not move. Is he dead? As he opens his eyes slowly, he laughs, showing his teeth.

All of us have a place in history. Mine is in the clouds, he says *[1].

Dad! she cries with joy. Her father died a drunk at fifty years of age. Everyone says it was a slow-motion suicide. No. Certainly, he lives his life at the bottom of the sea, or as the shadow of a cloud floating on the surface of the ocean. There is a Japanese proverb: control poison with poison. Her father was fighting the evil in his mind with his own poison. She remembers his rounded back. Late at night, or on a Sunday afternoon, he headed to his desk with a bottle of Johnnie Walker and read the collection of poems. She cannot remember the titles of foreign books. The poems were written in English or French. The girl begins to swim toward the sun. Petals scattering from her swimsuit shine in the water. Like cherry blossoms dancing in a cloudy sky.

The memory of the wedding at the root of the Himalayan cedar raised for me the riddle of a small river in my small town. I decided to explore the headsprings and the destination of this flow. I bought a 1950s map of Tokyo at Jimbōchō. At the ward office, I found historical documents about Shibuya Ward. The map showed that the source of river was a marsh under the church. One more place. I found a pond on the site of an old mansion, the place I always see on my way to school. No one seemed to live there, and unmanaged trees grew thick behind the high wall. The map said Davies House. Once a British trading merchant lived here. Mr. Davies sold his mansion and returned home in the 1980s. During the Edo period, in the 1600s, it was a pleasure garden called Oyama-en. The garden was not a place for children to play. There were no merry-go-rounds, roller coasters or kiosks selling gelato. It was the place where poets gathered, in the gazebo at the pond. Intellectuals enjoyed tea and spent time meditating.

The gate of the abandoned mansion had been closed for about 40 years. One fine Sunday, I found out that the site of the mansion was open to Shibuya residents, but only for the day. The garden was already full of people strolling with flowers in their hands. The petals shine with droplets, because the night before was rainy. The faces of people are shining with curiosity. Not only the vines of feral trees but also the ferns are crawling at my feet. I have difficulty walking. In the deep green woods, a lacquered bridge is painted a particularly bright shade of red. I stand on the bridge. Under it, spring water bubbles in a dry pond.

A chipmunk of about 12 centimeters fills his cheeks with buds and jumps off the zelkova tree. The chipmunk is eating mock strawberries growing around the pond.

This is cute Fraisier de Duchesne. Mock Strawberry is also called poison strawberry, but it is not poisonous. Try it. Ha! the chipmunk says to me proudly and plays in the pond using the red fruit as a beach ball. The bright red strawberry slips through his fingers and is swallowed by invisible swirls on the water. It disappears into the drain of the pond. There is a river, a culvert, beyond the drain. It was buried in concrete beneath the Metropolitan Area when the Olympics were held in Tokyo in 1964.

Fraisier de Duchesne left itself to the water. Sunlight melted into the Kōhone-River. The water was warm. Kōhone Flowers–East Asian yellow water-lilies–surrounding the river were swaying gently in the wind. Leaves were floating on the surface. Fraisier de Duchesne came out of the darkness in the groundwater and bathed in the sunlight on a leaf. A little boy and his father held hands and passed by Fraisier de Duchesne. They were singing a song.

A small river in spring is flowing smoothly *[2]  

To violets and milk-vetch flowers on the shore

While flowering gently in beautiful colour

Bloom please, bloom, While whispering

Fraisier de Duchesne, pretty in red, has no poison and knows nothing about poison. It will leave itself to the stream of water and time as ever.    

I am standing on Inari-Bridge near the Shibuya Station. All rivers leading to this bridge are culverts. Buildings are towering on both sides of the bridge, a forest of department stores, restaurants, brothels. Shibuya River flows under the bridge. I can see the water with my eyes. The river passes through the downtown. Various people come and go. Various voices are confused with various languages. The clear stream has revived on the Shibuya River before the Tokyo Olympics in 2020. I am moved by the truth that there is a sea called Tokyo Bay, if I will swim about 6.8 kilometers from here. The orange colour of the sun floating on the Shibuya River is the same as it on the nameless small river in my small town. The murmur of a stream whispers.

Shall we run away to the ocean?      

I have forever heard it. The music was played repeatedly on a late-night program on the radio. Maybe it is a melody signaling that a passenger ship is leaving port but is not suitable for departure. Colourful flags on the mast are fluttering in the blue sky. On the surface of the sea, reversed flags shimmer like stained glass. Their shadows are waving to the pulse of engines. I recall that this was my favorite song while looking at the port far away. On my way home, on the bus, I am listening to “Runnin’ Away” on my mobile phone. Sly & The Family Stone’s version, not The Raincoats’, which is anyway called “Running Away.”

San Francisco is too far. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!  

Murmuring aloud, I can see from the window that the huge rain cloud chases the bus. The cloud seems to be as high as Montmartre. The front window of the bus is sprayed with heavy rain and becomes completely white. Lightning and the sudden shower cut off my music. The bus has no choice but to stop at the station square. The smell of rain invades. I hear footsteps of seasonal changes. I know that I was pretending not to notice the change of seasons. A mother and child in the seat across the aisle are talking.

We left our umbrella in grandma’s home, but it will clear up soon.

They are looking at brand new shoes they just bought at the department store. Desert boots which are made of suede. I wonder if they are trying to transport themselves by supernatural force to a desert planet 900 light years from the earth. There is no sea on the other side of the moon. I am thinking of the sea.

Yes. Summer will come soon.

✽

image: hiromi suzuki

…

*Quotations:

[1] The Tokyo-Montana Express, 1980 A collection of short stories by Richard Brautigan

[2] Small River in Spring, 1912 A song for schoolchildren Lyrics: Tatsuyuki Takano Music: Teiichi Okano (Translation: hiromi suzuki) Takano had his residence near the Kōhone-River (Yoyogi 3-chōme Shibuya-Ward, Tokyo) when he wrote the lyrics of Small River in Spring. At that time, Kōhone-River was running as a stream that supplied water to the fields, and joined the Shibuya River.

…

✽  ✽  ✽

A Longer Trip Back Home

© short fiction by hiromi suzuki

published in 3:AM Magazine (February 11, 2020)

 …

 via 3:AM Magazine

✽

I am grateful to have been given this opportunity by Mark de Silva, the Fiction Editor for 3:AM Magazine.

…

#hiromi suzuki #short fiction #short story #water #poetry #poem #prose #art #collage #mixed meda #poetry magazine #poetry journal #literary journal #3:AM Magazine #Mark de Silva

[viewsntales]

LIFE IN PANDEMIC !..And, This Too Shall Pass!

Just a month ago, the World Health Organization declared the coronavirus outbreak a pandemic. Is it just me, or does it seem like six months already?

Meanwhile, we’ve all learned to wash our hands, wear masks, and for God’s sake, don’t touch our faces. Seriously. Most of us are probably over the initial shock. But as the crisis stretches on, we’re learning the new challenges and opportunities that keep popping up in our day-to-day lives.

This is the most crucial event in our lifetime, so what are we learning, what are our takeaways from this life in a pandemic ?

1.    Find Your ‘Me-time’

Weren’t we all complaining for the time we used to not get for ourselves? Sitting at office, complaining about not getting time to do an online certificate course, or just look for new jobs/opportunities? Be it learning a new skill, a new language, practicing our hobbies, do yoga, cooking our favourite meal, deep cleaning the house, organise or declutter the living room, or taking care of our physical & mental health, do exercise, or just to get a peaceful home facial? Let it be staring at sunset or sunrise, or just to get enough sleep and do nothing but acknowledge every little things, look back to the memories and spend time with our own selves and also all those self-care sessions we used to plan and rant to our friends for not getting enough time to accomplish. Folks, are you listening ? Aren’t we all there, in lock-down and doing Work from home? Deep down, we all know that we won’t get this phase or the opportunity (taking it positively) of staying home again. Social distancing is a good test of our self-entertainment skills. So, now’s the time to indulge in our curiosities. Whether it is knitting, kite-flying, or any new learning; now you have a chance to dig into the details. This is a golden opportunity for all of us busy folks to take some “me time.” Staying home, doing all the mundane things are the kind of underrated therapeutic things, that not just help us keep ourselves occupied but also heal our minds in many ways.  So why not, get that extra sleep, make a skincare routine, exercise & introspect our thoughts. Hope we all will be grateful later for the time we seized!

2.    Juggling With Jargons; Make the Best Outta It

With stay-at-home restrictions, restaurant, bar, and business closures, folks are enjoying the delightful spring weather, and chatting with family, friends, neighbours and their dear ones. The interactions are a breath of fresh air – literally, and an instant cure in this depressing phase. Also, not to forget, we’re juggling new jargon. Just think of all the unknown and rarely used words and phrases that have become common in our everyday conversation: coronavirus, social distancing, flattening the curve, quarantine, incubation period, shelter in place, asymptomatic, exponential, community spread, epidemiology, and what not!  We were always interested in increasing our vocabularies; we could have skipped these terms though.

3.   Take A Pause

 Here’s our chance to hit the pause/reset button. Natural disasters happen somewhere on the planet every day. On the other side of the globe hundreds, and thousands, of people lose their lives. But this crisis is happening in our own back yard … everyone’s own back yard. For all of us, dire concerns, forced isolation, and radical changes in our routines have given us the chance to pause and reflect on who and what is truly important in our lives. And hopefully, when it’s all over we’ll return to normal with a clear awareness of our real priorities. And, hopefully when we get back to our normal lives safely, we won’t take things, every little thing in our lives or in the planet for granted!

4. Halt the Screen Addiction; Filter the Information

Too much time, TV, and internet mean that we’re all suffering from news overload. When bouncing from page to page online it’s easy to be sucked in by sensational clickbait. For example: “500 Positive Coronavirus Tests in 24 Hours.” What the headline conveniently leaves out are the 2,000 negative tests. Being a Journalist, I understand the need for attention-grabbing titles and catchy headlines, but it’s important to keep in mind what you absorb and how you react to it. Your mental health and stress level will be much improved if you try to get the whole story and understand the real implications of what you read – and don’t panic. These days, We’re even MORE dependent on the internet. Whether for better or worse, with the ongoing or recurring need for social distancing everyone will become more dependent on the internet, social media, and other online resources for their daily lives. If you believe the internet is a panacea then we’re heading into a better world, but for those who think cyberspace is a seductive mistress depriving us of real, face-to-face interactions, it’s a slide down a slippery slope. But whatever it is, our mobile phone/laptop/tab have become our new friends even being at home, with our family around. But, It is all about sharing our space and spending time wisely. Whether it is good to connect over the virtual world or just for the sake of killing time during lockdown, scrolling through memes, insta-feed and fb walls; We somehow forget our real existence. See, all I want to convey is not to get too carried away with others’ throwback travel stories or beautifully garnished food pictures. We all have our own pace and we all are doing pretty good. Love the normal and stop chasing for the best. We aren’t proving anyone anyway. So, why not baking that chocolate cake, making a not-so round chapati, or just enjoy a plate full of panipuri with our loved ones over fun & laughter, and without the pressure of getting a perfect click for social media. Let’s capture the memories not for Insta but for our own happiness. Let’s get over the perfection & celebrate the flaws, meanwhile learn, improve & Grow!

6. Prepare For The Long Game

We all desperately want things to return to normal … and fast. But it doesn’t take a pandemic to do that, given the off-the-charts spread of COVID-19, it’s going to be a long time before the planet gets back to anything approaching normal. As every one of us keep, asking, “Are we there yet?” only makes the trip seem longer. So, why not keeping that optimism in a positive way as the world is healing slowly, and gradually. Also, be happy for our Mother earth getting time to heal from the harm we humans have caused to it. We shall prevail and overcome this phase, may not be soon but definitely someday; till then let’s enjoy the clear & colourful sky, clean water, chirping of birds, green leaves on trees and all that little things of nature we fail to admire!

A quote to sum things up:

“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass,

it’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

Love & Healing

Sanghmitra

#covid-19 #quarantine #lockdown #solitude #coronavirus #pandemic

[goodwriterwithbadhabits]

Celestial Lovers

Master List

I'm on mobile, its 2 am, this isn't edited but I couldn't stop thinking about this so... Here.

~~

Long ago, the sun and moon danced together in the sky as lovers. The gods grew envious of their love and cast the pair down to earth, to live as mortals in the unkind world. A world that stripped them of their memories of each other.

The sun grew to be known as Y/n, a bright young spirit who made flowers bloom even in the darkest of days.

The moon became an artist named Namjoon, a quiet, strong man drawn to the ocean. They knew not of their true connection in the mortal world but as ages past, they found themselves drifting closer to each other. He frequented the garden she owned and she accompanied him on midnight strolls.

When the gods found out about their renewed courtship they cast them back into the sky, only allowing them to see each other from afar. At first, they chased each other round and round, but soon they grew weary of the game and fell into despair.

The sun refused to set and scorched the land and the moon refused to rise, for fear of losing sight of his love.

The gods felt the guilt begin to rise and so made the pair a deal, they could visit the earth together on the nights of new moons, so long as they continued their turning around the earth.

The celestial lovers agreed and so, every moonless night you may find a pair of opposing lovers laying under a tree, or walking down the street, but in case you miss them, look up, he loves to feel her warmth, even during the day.

#kim namjoon imagines #kim namjoon fluff #kim namjoon #bts imagines #bts imagine #bts #bts namjoon #bts rm #goodwriterwithbadhabits

[isitgintimeyet]

The Ties That Bind

Previous

AO3

Thanks for taking the time to read and comment/ like/ reblog. I really appreciate it.

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge for the beta

Chapter 5 : A Sneaky Set-up

I just have a few more questions for you, Ann. What if he shows up with another woman? What if one of my sleeves catches on fire and it spreads rapidly? What if, instead of Tic Tacs, I accidentally pop a couple of Ambien and I have to keep punching my leg to stay awake? -Leslie Knope, Parks and Recreation

Although the discreet lighting gave the Italian restaurant an intimate atmosphere, very few of the rays cast by the old, smoked glass lamps actually made it into the wooden booths favoured by Claire and Geillis on their frequent visits. Fortunately, this didn’t bother them, even though reading the menu proved to be a challenge.

“You did what, G?” Claire stared intently at her friend.  

Geillis continued to focus on her menu. “Ye ken, I canna read this damn thing. How do I decide what tae have?”

“Stop ignoring my question and put the bloody menu down, G. We come here all the time. You always have the same thing. Talk to me.”

Geillis peered over the top of her menu. “Ach, all I did was give yer phone number tae a certain gentleman I saw in the Emergency Department. I think his name was Jamie Fraser. I kent he was wi’ his nephew and I thought, just in case he may need some more medical advice for the wee lad, ye ken.”

From the corner of her eye, Claire could see the white shirt of a nearby waiter. She beckoned him over. “Hi, could we have two spaghetti with meatballs, please, with garlic bread to share and a bottle of Pinot Grigio? And could we have the wine as soon as possible, please?”

The waiter disappeared with assurances that the wine would be there straight away. Claire’s mind was in a whirl. On the one hand, the emotional side of her brain seemed to be doing its own little happy dance, complete with rockets and confetti, but was being tempered by the logical side, which featured disciplinary panels, codes of conduct and probably a deafening silence from Mr. Jamie Fraser.

A click of glasses announced the arrival of the wine. Declining the offer to taste it, Claire gratefully accepted a half full glass from the waiter and took a large gulp.

“But, why would you do that?” She resumed her questioning of Geillis. “Did you not think about professional conduct?”

“The way I see it is… point one…” Geillis counted off the points on her fingers. “Point one, Jamie Fraser isna and has ne’er been your patient. Point two, you gave a consultation tae his nephew, who has since been discharged from yer care. Point three, I didna give yer number tae yer patient, merely a relative. Point four, he has a useful contact if he’s worried about the wee laddie. And most importantly, I reckon he fits the first criteria for yer fling. I ken he was wearing jeans today, but they were verra well fitting, did ye no’ notice? So tall and broad, he has tae look good in a kilt… and no’ a disappointment out of it, I’m sure.”

Claire drained her wine. “Christ, these glasses don’t hold much, do they?”

She helped herself to a second. The happy dance in her head was being liberally pissed on by her brain’s logical side. “I’m still not sure about a relationship… sorry, fling. Besides, that’s not the point, he won’t ring, I know. Passive rejection, that’ll be.”

“For an intelligent woman, Claire, you do talk some shite sometimes. Frank really messed up yer mind. Can ye no’ see - ye’re beautiful and bright and funny? What man wouldna want a fling wi’ ye? God, if I were that way inclined, I’d have a go meself!”

Claire snorted into her wine. “I’m sure Dougal would have something to say about that!”

“Aye, that he would... including the words, ‘please,’ ‘do it,’ and ‘can I watch’... bless him.”

Two plates of spaghetti and meatballs appeared in front of them followed by a waiter brandishing a huge pepper mill. Geillis shook her head as the pepper mill hovered over her plate.

“I’m sure my friend would be interested in some, though.”

Claire nodded and tried not to catch Geillis’s eye as the pepper was added to her meal.

“D’ya like that grinder then, Claire?” Geillis giggled. ”Length and girth there, as with certain other things, I imagine. I’d be verra interested tae find out, wouldn’t ye, eh?”

**************

Jamie breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a very long and trying day. He loved looking after his nephew. He enjoyed their games, the time spent building with Duplo. He was looking forward to the day when they could progress to proper Lego. In fact, he had a whole box of it up in his loft, just waiting, including the seven and a half thousand pieces needed to build the Star Wars Millennium Falcon. It said ages nine to fourteen on the box, but Jamie was sure they could tackle that next year - once Wee Jamie had got out of the habit of licking all the blocks.

But today had been exhausting. The park had been fine until they started to chase the ducks and then, bang, Wee Jamie had gone flying over a partially concealed tree root, scattering the food for the ducks all round and bursting into noisy sobs. When even the promise of an ice cream had not halted the flow of tears, Jamie had suspected a more severe injury and whisked him straight off to the Emergency Department. Thankfully, it was only a sprain and Jamie had deposited his nephew back with Jenny and Ian generally undamaged, once he had made sure that the smell of chips no longer lingered on him.

Jamie poured himself a large whisky, added a dash of filtered water and settled down on his large burgundy sofa. He flicked idly through the channels on the television, before switching it off, enjoying the silence of his living room and contemplating the other interesting part of the visit to the hospital.

He now had the mobile number of Doctor... no, she was a surgeon, so it should be Miss… Claire Beauchamp. At least he hoped she was a miss, not a missus. But in that case, would that nurse have given him the phone number? Well, maybe she would have if it was just for professional reasons. So, was it professional only? That nurse said...

Things clicked into place in Jamie’s memory. He had seen that nurse before, when he was in the pub with Geneva last week. She was the one who leant over and claimed that tatty old napkin. Jamie tried, unsuccessfully, to remember what had been written on it but his mind was a blank. He must have been too busy gazing at her friend in the doorway… Claire Beauchamp, orthopaedic surgeon and owner of a mobile phone. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and unfolded the small piece of paper.  With his other hand, he lifted his phone and dialled.

**************

Having managed to finish the meal without actually throttling Geillis to stop her constant stream of double entendres and suggestive comments, Claire was looking forward to taking advantage of the light summer nights and taking a refreshing walk back to her flat. However, as she stared out of the restaurant, she could see that was not going to happen. The sky was already dark, filled with heavy grey clouds. Rain lashed against the door and windows, with large puddles already forming on the pavement.  

“Have to be a taxi, then, G.” Claire fumbled in her oversized handbag for her mobile. “Oh, I’ve a missed call here… not one of my contacts. Probably one of those pain in the neck marketing calls. You know, you have recently been involved in a no-fault car accident and so on. Funny, you think I’d remember if I had been.” Claire felt herself babbling, suddenly feeling nervous.

“Let me see,” Geillis made a quick movement and snatched the phone from Claire’s hand.

“It’s a mobile number. You have such an unoriginal passcode, Claire.” She unlocked the phone and pressed redial, ignoring Claire’s feeble sounds of protestation.

“Here, it’s ringing.”

She passed the phone back. As Claire put the phone to her ear, she heard the call connect.  

“Hello?”

Claire immediately recognised the deep, Scottish burr from earlier in the day. She swallowed and tried to move further away from Geillis, who was straining like a dog on a leash to get as close as possible to the phone, avid to hear every single word of the conversation.

“Hello, this is Claire Beauchamp. I’ve got a missed call from this number? Who is this, please?” She was conscious of how formal and English she sounded and how she was lying.

“Hello, this is Jamie Fraser. We met earlier today at the hospital with ma nephew, Jamie Murray?”

“Ah yes, is there a problem? Is your nephew alright?”

Jamie’s heart sank. So the nurse had given her number for professional reasons. “Aye, he’s grand. No, it’s no’ that…” He hesitated.  

Jamie was rarely lost for words, with an appropriate phrase for every occasion and a set of charming chat up lines - none of which he wanted to use on this woman. No cheesy chat up line for Claire, just plain honesty.

“I’m glad that nurse gave me yer number. In the hospital, I was wondering if I should ask ye for yer number. But then ye disappeared afore I had chance. So, I was wonderin’ if ye would like tae go out wi’ me sometime this week or next week. Fer a meal, or a drink. If ye’re no’ able, I understand. I ken ye must be busy.” Jamie decided to shut up before he managed to talk her out of this date completely.

Claire turned her back on Geillis who was now making kissing noises and licking her lips seductively.

“Yes, thanks, that would be very nice.” She screwed her nose up in disgust. I must sound like a old maiden aunt to him, she thought, enough to make him go off me before anything’s even begun. “Lovely. I’d like that very much.”

“OK, weel, now ye have my number, how about ye text me when ye’re free. As a doctor, I guess ye’re no’ too flexible… with dates, I mean.”

“I’ll check my diary at home and get back to you. Bye, Jamie”

“Bye then Claire.” Jamie put the phone down and finished his whisky.  Now he just had to wait for Claire to text him.

Claire turned to Geillis. “I think I’ve got a date”

Geillis made an exaggerated bow. “Thank ye. My work here is done. I would say to name yer firstborn after me, but as this is a fling that willna happen. So, all I ask is that ye tell me all the gory details. Every little, or no’ so little, thing. Dinna leave anything out. Deal?”

Claire laughed “G, you are obsessed.”

“Aye, But ye love me anyways!”

**************

Claire: I’ve checked my diary and I would be free on Thursday evening. Are you ok with that date?  Claire

Jamie Fraser: Thursday is fine with me too. Any type of food you don’t like?

Claire: Sorry, hope I didn’t wake you with that text. Didn’t realise the time.

Claire : I’m fine with most food, although I have a confession

Jamie Fraser: That’s ok. I wasn’t asleep

Jamie Fraser: Confession? That sounds interesting. Should I get a priest?

Claire: Haha. Not that serious, although you may be shocked when you hear it

Jamie Fraser:  Go on. Not sure I like where this is going

Claire: I don’t like haggis

Claire: ...

Claire: or deep fried mars bars

Jamie Fraser: Well that’s all my restaurant choices gone then. Maybe go for Italian? Would that be ok?

Sassenach: That would be lovely

Jamie Fraser: OK. I will book it and let you know the arrangements.  

Sassenach: Goodnight Jamie

Jamie Fraser: Night Claire

#outlander fanfic #outlander fan fiction #Jamie Fraser #claire beauchamp #the ties that bind #chapter 5

[thetucc]

First Christmas - Blake Secret Santa

My Secret Santa giftee is @escapewithstories who asked for Jean and Lucien + fluff. Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy. This is the third fic I’ve ever written, so I’m still trying to find my footing. I enjoyed learning about your Christmas traditions, and I hope you and yours have a lovely holiday season! (Also I’m on mobile so apologies for formatting.)

************

It was a year of firsts for Lucien and Jean as Doctor and Mrs. Blake. Their first turn on the dance floor and their first night exploring each other in their marital bed, amongst many other firsts they would experience throughout the year. And with the Yuletide season quickly approaching, Jean and Lucien were preparing for their first Christmas together, officially melding their family traditions while creating new traditions and new memories to cherish.

Jean stood up and smoothed down her apron, grabbing the box of lights from Lucien and placing it on the floor near the tree. “I think there’s four - a box with keepsakes I collected with the boys, two boxes of decorations Thomas had, and a small box with the angel. They should all be next to where you found the lights.”

Lucien leaned in to give Jean a kiss before turning to head back towards the upstairs closet. As Lucien carried the boxes down one by one, Jean unraveled the lights and began wrapping them round the tree. Lucien placed the last box on the floor near the loveseat and came to stand behind Jean, a hand on her lower back. When the lights were at eye-level with Jean, she turned to Lucien holding up the end of the lights.

“Will you?”

“Of course, darling.”

“I’ll start unpacking the ornaments.” Jean handed the lights to Lucien and stepped away from the tree.

With the lights placed, Lucien joined Jean on the loveseat helping her to unwrap a lifetime’s worth of decorations. He reached for the first box marked ‘T. Blake’. A smile formed on his mouth once he uncovered the first ornament. Though Jean had seen all of these ornaments before, she had never seen the flashes of memory cross Lucien’s face or know the stories behind the precious mementos from Christmases past. Thomas rarely helped when Jean decorated, so she was left to wonder what memories or stories each ornament held. She was delighted to have her husband (and oh how she still hadn’t tired of calling him so) sat at her side to reminisce.

“My grand-mére brought this from Toulouse the one year she visited us for Christmas.” Lucien chuckled softly at the memory. “She hated that Christmas in Australia is warm. I think she was expecting a white Christmas. She sulked for the first half of the trip. My mother gave her a good talking to to pull her out of her mood. That seemed to do the trick, but I know she was happy to return to France after the first of the year.”

Jean smiled at Lucien and continued unpacking ornaments from her box. She pulled a delicate homemade ornament out and Lucien noticed a date etched into the corner.

“I made this for little Christopher’s first Christmas. We didn’t have a lot of money, especially in those first years on the farm. But I wanted to mark the occasion. My sister mentioned the idea to me, and I made this little bootie, covered it in tin foil, and tapped out the date and little flourishes. There’s one in there for Jack, too.”

“It’s lovely, Jean.” Lucien lightly took it from her hand and traced his thumb over the etchings. “Do you think,” Lucien hesitated a moment, a glint in his eyes, “well I’d like to commemorate our first Christmas as Mister and Missus. Do you think that we could make one together?”

Jean reached over to squeeze Lucien’s hand. “That’s a lovely idea, Lucien. Let’s get these up on the tree first.” Jean leaned over to kiss her husband on his cheek, swiping with her thumb to remove the trace of lipstick left behind. She stood up, grabbing several ornaments and walking to the tree, distributing them amongst the branches. Lucien smiled in delight before he, too, stood with ornaments in hand to help his wife.

++++++++

Over the next several days, Jean busied herself with baking and taking donations down to the Op-Shop. Lucien often found her either in the kitchen pulling some sweet morsel from the oven or at the dining table knitting a blanket for Amelia, the wireless a constant in the background with Christmas chorales or hymns as the soundtrack to his wife’s busy movements.

A few days before Christmas, Lucien came home from the morgue to join Jean for lunch before holding surgery. He stood in the passway to glance at his wife as she pulled yet another batch of gingerbread from the oven. Always aware of her husband’s presence and his eyes on her, Jean closed the oven door and turned to greet Lucien.

“Good day, darling?”

“Yes. Just running some tests with Alice. Thankfully the criminals of Ballarat seem to be taking a break this holiday season.”

“Let’s be thankful for small favors.”

Lucien walked around and into the kitchen, standing in front of Jean. He placed his hands lightly on Jean’s hips and leaned in to kiss her. “Hmmm somebody has been sampling her wares. Gingerbread today, is it, Mrs. Blake?”

Jean snapped Lucien with the oven mit held in her hand. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, then stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Cheeky man.” She kissed him again, and then turned back towards the oven. “Our lunches are in the ice box. Will you place the table while I finish this last batch?”

“Of course, darling. Who is the recipient of today’s baking endeavors?”

“I’ll take them with me to the sewing circle this afternoon. Evelyn has organized a bake sale for the orphanage.”

Jean sat at the table, passing a napkin to Lucien. She loved the bustling of the full house, their friends and lodgers coming and going, but she enjoyed these quiet moments with her husband. An opportunity to talk about their respective days, for Lucien to bounce ideas off of Jean if a case was particularly hard, or for Jean to pass on the latest update from her ventures into town.

When lunch was finished, Lucien joined Jean at the sink, helping to wash up from lunch and Jean’s earlier baking. He often was more of a hindrance, but Jean loved the effort and his insistence to always be in her presence.

Jean handed the last bowl to Lucien and dried her hands. Wrapping her arm around his waist, Jean looked up to Lucien.

“Janet Evans has invited me to attend Christmas Eve services at the Anglican Church down the road, and I’d like to attend with her.”

“St. Paul’s?”

“Mm, yes. I’ll leave well after dinner so it won’t disrupt our Christmas Eve plans.”

Lucien placed the bowl and towel on the counter and turned in Jean’s embrace. “Of course. That’s very kind of Janet.”

The months since Jean left the church had been a whirlwind - the wedding, four months away on honeymoon, and settling into being Mrs. Blake. Jean hadn’t given much thought to the church, but as the advent season hit, Jean began to miss some of the traditions and events that were tied to the church. She loved Lucien, and his love was more than enough to fill the gap the church left in her social life, and she kept the spiritual side up in her own, constantly sending up prayers as she went about her day. But she did miss assisting with the children’s choir and sewing the costumes for the nativity play. She was glad of the invite from Janet.

After dinner was put away and Alice sent home with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to see her the next day for Christmas lunch, Jean and Lucien retreated to the sitting room and sat in front of the Christmas tree, the glow from the tree giving off the only light in the room. Lucien placed an arm around Jeans’s shoulder and she leaned into his embrace.

“I’m sorry for Alice that Matthew was called out tonight.”

Lucien kissed Jean’s brow. “He’ll make it up to her tomorrow.”

After a few more moments of sitting in companionable silence, Jean patted Lucien’s leg. “I best be off. I told Janet we’d walk together.”

“Alright, love. I’ll be here when you return.” Lucien walked Jean to the door and helped her into her coat. “Have a lovely time.”

Jean kissed Lucien on the cheek and headed down the drive. She gave a wave to Matthew as he drove past and made the turn into the drive. Joining Janet further up the road, she walked to St. Paul’s for the Christmas Eve service.

Lucien waited by the door as Matthew made his way into the house. Ushering him into the kitchen, Lucien set the plate down for Matthew that Jean had made up for him earlier.

“Where’s Jean off to at this hour?”

“She’s attending services at St. Paul’s. Janet Evans invited her. She won’t say, but I think she sometimes misses the church.”

“Why the bloody hell didn’t you go with her?”

Lucien was taken aback for a moment. The thought never occurred to him to join his wife tonight. Church was always Jean’s place and he hadn’t stopped to think about what this meant for her. She left the church for him, not hesitating for a moment to put their love above the one place that had supported her and comforted her all her life.

“You make a good point, Matthew. I sure can be a thoughtless bastard sometimes.”

“You said it, Blake.”

“Right! I’m off. Christmas lunch is tomorrow at two. Alice is coming round at noon. Don’t wait up!”

Lucien patted Matthew on the back and headed out the door.

Jean settled towards the back of St. Paul’s, taking in the stained-glass windows all along the nave. She felt a sense of comfort wash over her as the congregation stood to sing a familiar Christmas hymn. Jean joined the others in song, and closed her eyes as that feeling of comfort continued to settle over her. As the congregation started on the third chorus of Joy to the World, Jean felt a hand encase her own. She registered the deep baritone of Lucien’s voice, and she turned to look up into his shimmering eyes. With a question drawn across her brows and a smile upon her lips, Jean leaned into her husband to whisper his name. Lucien looked to Jean and gave a squeeze to her hand. Jean brought Lucien’s hand to her lips for a quick kiss and joined the others in song.

After the service, Lucien and Jean walked with Janet Evans back towards Lydiard street. Jean headed towards their room while Lucien locked up the house. Jean settled under the covers as Lucien finished in the bathroom.

“That was very sweet of you to join me tonight, Lucien. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me.”

Before joining his wife in their bed, Lucien grabbed a small, wrapped box from his chest and got into bed. He leaned in and gently kissed Jean on her lips. “I’m just sorry I didn’t think to go with you sooner. It was a lovely service.”

“Lucien, what’s that in your hand? We promised we weren’t doing a big, expensive Christmas this year. Not after the honeymoon.”

“I know, darling. But I can’t be helped.” Lucien handed the gift to Jean, and she hesitantly unwrapped the gift to reveal a delicate rosary.

“I noticed on the honeymoon you were still praying the rosary. But a few weeks later you stopped. I assumed you must have lost yours. While you were giving your confession at the Vatican, I found this one in hopes it would be a suitable replacement.”

Jean ran her hands over the rosary beads in reverence. Her loving, thoughtful husband never ceased to amaze her.

Jean leaned over to caress Lucien’s cheek. “Oh Lucien, it’s beautiful! I lost mine in London. My mother gave it to me on my wedding day to Christopher, and I was devastated when I lost it. Though I left the church, there are just some aspects I couldn’t walk away from. Praying the rosary gives me peace.”

“You must pray it often after having met me.”

Jean smile through watery eyes and chuckled. “You have no idea!”

Jean placed the rosary on her bedside table and turned off the lamp. She rested her head on Lucien’s chest as he wrapped her up in his arms.

“Lucien! Your gift reminds me! Where did we store the ornaments we purchased on our honeymoon? We forgot to put them on the tree!”

“Didn’t you put them in your bureau?”

Jean quickly got out of bed and rummaged through her bureau drawers until she found the small box of ornaments, a decoration from each stop the newlyweds made on their honeymoon. Jean grabbed her dressing gown and headed for the door.

Lucien sat up. “What? You want to put them up now? Jean, it’s almost midnight.”

Lucien followed Jean into the sitting room. She turned the tree lights on and unpacked the ornaments from their trip. As Jean and Lucien took turns placing them on the tree, they shared their favorite memories from their honeymoon. After the last ornament (a lovely stained glass replica from Notre Dame) was placed on the tree next to the tin ornament with Jean and Lucien’s anniversary date, they both sat on the love seat to gaze at the tree. Lucien pulled Jean into his embrace and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Blake.”

“Merry Christmas, Doctor Blake.”

#blakesecretsanta #escapewithstories #tdbm #the doctor blake mysteries #tbm #the blake mysteries #so sorry for the delay! story of my life this season!

[seedy-lil-fucker]

Piano

Gratuitous use of John Denver, homesickness,etc. Got a problem with Denver? FIGHT ME.

If mobile doesn't accept the read more, I've also tagged it as #long post for your skipping pleasure.

She plays the piano, almost constantly, over the radio.

She doesn't really know what she hopes to accomplish with it- really, it's all just fun to her, letting her fingers dance across the ivory and create sound.

It grounds her. She never wanted to kill, to fight- hell, she hadn't even wanted to become a cop. She'd planned her whole life on going to Julliard, becoming a musician- fame wasn't even part of it. She'd've been fine just playing for an orchestra.

After her parents had died and her uncle had taken her in, she'd been pigeonholed into a job she didn't really want, loathe to disappoint the man who basically raised her. It wasn't terrible, when she wasn't fighting cultists and getting shot at- she'd mostly done traffic work at her previous precinct, maybe the occasional high speed chase, but nothing exciting.

Then she'd gotten thrown into this mess, and she figured if she died along the way at least she'd die with some sort of lasting effect. Maybe someone'd remember her as a piano player instead of a murderer.

She tried to keep it light, whenever she did manage to sneak into the abandoned recording studio and lay her fingers on the dusty Yamaha. It was no Steinway, but she was in no position to be picky.

Today was a wistful sort of day, she figured. Something longing, beautiful, something to ease the heartache inside of her. A minor key, not quite as sad as F minor, but something to pull at her heartstrings. She dug around for some sheet music, choosing an appropriately sad song, and started setting up.

She never spoke when she started up the radio, merely flipping it on and playing. Today was no different- a clear of her throat and a crack of the fingers and she was off.

Usually no one interrupted her broadcasts- she usually took a few minutes break between songs, and occasionally someone would tune in and thank her, or make a request, but today would be different, it seemed.

She'd just finished her third song when a voice crackled over the radio attached to her hip.

"My,my, such sad songs today. In a mood, are we? Something you need to confess?"

Ah, John. The thorn in her side, Herald of Holland Valley, the man who thought she was Wrath. (Personally, she thought her biggest sin was Sloth- failure to act, to stick up for herself. She wasn't a particularly angry person.)

He probably didn't know who she was, and she preferred it that way. She had a feeling he had a bit of an...obsession, and if it weren't for her beloved broadcasting station, she'd be in the Henbane, avoiding him.

She pointedly said nothing, which he took as an invitation to continue.

"Now, no need to be shy, you can talk to me. I promise. It's very freeing, getting things off your chest. "

Rook sighed, flipping through the music aimlessly before she landed on something familiar. It even had lyrics. She hadn't sung in a while, and surely her singing voice was different enough from her speaking voice to keep her anonymous...Besides, he hadn't heard her say anything apart from "yes", she doubted he could get anything from that.

"Almost heaven, West Virginia," she started, pressing the keys gently and wincing when her voice cracked.

"Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River

Life is old there, older than the trees

Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze,"

She took a breath here, almost steeling herself before continuing,

"Country roads, take me home

To the place I belong

West Virginia, mountain mama

Take me home, country roads,"

Her voice grew heavy with emotions and she coughed, clearing them out to continue.

"All my memories gather round her

Miner's lady, stranger to blue water

Dark and dusty, painted on the sky

Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye,"

She could almost see it, the sunset over the mountain range she called home, could almost taste the homemade moonshine her uncle always tricked her into trying. Rook bit her lip before she continued to the chorus, drawing in a deep breath before belting it out.

"Country roads, take me home

To the place I belong

West Virginia, mountain mama

Take me home, country roads.."

She played a little extra ditty in the middle, allowing herself time to catch her breath before she continued.

"I hear her voice, in the morning hour she calls me

The radio reminds me of my home far away

And driving down the road I get a feeling

That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday.."

Fuck, she missed it. Missed apple picking in the fall, riding through the woods on whatever horse would take her, frosty mornings and gentle sunsets. She just wanted to go home. As she hit the final stretch, she put in a little crescendo, almost shouting over her own playing.

"Country roads, take me home

To the place I belong

West Virginia, mountain mama

Take me home, country roads

Country roads, take me home

To the place I belong

West Virginia, mountain mama

Take me home, country roads

Take me home, down country roads

Take me home, down country roads.."

Finally she finished, the song's last breaths dampened by the specialized room she sat in. It was almost peaceful, until she heard clapping.

It wouldn't have been a big deal if it came from over the radio- it would've been welcomed, even. She was a sucker for praise, almost craved it.

But no, the clapping was slow, and came from behind her, through the door opened to the rest of the studio. She could feel her heart drop into her stomach, a pit of dread. She should've figured, she chastised herself. It's not like a broadcasting station is exactly hard to find, and John's not a stupid man.

If only she hadn't been distracted by what could've-

Rook shook her head and took an inventory of her possessions. Her bag was in the corner- if she lunged, she might be able to get it in time. She had her knife, of course, but she suspected she wouldn't be the winner in a knife fight with John Seed.

Out of options, she turned shakily around on the bench to face him.

He was leaning against the doorway, blocking her only exit, head tilted as he stared at her like a cat watching a particularly interesting bird. He still had bloodstains on his clothes, she noted, probably from an Atonement or something. They kinda worked, she thought wryly. Murder chic.

He smiled as she made eye contact, raising one perfectly manicured eyebrow. Why the fuck did he get to be so pretty, even covered with blood? It wasn't fair.

"Deputy," he greeted, almost caressing the words as they left his mouth. (She wouldn't think of his mouth, absofuckinglutely not. Nope.)

"John," she returned, wincing as her voice wavered. There was no way he hadn't heard that. "Fancy seeing you here."

"I didn't know you played!" He chuckled, "All this time, I've been listening to you on the radio. what else are you hiding, Deputy? What other secrets can I pull out of you?"

John stepped closer and continued. "Had I known it was you, I would've come by earlier."

Her hand twitched towards her knife but she steadied herself, taking a fortifying breath. "Why did you come?" She finally managed, "Not a big fan of John Denver? Wanted to make a request? Could've just radioed me, didn't need to go out of your way."

Blue eyes twinkled at her in the dim light, a glimmer of teeth in his smile.

"I was just so worried..My favorite pianist, playing sad songs, I had to see what was going on," he stepped closer, closing and bolting the door behind him, "Tell me...what's troubling you?"

He looked almost concerned, she noticed. Not that she could trust his stupid sexy face- he wore masks like it was Halloween to get what he wanted.

Rook examined him, then the room, warily before sighing and leaning against the piano key s with a discordant twang.

"Look, I'm not in the mood for being tattooed and carved up today.. I'm tired, I just want to play the piano, maybe sleep through the night without waking up."

Before she could continue, he spoke up. "No, no, of course not. That will come later. For now, consider this a confession."

"Thought you were a lawyer, not a priest, John," she teased. When she got no response she sighed. "Fine, I'll talk. But," Rook raised a finger, "Ya gotta promise to let me go home tonight. MY home. No fancy lawyer loopholes."

He smirked at her, a hand fluttering over his heart as if she'd shot him. "Why Deputy, you wound me... You have my word, for all it's worth to you."

She considered him for a moment- he painted quite the picture, sleeves rolled up, weight on his left foot, staring at her intensely.

"Fine. Just...in my pack, there's a mat. Spread it out and we can sit and Kumbaya or whatever."

He actually laughed at that, following her instructions before sitting cross legged on the worn quilt. She followed soon after, leaning against the bench.

Rook was quiet for a moment before she started. "I'm not a violent person. Hate it, hate bloodshed. I know it's in the job description, but it's a job I never wanted. I-" She chuckled, pausing.

" I was gonna go to Julliard. Live outta my truck, if I had to. My uncle threatened to disown me if I didn't become a cop, and I was too spineless to call him on it, risk losing the only family I had. Thought I'd just do speeding tickets for the rest of my life, which-" she motioned grandly around her, bitter smile fixed firmly across her lips,"Is most certainly the least heinous activity in this stupid county."

Rook wiped her eyes clear of any suspicious moisture before she continued. "People are shooting at me, no intention of stopping til one of us is dead, I can't even take a shit without a request for help...I just wanna lock myself in one of the numerous bunkers strewn around this county and.. be alone. "

There was a long silence before John softly asked," Why don't you?"

She tossed her head back, letting it sink into the bench's soft padding. Rook knew she was exposing her weaknesses, a gazelle baring her throat to a lion, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Hope county was as good a place to die as any.

"I made an oath to protect and serve. Nothing worse than an oath breaker, specially with lives on the line. Plus, the townsfolk really do grow on you. They deserve.. anything but this violence."

He sighed, leaning towards her. "If they didn't fight us- if they joined peacefully- there wouldn't be any. We are simply trying to save them, save as many souls as possible. "

Without looking up, she responded with a sharp "Nope," and continued before he could get indignant. "So many people in this county are already prepped for the apocalypse. This is probably the bunker capital of the world. If you were interested in saving them, you'd be working with them, not stealing supplies and murdering people."

Rook finally lifted her head, locking eyes. "From what I know about y'all, you have the resources to hole up right now. You've got everything you need. Why take from others?"

"The soul," he started, "must be saved-"

"Then do it after your collapse or whatever! There's plenty of radios, and you say it'll take seven years for everything to be cool? Plenty of time to proselytize. It's a win-win, really. People stop fighting, you stop losing people, I get to go home and play my piano."

He seemed thrown off his stride for a second, but quickly recovered.

"No, we must follow Jo- The Father's instructions, or the Gate won't open to anyone. We have to do it like this. It's the only way."

He sounded desperate- desperate for her to understand, or trying to convince himself, she wondered. Either way..

She sighed, returning her head to its rest.

"Whatever, John. I ain't gonna argue anymore. 'M tired of it. "

He sighed but acquiesced,and they sat in silence for a few moments.

"So," she said, then paused, standing just to sit on the bench again.

"I've still got some songs left in me. Any requests?"

#fuck i made myself homesick #far cry 5 #bleh bleh bleh bleh #i miss my blue ridge mountains #long post #vaguely john seed/ deputy

[jamesginortonblog]

James Norton interviewed by Francesca Babb. Condé Nast Traveller, January-February 2018 (full size 1, 2)

HE MADE HIS NAME PLAYING A TV KILLER AND A CLERGYMAN, AND IS DIANE KEATON’S PICK FOR THE NEXT BOND. NOW, IN THE REMAKE OF FLATLINERS, BRITAIN’S GOLDEN BOY IS THE LATEST RISING STAR TO HIT HOLLYWOOD

Where have you just come back from? Amsterdam. I was there with three good friends from drama school. We hired a boat, did the Rijksmuseum, and it was lovely. Before that, I was in Los Angeles for a month and managed to get out to Joshua Tree with another friend. We took a tent and some food to barbecue. Somebody had told me you have to dance in the desert, so we lit a bonfire and danced. Then we went and sat on a rock for hours looking at this crazy moonscape. It was the perfect leveller.

Where in the world have you felt happiest? ` When I was 18 I did the classic year out in South Asia, which must have filled my parents with tenor because it was back in the days before mobile phones. I lived in a mad little village called Bungamati, south of Kathmandu, for four months on my own. I was a theology student, and because of the mixture of Tibetan Buddhism coming down from the north and the Hinduism corning up from India, there was some kind of religious celebration every day. I got swept up in the vibrancy, colour and music of it all. I still have lots of friends there who Skype with me.

Name a place that most lived up to the hype ` Tibet. Everyone kept telling me it is the mountain of the world and even the sky is bigger there. Well, I thought it’s impossible to say a sky is bigger — the sky is the fucking sky — but then you get there and it’s true! It really took my breath away and I spent two weeks being dumb-founded.’

Describe a memory from a childhood holiday My great aunt and uncle used to lend my family this battered old tent, which we would take down to Cornwall every year and attach to our Passat. One year we misjudged the time it would take us to get home and we had to stop and put the tent up in the car park of a service station. I remember sleeping on the Tarmac, with these huge lorries driving all round us. That’s a very special memory. My parents are completely eccentric.’

Which is your favourite city, and why? I’ve recently been toying with the idea of moving to New York. It has great energy. But the problem is, whenever I do contemplate moving, I always come back to my passion for London. I love the weather, the seasons, and I cycle everywhere, so I fink all the parks and canals… I adore this town.

Describe your favourite view I grew up in North Yorkshire, and the view of Castle Howard from the top of a hill near my parents’ house feels peaceful and familiar. If life gets too much, I go and sit on that hill and calm myself down.

What do you pack first? A portable speaker for music. And, as I travel alone so much, a good book. I relish sitting in a restaurant reading. Some people hate it because they feel self-conscious and are worried it looks wanky, but I love it.

‘L.A. SPINS ME OUT. ITS SO POSITIVE. SOMETIMES YOU JUST WANT TO BE BRITISH AND SIT IN A CORNER WITH YOUR BAD MOOD’

Where did you go on your first holiday without your parents? Budapest with six school friends when I was 15. We stayed at a friend’s parents’ house and spent a week buzzing around, which was awful and joyous at the same time. We found a booze shop that would serve us and bought a bottle of Campari because we thought it looked nice, and then discovered it’s disgusting. We didn’t have a clue. I recall seeing a poster for a foam party on the side of a phone box, and spending so much money trying to find it. When we finally got there, it was one of the happiest experiences of my life.

Describe a holiday disaster When I was at drama school, a friend and I booked an all-inclusive holiday to Kayos for £300. We found ourselves on a coach with a very orange rep and 10 Glaswegian lads all pie-eyed pissed. It was very Inbetweeners. We had been feeling all high-brow and had packed loads of scripts.You can imagine the juxtaposition of these Glaswegians running around screaming and me and my friend reading Freedom by Jonathan Franzen.

Tell on about a great little place you know There’s a little restaurant in St Petersburg called Teplo, where we went a lot as a cast while filming War and Peace. It’s not pariticularly glam, it’s quite hidden away, but there are sofas in a snug at the back where we could chill, and drink nice wine and good vodka. It became a little sanctuary.

The smartest hotel you’ve ever stayed in? On paper, it’s the posh Four Seasons in LA, but actually I love places like Ham Yard Hotel in London and Crosby Street Hotel in New York where you’re made to feel so welcome. I also like the Midielberger in Berlin; it’s a bit of a cliche in terms of the hipster community, but it’s around the corner from the infamous Berghain club, which is probably why I was so in need of a good bed that weekend.

Sightseeing or sun lounger? I’m a rubbish sunbather. I can do about half an hour then I’m like, fuck this. I’m the guy who wants to jump off rock.

Who is the most interesting person you’ve met on your travels? I set up a theatre company in my early 20s and travelled around India and Nepal visiting schools. I met this guy, Baba Talakna. We would smoke his big pipe and sing songs. He was a mad, inspirational dude, although that might have been because he kept getting us stoned.

How do you relax? My family instilled in me the idea of a PBD — a Pre-Breakfast Dip — so if there is a body of water, I’ll be in it.

James Norton was speaking to Francesca Babb. He stars in `McMafia’, which will premiere in the UK on BBC One this winter.

#james norton #interviews #condé nast traveller #my scans

[imagineclaireandjamie]

The Last All-Clear (4)

Notes from Mod Bonnie

This story is a series of vignettes following the premise: “Imagine if Jamie travelled through the stones, but instead of finding Claire in Boston he found himself having arrived years too early, when the War was still happening and Claire had yet to meet him… What would he do?”

Formatting note: Bolding in Jamie’s letters = underlining

Previously:

(Part 1) September 17, 1942: A Rusty Nail

(Part 2) December 3, 1942: Comb and Glove

(Part 3) 1943: Blood and Whisky 

1943-1944: Gifts and Ends

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

1 September

Another long night in surgery by the end of which I wanted nothing more than to scream.

But, as always, Danton was there waiting for me at the shed with whisky and an open ear. I don’t know how he always knows when I’m in most need of company, but it means the world to know I’ve got a friend, not just friendly people with whom I work, but a friend. He’s always there to listen, drink with me, say a word of encouragement, and get me laughing by the time I leave to go to sleep. Still a tough nut to crack, all things considered, but I’ve rarely encountered someone so intuitive and incisive. He’s quiet, but when he speaks, it’s with such intention. 

Add another tidbit to the Danton file: his mother’s name was Hélène and she had red hair. It makes him sad to talk about her, but he loved her very much. 

9 3 2 

Will ye have you noticed, reading this, years hence, that I’m a different person these last several months than in the ones before? That I go days—weeks, even— without writing single word? That when I do, it’s brief pleasantries: what I ate, the tasks I undertook?

It isna because my days are less full than before; quite the contrary. Only, if I dinna force myself to recount the way I’ve let myself act around you, the way I order my day so that I can see you, the way I encourage your attentions, chaste and merely friendly as they are....If I allow myself to simply go to sleep with the sound of your voice still fresh in my ear, I’m better able to live with myself for it. ‘Tis infinitely easier to let myself live my days in an unexamined happiness, however fleeting, however much I feel the shame of it in my bones, deep down. Writing of it, having to face it, makes my weaknesses so abundantly and painfully clear. Denial, I have found, is its own sweet comfort. 

Will you understand this, Sassenach? Will you understand the depth of loneliness that can drive a person to be so pitifully less than he ought? 

Still, with every day that passes, each day torn between restraint and joy in your companionship, I find the voice of better judgement murmuring more and more determinedly in the back of my mind, the same questions that have been there from the beginning of this nightmare: What is it that I actually accomplish on your behalf? Is it only my pride that keeps me here? Would it be better for you, be less risky, if I were to simply leave, go to Scotland and bide my time until you should return? Am I doing you any good at all by staying? 

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

25 December

A working Christmas, but a merry one. Wrote a long letter to Frank with all my love. 

Danton seemed absolutely shocked when I handed him his gift, and he tried to scold me for it, but everyone can use a new scarf, I insisted! It brings out the blue in his eyes. He grumbled about it even then, but honestly I think he was just embarrassed he didn’t have anything for me in return. Told him it was the least I could do to pay him back for drinking all of his good whisky, month after month. Then I told him the truth: that his friendship has been a tremendously dear gift to me this year. I swear to God, the man actually blushed. 

9 9 1

A new year, today, mo nighean donn.  Ye pushed a paper cup of champagne into my hand at the gathering in the mess hall and kissed my cheek before running off to dance with your friends. It was a lively song first, but followed by that bittersweet one that brings tears to my eyes every time, even if I canna discern the tune: 

     ....how happy, my darling, we’ll be,     

     when they turn up the lights, 

     and the dark, lonely nights     

     are only a memory.

You sat off to the side, during that one, looking as lonely and sorrowful as I myself must have appeared.

Nineteen hundred and forty-four. Another year closer to when I can take your face in both my hands and kiss you without end, at the stroke of midnight or no. 

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

13 January

Saw Danton wearing his blue muffler again. Teased him about it and he immediately grinned and pulled a little cloth-wrapped bundle out of his pocket. The bastard intentionally baited me! 

My Christmas gift turned out to be a little carved-wood oval, polished and sleek as a pebble, with an intricate interlace pattern that, at the center, knits inward to form a dragonfly. It’s small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, and I honestly can’t stop staring at it. The time it must have taken him, and the precision needed for working on so tiny a canvas! He demurred, of course, when I raved about the craftsmanship, but I know he was pleased I liked it. 

1 0 0 9

You stitched up a wee French laddie today, no more than four years of age. He was hurt in the course of fleeing with his family, and it was clear that he was terrified of soldiers and of being in camp. Ye spoke to him softly in his own language as ye worked, though, soothing and comforting him as though he were your own. Ye sang to him, too. Being so sadly precluded from music myself, these last years, it didna occur to me before that ye might have such a lovely voice. 

I’ve passed these last few hours in such beautiful peace, mo ghraidh: imagining the day when ye might take my head in your lap and sing to me as you stroke my hair; a day when a song drifts through our rooms, our home, and I peek through a doorway to see you cradling our child, singing them to sleep. 

1 0 1 3 

You didna tell me he was coming to camp.

Should it reassure me, an indication that I’m insignificant enough that it didna even cross your mind to mention it? Or is it the worst of signs: that ye didna want to speak of your husband, of all people, to me? 

There he stood, there at the quiet edge of camp by the pond, behind the barracks. Franklin Wolverton Randall, patiently waiting for his wife to go on leave. He truly does look like the bastard. I nearly reached for my knife when I saw him standing there, unannounced, unexpected. Then to see you, out of uniform, hair long and loose as ye ran for him, flew into his arms with that same abandon as you used to enter mine? See him kiss you, touch you like that—

I watched for far too long, mo chridhe. I confess as much to you, here. It was wrong of me, but I simply couldna look away. Even after the two of ye had left, hand-in-hand, your face alight and beaming....I sat under that tree for hours—trying not to think of where and how and for how long he was bedding you, tasting you. Would ye be making those same small sounds for him, reaching for him with that wild, lovely abandon? Would ye be crying out his name, moaning for him as

Forgive me. 

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

24 January

Lord, it’s positively wretched trying to undertake an intimate visit in a mobile camp with no friendly town or inn nearby. A spare tent and two mattresses pushed together on the ground hardly can qualify as a love nest. Still, throw enough cozy blankets on top and a cozy husband within for good measure, and not a bad way to spend a day or two off. 

It’s been over a year since we last saw each other. Always a little strange trying to get back into things, but it’s so good to have him here, to have even a short time to reconnect. It’s easy to get caught up in work, day after day and month after month; easy to forget, amidst it all, that I’ve a marriage to maintain.  

Danton’s taken ill, apparently; asked for today and tomorrow off. Hoping he’s alright.

1 0 1 5 

I wanted him to be cruel. I wanted him to be the worst kind of scum. 

But when I was so startled seeing his face again unexpectedly today that I dropped a hammer on my foot, he came over at once to see if he could help. He was kind and considerate, and had a warmth to his eyes, even toward a complete stranger such as me. He has nothing of the cruelty of his putative ancestor, not to me, and more importantly, not toward you. I could see the tenderness he has for ye, the evident care and the love as the two of ye made your farewells.

It only serves as yet another proof. You’re safe while you’re in camp. You’re safe when you’re with Frank. You dinna need me watching over you. You never did. The only one that needed it was me. 

Today, Claire. It ends today. I promise you this.

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

9 February

Danton is angry with me, I think. Every time I try to approach him to talk or just say hello, he’s turning tail and making for the other side of camp. He’s never in the wards anymore, nor do I see him taking his meals at the usual times. I made excuses for him for the first several days, but it’s clear, now, that he’s actively avoiding me. 

It shouldn’t bother me as much as it has, but damn it all, I miss him; that calm support he’s been to me this year. 

Jesus, looking at that on the page, I want to scratch it out. I have no right to be so entitled or territorial or whatever you wish to call it. The man’s never even told me his first name, for god’s sake, and he hardly knows a thing about me, either. Still, there’s a hollow feeling in my chest every time I feel that dragonfly carving in my pocket. I miss him, and I don’t know what I did. 

How bloody dare he. 

1 0 6 5 

I ache for you, mo nighean donn.

April 1, 1944

I rounded the corner so quickly, neither of us had time to avoid the other. We both just stood there in the narrow passage between tents, teetering mid-step. I smiled and opened my mouth to speak. He nodded once, put his head down, and walked around me.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I snapped, turning to follow him with my glare, “honestly? Danton, I’m not going to bite you.”

He stopped, but did not turn. “I know, madame.” Quiet. lifeless. 

“Will you at least tell me what it is I’ve done to offend you so grievously?”

I didn’t think it was possible, but his shoulders tensed further. “You ‘ave done nothing, madame.”

“Well, something clearly changed.” All my pent-up bewilderment was barreling out of me in a fury. “You’ve avoided me completely for weeks. You won’t even look at me any more, like the past year was just— erased overnight! I mean, Jesus H. Christ, we used to be friends, didn’t we?”

A momentary flash of blue over his shoulder before the hair and the hat obscured him. “In truth, we do not know one another, madame. We ‘ave been friendly acquaintances.”

“Ac...Acquaintances.” My blood boiled and hot tears prickled in my eyes. “That’s it? That’s.... bloody it?” My voice came out shrill and small. 

His was like a dead man’s. “What more did you think it was, madame?”

I couldn’t even speak for a few moments, so great was the shock and hurt. 

He made to walk away, but then I found my voice, low, teeth gritted. “Perhaps I don’t know you in the sense of having all the details of your life’s story. Why? Because you deign to divulge such things only once in a blue moon and I’ve respected that.” I rallied, trying to maintain control of the lump in my throat and my rage. “But you meant a hell of a lot more to me than I apparently meant to you.”

He was still for moment longer, then he turned and faced me squarely, looking me in the eye with a hostility I had never before seen there. “I am no longer interested in being your charity case, madame. And it is time you learned to carry on without needing a man to constantly congratulate you.” 

He may as well have sliced me open. 

“Fuck you, too, then.”

I threw the dragonfly on the ground and walked away without a glance backward. 

1 0 8 2  

It was the only way I knew to complete the break. 

I am so very sorry, mo nighean donn. 

I shall be leaving as soon as I have enough wages to get home.  I waited all my life for you. I can wait four years more alone.

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

4 May 

So many battles. So many wounded. German incursions and raids have locked down the camp until further notice. 

God, just let this vile war end. 

1 1 3 4 

You willna even speak to me, now. I hardly can blame you for it, as that was the intended result. Still, now it’s me keeping my eyes wide and searching for you at every turning, for you’ve been avoiding the usual sick bays, the places we used to encounter one another. 

You’ve taken to teaching classes to the soldiers. It’s a credit to you, Claire. I’ve stood outside the tents and listened to you give your lessons on several occasions. You truly are grand at it, this world of healing and instructing. You have so much in you, Sassenach, so much to give. 

I dinna wish to leave you. 

C. E. B. Randall

Camp Nightwing, France

7 June 

God be praised, the Americans stormed the Normandy beaches yesterday. Let this be the breakthrough that changes things, at last. 

1 1 5 6 

Tomorrow. I’ve been given leave to depart tomorrow. 

I’ve thought long and hard about it, Claire. Even if you dinna wish to see me, even if it is only a word and a moment, I shall say farewell face-to-face. 

The sack felt leaden on his shoulders, though he had hardly any possessions to his name.  His old sporran. A change of clothing. His book of letters to Claire. 

This is not the end, he reminded himself over and over. This is naught but the end of a chapter that should not have been opened to begin with. This is not the end. 

The walk across camp felt an eternity, made still worse by the fact that she wasn’t even in the barracks, where she would normally be found at 7:00 of an evening. She wasn’t in the instructional tent. He went to the mess-hall—not there either.

“Jesus, Claire,” he muttered under his breath after a full quarter hour of searching, “where in God’s name have ye gone?

At last, he spotted a familiar face and he all but ran to catch up with her, panting a little as he said, “Excuse me, Miss Nancy?”

Nancy jumped as though he had grabbed her, and it took all his control not to roll his eyes at the flighty wee thing. She never had gotten over that initial fear and loathing for his manner and look. More’s the pity that it hadn’t worked half so well on Claire.

He recovered and gave a cordial bow. “I am most sorry to ‘ave startled you. Would you tell me, please, where I might find Nurse Randall?”

“Whew, um,” Nancy put a dramatic hand on her heaving heart as she blinked and thought. “Oh! Yes, well, she’s not here, of course.”

“Not here?” In his shock, he nearly forgot to put on the French accent. “Where ‘as she gone?”

“She was part of the escort that set out to take those American chaps back.”

“...Ameri—” Then the world was shifting, tumbling, fragments of memory from another war suddenly sparking into horrific clarity. 

“Surely you heard about it? The two Airborne lads that came to us because they got separated from their men after Normandy? They’ve been here for the last week, I can’t believe you haven’t—”

But Jamie wasn’t listening. He was running. 

Of all the things Claire had told him, how could he have failed to recollect THIS?  For today was the day Claire nearly got herself killed by German fire.....the day when Claire could get herself killed by German fire. 

#;mod bonnie #The Last All-Clear

[tipsycad147]

CELEBRATE WINTER SOLSTICE AND ALIGN WITH THE SEASON

It’s dark. The days are short. The nights are long. Let us be here. In the darkness.  

WELCOME THE DARKNESS

The holiday lights and festivities can be good medicine, but they can be unhelpful if we use them as distractions. Let’s not pretend it is light. It is dark. The Buddha teaches that suffering comes from craving what we want and avoiding what we don’t want. Are we putting up twinkle lights to avoid the darkness?

So, let us sit here for a moment, and embrace what is - beautiful, rich, mysterious darkness. Stars and moonlight. Deer, fox, and owl. Our bodies, like bear and groundhog, seek rest. Our souls enjoy dreamtime, in the darkness.

BRING YOURSELF INTO RIGHT RELATIONSHIP

I find deep joy in this practice of tuning into the season. When we take time to appreciate the benefits and challenges of this unique moment in time, we embrace our place in the cosmos. We know we are in relationship to the Sun and the Earth. We belong here. This is our rhythm; together we are spinning through space, twirling and tilting as we dance with the moon. Let us weave our personal stories into this cosmic tale. Know that you belong here, in the darkness.

Notes on Winter Solstice from My Personal Grimoire.

BE THE LIGHT

AND, we have power. We have memory and consciousness. WE are light. THAT is why we light fires in the darkness. Not because we are avoiding the darkness, but to give voice to our hope, our faith, our courage. We glow with gratitude. We shine a light in the shadows and illuminate our fears so that we may grow wiser and more joyful. We strike matches, plug in twinkly lights, and burn logs because this, too, is part of darkness. When we celebrate the Winter Solstice, we honour darkness and celebrate light. We tune into seasonal markers of change. We invite our body, mind, and soul to align with here, and now.

WHEN IS YULETIDE?

Technically the Solstice is the shortest day of the year. But, the holiday of Yule is so much more than one day. Only you know the right time to begin your observance. This year, our family moved from California to New York. The darkness feels different this year. The cold has us turning inward, sooner. And, so, we find ourselves meditating on fires, huddled around the woodstove. We decorate our home with fir and pine, appreciating their greenery in this leafless landscape.

Photo by Erin Mahollitz

ALTAR MAGIC

My favourite way to align with the season, make an altar. Ok, I’ll be honest; I have multiple altars. What is an altar? It’s basically any spot adorned with symbols that connect you with divinity. Some of mine are filled with items found on nature walks, and some are covered with decorations collected over generations. Here are some ideas for transforming any surface into a sacred space,:

Colours: Red, Green, White

Candles

Cider and/or wine

Branches and moss from local hikes

Evergreens, holly, mistletoe

Dried Fruit and nuts

Bits of Paper and Ribbons from package wrapping sessions

Citrus Fruit

Image of the Wheel of the Year / Spiral

Antlers

Bells

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

CHRISTMAS AND SHARING LIGHT

Coming from Catholic families, Christmas still takes on a leading role during this time of year. Heck, even I believe in Santa Claus. I mean, sort of. He embodies the Spirit of Christmas, and we all have a little Santa inside us, right?. So, I guess, I believe in us. THIS is the story I tell my kiddos. I emphasise the importance of spreading joy and light. I also emphasise that Santa needs A LOT of helpers. I invite them to help out. “How would you like to spread light?” My boys love making (and wrapping) gifts. My favourite moment so far... hollering “Merry Christmas” to our mail carrier as she plucked a bag of cookies from our mailbox. Gift giving is just one way to bring joy into the world. Our family enjoys creating experiences together, like breakfast dates with the nephews or Handel’s Messiah with my mom.

MEDITATIONS ON THE SUN

This year I am excited to simply sit and think about the sun. Here is a list of my favourite activities.  

Writing thank you letters to Grandfather Sun.

Colouring images of the sun. Check out this collection.

Reading books about the Sun, like this one, and this one.

Listening to stories about the Sun:

'Maushop And Grandfather Sun' from Circle Round

‘The Owner of the Sun’ from Circle Round Podcast

Creating Sun-Like Decorations

Orange and Clove Pomanders

Dehydrated Orange slices

SPIRAL WALK CEREMONY

This year we are taking it to the next level and celebrating with a ritual filled with fire, verses, candles, story, and cocoa. At the heart of the event is a Spiral Walk, inspired by the Waldorf Advent Spiral. I love walking labyrinths and the symbolic movement of leaving the outerworld and turning toward the centre. Our Yule ceremony incorporates a similar walking meditation, as we look to our inner light on the darkest night.  

MATERIALS:

Evergreens (or something else to mark the spiral)

1 larger pillar/votive candle

20 tea candles

Taper candles for each participant

Matches/lighter

Small pieces of paper

Pens

Optional

Paper, sticks, and logs for a bonfire

TO BEGIN:

Optional: Prepare a bonfire with paper, sticks, and logs. Light it if you need it for warmth.

Create a spiral on the ground. Traditionally it is made with evergreens (ours is made from extra branches from at the Christmas tree farm), but it can be made with chalk, ribbon, garland, rope….

Place one larger votive/pillar candle (unlit) in the middle of the spiral as a symbol of the enduring light of the sun and the light within ourselves.

Place 12 smaller candles (unlit) along the path of the spiral, symbolic of the 12 months/moons of the year.

Place 8 candles around the outside of the spiral, one for each cardinal direction and each equal division. It demarks the sacred circle.

AT DUSK

As the sun’s light begins to fade, distribute long/taper candles to each participant.

Recite the Brief Homily on Darkness (By John Halstead) - adapted by Erin Mahollitz “The winter solstice happens in nature, but it also happens inside of us. It can happen inside of us in summer or winter, spring or fall. In the dark place of our soul, we carry secret wishes, pains, frustrations, loneliness, fears, regrets, worries. Darkness is not something to be afraid of. In the the dark place of our soul we can find rest and rejuvenation. We can find balance. And when we have rested, been comforted, and restored, we can return from the dark place in our soul to the world of light and new possibilities.”

Call in the elements and directions asking for their love, protection, light, and energy. *Light the candles around the spiral while waking clockwise

The designated “keeper of the light” lights the candle at the centre, while others recite

Prelude: “Solstice Prayer” chant by Thorn Coyle “We wait in the dark for the light to appear, Mother, give birth to our brother the Sun. We wait in the dark for the light to appear, Mother, give birth to our brother the Sun! We wait. We watch. Out of the cold comes the promise of newness. We wait. We watch. Out of the cold comes the promise of day!”

WALKING THE SPIRAL

*Note: I will go first to model how this is all done. I will do it once while narrating my actions. I will do it a second time, in silence. Then, the kids will have a go. Eric will go last.

One at a time, each person silently walks to the centre with their unlit taper candle.  This is a meditation on personal darkness (that which no longer serves you).

When you get to the centre, silently light your taper candle from the central candle.This is a symbol of the eternal light of the sun as well as the eternal the light within you. This is also a good time to ask, “What light do I wish to cultivate in the new year?”

As you walk out of the spiral, use your lit candle to light a few candles along the spiral. This is a symbol of carrying your light out into the world and into the coming year.

After exiting the spiral, write down an intention/light you want to nurture in the coming year, this may be an attitude, a goal, a behaviour, a relationship you will tend. These can be saved in a “manifesting box,” turned into a mobile or prayer flags, incorporated into a family vision board, or thrown into the fire so the winds can carry your wishes into the ether.

When everyone is done, recite “The Light is Reborn” by John Halstead Take turns reading a line of the “call”.   Everyone responds with the line, “The light is reborn.” When the earth is barren. The light is reborn. When the animals sleep. The light is reborn. When the leaves have all fallen. The light is reborn. When the rivers are frozen. The light is reborn. When the ground is hard. The light is reborn. When the shadows grow long. The light is reborn.

Sing “Pagan Silent Night” (UU Hymn 251) adapted by Ellen Reed Si – lent night, Sol – stice Night All is calm, gone is light Na- ture slum – bers in for – est and glen Till in Spring – time She wakens a – gain Sleep – ing spir – its grow strong! Sleep – ing spir – its grow strong! Si – lent night, Sol – stice Night Sil – ver moon shin – ing bright Snow – fall blank – ets the slum – ber – ing Earth Yule fires wel – come the Sun’s re – birth Hark, the Light is re – born! Hark, the Light is re – born! Si – lent night, Sol – stice Night Qui – et rest till the Light Turn – ing ev – er the roll – ing Wheel Brings the win – ter to com – fort and heal Rest your spir – it in peace! Rest your spir – it in peace!

Close the sacred circle by thanking the directions and blowing out the four directional candles. (You can leave the other four outer candles to burn. They’ll look pretty.)

Blow out your personal candle. (Find a place for it in your home, and relight it when meditating on your intention.)

Go inside for cocoa and cookies. While eating and drinking, you can take turns reading…

https://magicalhomemaking.com/blog/celebrate-winter-solstice

[brandedphotography]

A Familiar Family

As the moon smiles down at me.

Another road trip underway with Andy and the Red Rocket. We are now laborers, we listen to jokes about first nations people, listen to how the Muslims are taking over the world and today I got asked if 'one of my friends said they were gay, would I still be friends with them?"... Canada, the land of Tredeau and apologies, really sees face to cheap drugs and xenophobia. Don’t get me wrong, I love this place, its like a second home. Canada is my reality and has been for a while now, its what I call home, although home is merely a collection of your most treasured memories, highly mobile. I just cant wrap my head around the blatant hate that spreads from fear.

The trip, were off to see my Uncle Blair and the family on Salt Spring Island. A fitting name for a fitting island for a salt of the earth man. Him and his wife have a beautiful acreage, mostly off the grid with many sustainable flora and fauna. We bustled two hoodlums into the rocket and ventured too the ferry. Another successful smuggle and we had landed on Salt Spring the island where farmers don’t wear plad, they wear tie-die. They don’t wrangle cattle instead wrangle the difficulties of growing many sustainable, delicious produces, all for either their own satisfaction or for small business around the island. The beaches, lake and ocean, are pristine the skies were clear and the smiles of the locals were warming. Smiles that warm, we hadn’t really experienced since departing Revelstoke. A smile that says, "It doesn’t matter where you are from, Isnt this place just peachy!".

Days spent adventuring the island, poaching the next best spot to sit on a beach and soak up some more rays. Evenings spent basking in the company of beautiful family sharing stories of young and old, broadening my understanding of my eccentric family and our almost nomadic heritage. Friday night was a typical gathering in the Thomson abode. With family from around the globe and multiple varied connections of the family gathered to pick up an instrument and jam! From Djembe to Tambourine, Spoons to Classical Guitar, everyone is required to add to the sound of the space you are in. Its an incredible feeling to let go of ego and create something without the fear of failure. No sound is incorrect, no beat is out of time, no note too high. Simply, the only thing correct is the creation and exploration of sound. The first time I experienced a jam at my uncles, I was nervous, I didn't quite understand that nothing I could do at the moment was incorrect, other than not participate. This time round, I lapped it up, loved every moment of it and felt invigorated by the end. After not seeing any of my relatives for quite a few months lets just say that by the end of Friday night I was feeling warm, loved and SO WELL FED! 

Saturday evening was a whole different kettle of fish! After spending a lovely dinner with the family, again often struggling to keep food in my mouth with ever constant bursts of laughter, Andy and I headed out to a wee gathering at the nude doc. Things were a little different, groups of young individuals meandering around the doc and some old guy who Lynda managed to stir up consistently for a good hour. We spent the night down by the doc, things got pretty heated on top of the Rocket and my pillow got thrown into a puddle of pee... Shortly to be thrown out. The Pegster struck again!

Sunday was one of the most beautiful days I've ever spent with family. It was also extremely special as I got to share the experience with a close friend and made me extremely proud of my own family, proud of their beliefs and their consciousness proud of their acceptance and welcoming personalities, and proud of what they've created and continue to create on their wonderful farm. What started off with reckless frivolity, the day finished with a ceremony celebrating the life of the incredible Patricia Thomson. Mother of 9, Inspiration of 1000, A 1 of a kind. The woman who at 90 years old decided she wanted to drive 3,400km from Perth to Melbourne and BACK! Of course, with the assistance of her daughter and her granddaughter, she did it. The same woman who at 90 years old tried, with all her heart and all the finesse she could muster, to turn our lovely gay housemate, straight. My grandmama is the inspiration for so many of our lives. She danced and traveled till the day she died, with more charm than the queen and more sass than the ladies from 'Absolutely Fabulous'. We dug two holes right at the beginning of Uncle Blair's driveway. 1 tree for each side of the road and within the roots we scattered the ashes of our hero, Patricia. Whilst its a pretty strange feeling having particles of your burnt grandmother in your hands, I think it's quite a beautiful way to finalise your life. With parts of you spread around the world by the ones you love and cherish.

Saltspring was special for so many reasons, even if you don’t know someone out there, go anyway! The Saturday markets are a great way to get an understanding of how much great local produce there is available on the island. The beaches are superb, I've already spoken about the people, but start chatting, so many incredible stories on the island. Explore, create, wander.

[voidsettle]

Roman Holiday

                                                                                                     September 2018

I didn't plan Rome, it just happened. I was actually going to Venice in October, alone, to celebrate my birthday away from my crowd, cura te ipsum. And then I wanted a practice trip to get (morally) prepared for traveling on my own. I was anxious about everything, from my hotel and language to sightseeing and lack of support. I could never imagine I would fall madly in love.

Tempio dei Dioscuri, Roman Forum

Each, in its own way, was unforgettable. It would be difficult to— Rome! By all means, Rome. I will cherish my visit here in memory as long as I live (c) Roman Holiday

I bought tickets to Rome almost by accident. I (almost never an impulsive buyer) was preparing for my Venice trip, buying tickets, booking hotel, and then I saw - Rome. And decided to take a look at the tickets. And ended up buying one.

Ave Caesar, Morituri Te Salutant!

The predictions for the trip were not looking bright. First I got a rejection from the first hotel I booked because I was arriving pretty late at night (around midnight). I booked another one and, looking at some reviews, found out this hotel was not really a good choice. And so anxiety ensued.

I didn't know how to get from the airport to my hotel. Taxi'd cost me nearly 70 euros, ouch. The trains stopped running around the time I landed, but I still had to go through the customs. Internet research not only gave no answers but actually increased my nervousness: buses didn't route 24/7, crime (pickpockets mostly) was high, Wi-Fi in cafes was only accessible for locals with Italian cards (something-something anti-terrorism ad nauseam), and mobile companies would try to trick you into spending more. I felt devastated.

But as soon as I set foot in Rome, it all vanished in a cloud of smoke. The great city welcomed me with summer warmth, lively, happily oblivious crowds and small streets with equally small, smart cars. I was captivated instantly - the feeling that'd linger in me for months to come.

Felix culpa, truly.

Veni, Vidi, Vici

Colosseo, Rome. Asians are truly great photographers - I got the shot from a trio of Malaysian girls

I didn't have a plan. I've done my homework, surely - some books on Michelangelo, a couple of movies featuring Rome, bits of research here and there. Ex nihilo nihil fit, the lesson you learn after so many trips. I knew about Places, had a must-see list, a maybe-visit list, and even a in-case-I'm-bored-and-have-free-time list. But for my first morning in Rome, I decided to just stroll down the hill from Roma Termini, where my hotel was, to the foremost Roman attraction, the Colosseum.

That morning - and each one afterwards - I woke up at 7 (a rare feat for me, a devoted late-sleeper) to the chime of bells. An authentic experience, when surrounded by churches - not unlike Istanbul, where you wake up to a muezzin call. It's quite convenient: I never once needed an alarm clock. Although people with weaker psyche probably would be disgruntled.

But I wanted a cup of coffee first. The thing about coffee in Rome (and the rest of Italy, really) is that it's great. Unlike many of the European countries, Italians do know what coffee is: I never had bad - nay, even mediocre coffee in Italy. Here, coffee is not just a breakfast, a legal drug or a communication vehicle; it's a tradition.

Do not sit down for coffee - the price of the order will double the moment you pick a table. Drink it at the bar, standing up, with a piece of fresh pastry and chatting with the bartender and other clients.

This is the best way to adapt to mornings. By day two, I learned to order my coffee in Italian, as locals do; by day three, nearly passed as one.

Moses by Michelangelo, San Pietro in Vincoli

The thing about Rome is: you should not ignore the opportunities. If you see something curious, do not pass by. I discovered the first of Michelangelo's works by chance, ascending the stairs of the random vine-draped arched passage and finding myself facing the church of St Peter in Chains.

Fortunately, I have a sweet habit of walking inside the churches I see, no matter how famous they are - they always give comfort to the tired feet and eyes, allow to rest and might feature something curious.

Mood altered after recognizing the hand of the great master, I strolled down the street that opened the view of the Colosseo.

Get a ticket at the Roman Forum - you get to see Colosseo as well, but no need to wait in lines.

At the entrance, I got acquainted with a couple from Frankfurt, who met in Vilnius, but were originally from Ukraine. What a small world.

Roman Forum is a place of history so deep that it was dizzying. I don't remember much specifically for this reason: ancient places tend to have so much meaning one has troubles stacking it all up into their mind and worldview.

Palatine Hill. Sun, pines and cicadas

So the first vivid and distinct impression I caught was on top of Palatine Hill, and had nothing to do with history but everything with pure sensations.

High dark pines (that specific Roman kind with flat crowns), unbearably loud, suffocating cicadas, bitter fir-tree air, slightly moist and trembling with heat, tasting of stone and sand, scorching sun pouring over the crown of my head down the shoulders with viscous glutinous beads.

This simple, thick and fragrant flavor will always be the first thing that pops into my mind whenever I think of Rome. And thus I fell.

Palatine Hill is more of a park than a museum (like Roman Forum). Colosseo is neither; it's a site of tourism, of people, covered under the multilingual crowds to the point of being completely extinguished under the feet and voices.

The lines are formidable (you don't want to be caught in one of those, trust me). Even with a ticket, I spent nearly 20 minutes waiting for the security check. Inside, there is even more people: they are sitting on the fallen columns, ruined walls, on the sandy ground. They are taking photos, laughing, greedily drinking, fainting from heat, and chatting, talking, shouting! Most eerie feeling when you're alone.

Colosseo, Rome

Also, the place is ginormous. Who could've thought that Rome featured an even bigger arena, Circus Maximus that could fit more than double-sized crowd of the Colosseum. Unfortunately, not even ruins remained.

Whatever city I visit, I manage to get lost at least once, walking away from tourist routes and off into the jungles of the city. This result in all kinds of hilarious and wondrous discoveries; in Rome, it gifted me with Giardino degli Aranci and its smaller version Giardino di Sant'Alessio.

These cozy little pools of greenery in the midst of churches and ruins give off the vibe of a luxurious garden of a Roman Republic villa - emerald-green, piny, shadowy and tart. The specific feeling that mostly locals visit the area persists: Italians are sitting on the many benches, enjoying the cool patchwork shadows of the orange trees, books lazily sprawled in their laps, hats thrown back to the napes, spots of sun dancing over their calm, slumbered expressions. The far end of the garden opens into a spectacular vista of the left bank of Rome and Vatican's San Pietro in the distance framed by the hot, smooth and almost soft marble of the parapet.

Oranges underfoot are aplenty but, unfortunately, inedible: too bitter and acerbic. Not that the tourists don't try: some of the fruits are actually peeled and half-eaten.

There's yet another place worth visiting once near the gardens - the Hole of Rome, a keyhole that opens a view to the three countries of Italy, Vatican (the Dome of San Pietro is barely visible) and Malta (represented by the Maltese Embassy). For me, it's a tell-tale determinant of human nature: heat hammering down people's heads, at least 20-minute long line and a tiny keyhole to witness the symbolic combo. I ignored the keyhole but thoroughly enjoyed the human nature instead: the motivation (when I asked a boy standing almost at the front of the long line) was 'because there is a hole you can look through'. Isn't that just so hilariously wonderful?

Observing the vista from the panoramic gardens, I was seduced by the Tiber quay at the foot of the hill. Seeing a lot, tired and hungry, I was still enraptured by the image that came to denote older Italy for me. Fine squarish cobblestones, light-clad plane trees with mottled, scaly barks and round prickly fruits. Restless, tumultuous Tiber, covered in humpback bridges, chained in taut rangy walls, smooth and weathered. Wide rough-stone parapet of the quay built for resting your elbows (or, if you're capable, sitting) on, enjoying the unhurried serenity - something I will be chasing after in every other Italian town.

A short detour along the quay of Tiber and through Isola Tiberina on my way to seeking dinner at the foot of the Capitoline Hill

Rome is full of romantic experiences, whether one's wandering through the labyrinth of Roman streets or witnessing solis occasum at Castel Sant'Angelo. In September, sun strings itself directly on the spiel of Duomo San Pietro, and pours pinkish light over the crowns of the high planes, diffusing their somberly greens into soft oranges and flooding the city in mysterious glimmering haze of dusk.

Naturally, being this close to Vatican, I couldn't pass on the opportunity. San Pietro bathed in twilight is enthralling, when the warm orange spots of the slim street lights mix with the deepening blue sky and the vanishing yellow of the clouds.

I always had rather lethargic sense of self-preservation when it came to odd people. This got me in a number of situations that my friends afterwards deemed weird and/or dangerous while incredulously staring at me. Near one of the Vatican fountains, I chanced upon a small Italian man with a flaming passion for Roman history and a foot fetish.

So I found myself in the middle of Piazza San Pietro, barefoot, enjoying the lukewarm marble under my feet, very solid and incredibly smooth. Walking around downtown, I also got an unexpected tour from this local guide slipping in some trivia while enjoying the crowded spaces of piazza Navona and fountain Trevi.

I barely got to the hotel that day, feet searing in tired heat. By chance found a great cure: rubbing the soles and toes forcefully with a wet, preferably rough towel. Feels gorgeous.

Homo Sum Humani a Me Nihil Alienum Puto

The two greatest things about Roman streets are gelato and marble stairs - and they're this much better when combined, and made alive by people

People in Rome are great - despite their oddities. Probably one of the reasons I adored this crazy city so much was because of all the weird encounters I had. Within the first 24 hours, I've met people from all over the world. A girl from India, with whom we exchanged photos in Colosseum. A girl from Hungary that got lost in the circular passages of Castel Sant'Angelo with me. Two couples from Toronto who dined at the table nearby in a cafe on one of the pedestrian streets near piazza Venezia - they got all chatty, brightening up my solitary lunch. One of them just happened to be a writer and recommended me a British publishing agency (along with promising me a copy of his freshly published book).

Germany, Nepal, South Africa, the US, Peru - at some point, I stopped keeping track, instead basking in the multicultural melting pot of colors and languages.

And then there were mindless wanderings, ruins on every corner (literally; there are some well-known and others that are barely fenced from the omnipresent  tourists), churches literally everywhere, and streets wide and narrow, flavored by delicious cuisine. Traditionally Roman pasta on a checkered tablecloth, homemade wine and street performers combine into a experiences you see in the movies but never assume to be possible in reality.

Trajan Forum, piazza Venezia

When you think Rome, think water fountains, marble stairs and churches.

Walking down the streets of Rome, I promised to make a pledge of love to Roman fountains: they were what got me though the day. You rarely sit in Rome (and when you do, it's either marble stairs of whatever building you pass or inside a church; or on the marble stairs of the church). You don't feel your feet by the end of the day, and that's when fountains give you at least a tiny bit of relief to get to your destination (commonly the next fountain).

Don't leave your hat and sunscreen behind. Have an empty water bottle - the water fountains with drinkable water are scattered throughout Rome; a life-saving mechanism.

Piazza del Popolo full of men blowing rainbow-filled soap bubbles, street artists providing soundtrack on the background and laughing, frolicking children and parents

My second day in Rome was the day of piazzas. I started at piazza Venezia and the nearby Capitoline museums (wonderfully cool, coherent and immersive, not to mention the exciting hunt of the passage from Palazzo dei Conservatri to Palazzo Nuovo, which appeared to be under Palazzo Senatorio, offering an apropos panoramic view of the Roman Forum). Altare della Patria, towering over the piazza, built of cool marble and pure magnanimous giantism served as the observing deck to plan the route.

Next, after an hour of contemplative silence in Pantheon's dome, it was time for piazza Navona with its aquatically-themes fountains and the baroque art of chiesa di Sant'Agnese in Agone.

With a gelato from Grom (Italian gelateria chain) in hand and determination in heart, I walked under the planes' rustling leaves of the Tiber quay to piazza del Popolo, where I had another half an hour sitting and listening to classical pieces by Chopin, Shubert and Albinoni in chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli.

Before the final stop at piazza di Spagna, I delighted in the view from the Balconata del Pincio at the western border of Borghese gardens. This part of Rome inside Aurelian Walls is where the locals spend their weekends, public park zones and family entertainments aplenty.

Sunset over Rome, view from the top of Spanish stairs

Vialle della Trinita dei Monti leads way along the gardens, opening to the vista of Rome on the right side. The street opens to the top of Spanish steps, where I camped for the next couple of hours under the double bell-towers of chiesa di Trinita dei Monti. Families, friends, dates appointed and met, street vendors selling paintings, roses and cheap toys, hats and umbrellas, sunglasses and various small merchandise - the place is a wonderful spot to savor the life of Rome.

Carpe Diem, Carpe Noctem

Colosseo and Via dei Fori Imperiali at night

Nightfall brings relief and freshness, and also lights. Suddenly, Rome wears different colors; blues and greens dissipate into the dark corners, but yellows pull a warm cover over the city. Rome at night is gorgeous.

Do see the lights of Colosseum, this one is gorgeous. Roman Forum, on the other hand, was quite disappointing.

I was knackered after the museum run and the circle stroll around half the Rome. Still - hic manebimus optime - I followed through with the plan, and was rewarded with a magnificent view and, more importantly, atmosphere.

Besides, it's not only the major sights you want to see; Rome at night breathes a different air. Couples of all ages stroll up and down the streets, yellow lights over their heads. Fountains are bathed in white lights, and you find random statues of gods and heroes scattered on city corners, hidden and on display. Downtown is busy, bustling and crowded; the rest of Rome falls asleep and offers a chance to get to know the streets that are not flooded with tourists. It's a different city - but definitely one you'd want to meet.

Imperium in Imperio

View of Rome and St Peter's Square from the top of the Dome of St Peter's Basilica, Vatican

While still at home, getting prepared for the trip, I wasn't very fond of the idea to see the Vatican museums. Travel connoisseurs were complaining at the stuffiness, extreme lines and crowds that don't really allow you to see anything. And, well, they were right.

If there is a possibility to dodge the visit to Vatican museums, it's a decision that'll save time, money and mood.

Of course, it's exciting to see Stanze di Raffaello (School of Athens is obviously my favorite) and Michelangelo's work on Sistine Chapel. Yet the crowds of Vatican are no brutum fulmen, a force to be reckoned with. Besides, I did spent nearly 2 hours in line - it was a good thing I caught a company of another unlucky tourist, who was able to chat my boredom away.

San Pietro, on the other hand, was captivating. The imposing luxury, the solid gilding, the voluminous ornaments of different styles (and complete lack of seats to rest your spent limbs). I massively enjoyed the Dome and the pontifical tombs, especially as I used the latter to finally lose my company from the museums, mea culpa.

Surely, I had to send a couple of postcards from the post office of Vatican, the smallest country in the world (with the best post office; they still came only a month later).

Semper Fidelis

View of panorama of Rome and Altare della Patria from Giardino degli Aranci

Rome is a cosmopolitan and extremely democratic city. You can see the most of it for free. Aside from piazzas (Venezia, Navona, di Spagna, del Popolo and San Pietro), churches (at the very least Pantheon, Basilica di San Pietro and San Pietro in Vincoli) and numerous fountains (Trevi obviously the most significant of them), there are Altare della Patria, Garden of Oranges, Isola Tiberina and Spanish Stairs. If satisfied with a view from above and further away, you can also have a thorough look at Roman Forum from Capitoline Hill and at Colosseo from Via dei Fori Imperiali.

But most importantly, the feel of Rome. Tiny cars and coffee. Churches and ruins at every turn. Somberly green pines with high flat crowns and planes shedding skin in white flakes. Enrapturing Tiber, muddy and relentless in its chains. Ancient, worn out marble stairs. Friendly and happy people from most different corners of the world. Rapidly melting gelato covering you hands in sweet drops. Fountains with refreshing cool water. What's there not to like?

I don't know how to say goodbye (c) Roman Holiday

I was leaving from Roma Termini to Fiumicino airport on this pompously advertised Leonardo express train but cannot say anything in its favor except for its speed. Unlike the bus that actually drives past Colosseum, it quickly flashes past the city and into half-rural landscapes. Cui bono? If you want the last glimpse of Rome, take the bus.

Amor Vincit Omnia

Palazzo si Giustizia at dusk

Soundtrack is important for any trip. In Ye Olde Europe I commonly find myself immersed in the unobtrusive warmth of Kaleo's Vor i Voglaskogi, best suited for the moist softness of Baltic countries and jovial sobriety of the Eastern regions.

For Rome, nothing is better than Puccini's Tosca. Standing outside palazzo Farnese (currently French embassy in Rome) I was listening on loop to Tosca's aria Vissi d'Arte performed by unparalleled Maria Kallas. In Castel Sant'Angelo, E Lucevan le Stelle - Placido Domingo's aria of Cavaradossi - and its life-reassuring, heart-breaking, breath-taking meaning is perfect to make the sense of sombre stone passages and elevated open-air decks.

In Vatican, I switched to Miserere, a piece specifically written by Gregorio Allegri to be performed in the Sistine Chapel. The polyphonic harmony of voices combines in sublime, somber and tranquil melody, repetitive, exalted and pure. It gives the feeling of a lofty Gothic Catholic cathedral with warm sun breaking through its high-and-tall lancet windows, stalling in the upper tiers and airily patching the gray granite floor with the spots of warm glow. The daylight gradually fades into tenebrae, until the candles are extinguished one by one until the single one is left to dispel the darkness.

Panem et Circenses

Finding real Italian trattorias is important - touristy cafes are too pricey and - much more importantly! - have poor food. For Italian places, look out for the signs:

traditional menus (not laminated two-sided paper ones)

menus mostly in Italian

no barkers trying to hoard you in

no sites and attractions nearby

acceptable prices

Italian clientele

In vino veritas (what to eat):

Carbonara (bacon and egg pasta)

Cacio e pepe (cheese and pepper pasta)

Amatriciana (bacon, onion and tomato sauce pasta)

saltimbocca alla romana (veal with ham and sage)

abbacchio alla scottadito (lamb cutlets)

coda alla vaccinara (oxtail stew)

puntarelle (chicory - contorni, side dish)

pizza capricciosa

pizza salame/salsiccia piccante

pizza prosciutto e fichi

porchetta (full-roasted pig)

guanciale (pork jowl)

tiramisu (traditional dessert)

gelato (local ice-cream)

Sicilian pastry

local wines (reds or whites; what matters is that you drink them)

E pluribus unum (what to see):

San Pietro in Vincoli (Michelangelo's Moses)

Colosseo

Arch of Constantine

Roman Forum

Palatine Hill

Castel Sant'Angelo

Trevi fountain

Pantheon

Piazza Navona

palazzo Farnese

Campo de' Fiori

Piazza di Spagna and Spanish steps

Borghese museum and gardens

Piazza del Popolo

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli

Sacro Cuore del Suffragio

Piazza Venezia

Trajan's Forum and Column

Altare della Patria

Capitoline Hill and museums

Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore

Isola Tiberina

Giardino degli Aranci

Circus Maximus

Bocca della Verita (Mouth of Truth)

Pyramid of Cestius

Church of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva

Baths of Caracalla

Archbasilica of St John Lateran

Porta San Sebastiano

Chiesa del Domine Quo Vadis

Catacombs of Saint Calixt

Catacombe di San Sebastiano

Circus of Maxentius

Mausoleum of Caecilia Metella

Basilica of Saint Paul Outside the Walls

Vatican:

St Peter's Square

St Peter's Basilica (including Pauline Chapel for Michelangelo's frescoes and Pieta, Dome and catacombs with the tombs of Popes)

Vatican museums

Sistine Chapel

Ipse Dixit

Roman Forum and Palatine Hill

I might be biased in favor of Rome - Tosca, Call Me By Your Name, Roman Holiday; Punic Wars, Michelangelo and Julius II, Alexander III and the Borgias. They say it's the Eternal City. Cannot argue with that. I don't care what is mainstream, argumentum ad populum (tu quoque, huh): I love Rome.

#rome #italy #vatican

[leatherjacket-lovesong]

leather jacket love song - part five (ongoing)

You sleep with your phone under your pillow and turned up full volume out of habit. Even though he never calls. Even though it's been months since he last rang you at three am.

(You're still 'there'. You're still 'his'. And you've a horrible gut feeling that no matter how many types of fiery hell he drags your friendship through, you always /will/ be.)

So when your mobile suddenly rockets Ian Brown into your dreams to rouse you from sleep, it's a damn good job you're a man of routine.

Rolling onto your back, screen flashing 'Elvis' pressed to your ear, your mouth wrestles with both a 'yes?' and 'what?' at the same time, as your half-awake brain tries to find the right greeting.

No 'hello'.

No 'mate'.

Even working at barely twenty percent brain capacity, you don't think he deserves it.

Only it's not Elvis who speaks. The voice mumbling down the line is way too soft, way too lilting, a little bit gormless round it's edge like the voice of someone who might forget their own name, and it takes you much longer than it really should to place it.

"Noel..." Your stomach sinks.

As far as your aware, the last time Elvis and Noel spoke to one another was the day Elvis moved back to his mum's. And the last time you saw Noel, the sketchy little bastard had been E'd out of his tree. You don't think it's unreasonable to have a bad feeling about this.

"Come pick your lad up..." Noel's voice is muffled into the mouthpiece as though he's trying to eat it, but his words are distant somehow. Faraway. Like he's speaking on autopilot and his brain isn't engaging.

Somehow, you're not surprised. Somehow, you'd expected this.

You snarl down the line, as you cram knuckles into your eyes. "Fucks sake, Elways. It's two in the morning. Just stick him in a taxi, or somethin'. Can you lot not wipe yer arse without me?"

Quiet on the other end. Just snuffled breathing and distorted trance waves on the wind.

"No can do, mate..."

"And why not?" You scoff, his incompetence sparking you enraged. Even ten storeys high on a mixture of what's likely MDMA cut with dog wormers, he should be able to shove Ellie in a taxi. "Knob stuck in a sheep?"

But when Noel doesn't bitch back and just /sighs/ instead, it suddenly clicks with you that maybe he's not the one being the cunt in this.

"Three reasons..." He finally says, in that rolling run-on voice of his, "Number one: he's on the floor... Number two: I can't wake him up... And number three: he won't stop bleeding..."

---

You remember little things.

Key moments.

Brief seconds in life that your memory locks away before they're burnt to dust by time and age.

They're rose-tinted, definitely. Perfect in every way the reality never could have been. And they're filtered with the sepia glow of nostalgia that awakens an ache in your chest.

They're unfaithful. (Like he is.)

Romanticised. (Like his is.)

But preserved. Protected.

Like Elvis in '95. Kicking his ball about in your front yard, skin sunburnt a colour to match his United footie kit.

And Elvis in 2000. Slouching outside the headmaster's office, blood smeared across a swollen but still snarling, burst upper lip.

Like Elvis in 2005. Sewing the first patch onto his leather jacket, stabbed raw fingertips dying the white cotton bright red.

And Elvis in 2010. Arguing with Noel over the redecoration of their living room, clothes flecked with wet oxblood paint.

Kneeling now, straddling Elvis's unconscious body with both your hands pressed hard into the groove of his boney hip, stemming the flow where a previously light t-shirt has turned magenta, though, you think...

(You hope. You pray.)

"Please, don't let me remember this."

---

You shout at Noel.

You don't meant to. You know, logically, that it's probably not his fault. You know, logically, that Elvis gets himself into fights he can't win all the fucking time. And you know, logically, that he's a dead man in these scraps without you.

But Noel's there. Conveniently. Looking ten shades of shit in the A&E waiting room.

And there's blood on your hands right now. Elvis in big red smears all flaking right down your forearms and every time you catch a unwarranted glimpse of it you have to swallow back the urge to throw up.

"Fuck's sake, Elways. He goes out with you for one night. ONE. FUCKEN. NIGHT. And this is what happens? THIS is what I have to wake up to?! You can't even take him out for a couple of hours without him gettin' knifed?? Without him nearly gettin' killed??"

It's early hours Saturday morning. A&E's swarming with obnoxious staggering drunks. You have to raise your voice over the noise to be heard.

Noel, decked out in a shredded Madonna t-shirt with a polka dot silk scarf knotted round his throat, and sitting a bit glazed eyed on a bench where you're pacing — waiting, worrying — barely makes a sound when he opens his mouth.

"I'm not his babysitter..."

"No, Noel. No, you're not." You agree, nodding, before suddenly leaning down to eye-level with a snarl, "But you're his fucken MATE."

Or supposed to be. You don't know what mad thought possessed Elvis to make him wanna go back to knocking about with Elways, but you assume the two of them put past grievances behind them, kissed and made up.

Exasperated, you go on, "Where the shitting hell /were/ you while all this was kickin' off? Standin' back, watchin', scratchin' yer balls?? Because you sure as fuck didn't help him out!"

Noel, slouched forwards with wrists clattering full of bracelets hanging between his knees, drops his head in a response you hope is meant to signify shame.

"Wasn't my fight..."

"IT DOESN'T FUCKEN HAVE TO BE!"

He yelps, surprised, when you grab his scarf.

Then yelps, in pain, when you use it to yank his head back up.

"YOU TWO-FACED, SPINELESS LITTLE CUNT. It's not my fight either! Elvis hasn't even talked me for the last three weeks. But I still came straight down, didn't I. I'm still fucken' here, aren't I. I still give a shit, don't I. 'Cos I'm his /mate/, and that's what mate's /do/. But you wouldn't have a slightest fucken clue about that sorta thing, would you?"

Noel doesn't answer.

Noel doesn't even appear to be registering.

Instead, his glassy dew-drop eyes drift sideways and it takes you a moment to clock that he's focused on something else.

"Mr Wood. Mr... Elways?" The nurse glances down at her clipboard, then chances a timid look around your bristling shoulder at Noel. "Would you both like to follow me? We've got some news."

---

You're not the first one to speak.

Sitting in the doctor's office, fingers steepled as though in prayer beneath your chin, you're ready for it. Mentally and emotionally prepped.

Armoured. Waiting.

You can hear it. You can take it.

You've already planned out how to break the news to his mum.

You're not soft. You won't break.

A phantom sting round your ear, from a hand that isn't there, makes you wince.

("Stop crying like a big girl, for fuck's sake. You want everyone to think yer a poofter? You want me to put you in a dress?! 'Cos I fucken will, if ya don't stop. I'll parade you round the whole bleedin' estate in it!")

But it's Noel who reacts to the news first.

Noel, perched on the edge of a cheap plastic chair next to you, who suddenly slumps against the backrest with his hands over his face.

Noel who breathes a loud, over-exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Well... at least he's not dead."

Not.

Dead.

It doesn't start to sink in for you, until you're the one filling out his medical forms with a hand that shakes.

Until you're writing your own name and contact details into the little space provided for 'Next of Kin'.

He's alright.

He's not dead.

Lucky. The doctor had said. Extremely fucking lucky, from the sound of it.

Half a centimetre away from a punctured liver.

Five minutes away from a blood transfusion and you heroically giving up however much he needs.

But he's sound (kind of). Okay.

He's alright, of course he is.

Because he's Elvis. Flirting with the devil. Dancing a razors edge. Iggy Pop for the new generation and you fucking lovehate him.

Out in the corridor, Noel isn't fast enough — or sober enough — to dodge when you grab him.

"Don't think this is over, Elways."

"Awh, gerroff my back will you, Wood. Only went out with him 'cos he called me up suggesting it, and I was tryin' to be his /friend/."

---

You don't realise how anxious you are (how anxious he's /made/ you) until you nip outside to get your cigs from the car, and all of a sudden begin throwing up.

Doubled over, one hand flat on the car's hood for support, you retch hopelessly into the grass verge until your throat's all acid and your stomach's all knots.

Then, when your chest muscles hurt and there's nothing left to puke, when you've slumped down onto the concrete because your legs no longer want to work, when you're leaning back against the front tire, dropping your lighter over and over again as you try desperately to spark up, everything you've been hiding from for weeks — for months — hits you full force all at once.

You don't expect to spend your Saturday morning sitting knees up in a hospital carpark, sobbing your heart out into your elbow, but you do.

And you don't expect Noel to come out later and sit down silently on the ground beside you, but he does.

And it's not comforting.

It's not helpful.

But it's human. And it's enough.

And when the sky's threaded purple and the streetlamps click off, when you've soaked and snotted all over the sleeve of your hoodie, Noel pipes up.

"I'm going back to Cardiff."

And when you halt in the middle of wiping your nose to give him a quizzical look, he takes it as his cue.

"You were right," he admits, a bit too easily, a bit like it's a speech that's been well rehearsed, "you and Ianson. You were right. I don't have any mates. I don't have anything to stick around up here for. I'm a cunt. So after I sit my final exam, that's it. I'm off. I'm going back home."

You don't know how to react to this. It's rare you ever get anything poignant from Noel. You've got a niggling little feeling he's waiting for either devastation or applause.

You don't give him either.

Just sit perplexed, brow pulled low, waiting for more.

And he gives you it, because he's Noel — the fucking master of drama and excess, and you knew he would.

"He loves you, you know."

"What?"

"He loves you." He repeats, as though it's the most flippant thing in the world, "God's sake, Wood, everybody knows."

And before you can react, he's already up.

And before you can scramble to your feet, with a bellowing, "KNOW'S WHAT, NOEL?!" the irritating little shithead is already halfway across the carpark, replying only in shrugs.

You've got no fucking idea who or what he's referring to.

But the abrupt tightness in your chest feels a bit like both panic /and/ hope.

---

You watch him, watching the sunrise.

Little shafts of infant orange light sliding through the gaps in the blinds, slicing across a face swollen tender and bruised.

Little specks of dust caught in the up-draft, sparkling in the early rays like swirls of glitter in front of his eyes.

Little consistent mechanical beeps, muffled into melody, reminding you both where you are.

He doesn't talk.

You reason it probably hurts too much to open his mouth.

Or he's embarrassed. Regretful and ashamed of himself.

(You hope so.)

He knows you're there, though.

Leaning in the doorway to his private room. Arms folded. A man ready to take on the world.

He knows you're there, because you can tell from the way his head's positioned at a complete ninety degree angle towards the window and away from the door, doing his best to avoid eye contact and avoid your inevitable onslaught.

You want to be mad at him.

You want to shout.

It's all there, building tension in your stiff, squared shoulders and clenched, set jaw.

You wanna tell him he's an ignorant, selfish, intolerable arsehole. You wanna scream and call him every derogatory insulting name you can think of.

You wanna give him a bruise to match the black eye on the right side. You wanna demand he man the fuck up.

And he's waiting for it.

You know he is.

Because /he/ knows /you/.

But for some reason the words are sticky.

For some reason, propped up in a hospital bed, narrow shoulders and bird-like collarbones, pale and sickly and wretched and worn, Elvis — Mr. Big Mouth and Bigger Ego, Mr. Big Dreams and Big Grand Tragic Fucking Gestures to Break Your Heart Apart — looks /small/.

And it occurs to you that you never really thought of him as something transient, something mortal, something with a finite amount of resources before.

Your best mate is — and always has been — invincible.

(You both are.)

"I thought I'd lost you." It's out before you realise. Soft-spoken. All feeling.

A sentence you immediately wish you could scoop back into your mouth and replace with the spitting confrontation that you really want.

It hangs heavy in the air between you. Sentimental words like an awkward gift neither one of you wanna take home.

Until Elvis closes his eyes.

And bows his neck.

And replies at a length, voice no more than a fractured half sob in the back of his throat, "I thought I'd lost you, too, man... I thought I'd lost you both..."

--

Your coat pockets rattle with Elvis's painkillers, when you take him home on day three.

He's not better, but he's managing (not complaining) and you make a pointed effort to drive extra slow over all of the speed bumps to minimise his stoic wincing.

You think he appreciates it.

You're not so sure he appreciates you driving straight by his house without stopping, though.

And you're not so sure he appreciates you pulling up in your mum's driveway, instead.

And he /definitely/ doesn't appreciate the patronising glare you gift him.

"You're stayin' wi' me for a bit."

He responds with a questioning pull of eyebrows and you elaborate, gruffly. "I want you where I can keep an eye on yer. You're fucked if you think I'm leavin' you on yer own with a shit ton of morphine."

He waits in the car while you climb out, then saunter round to his side.

Through the windscreen, hunkered and half scowling, he reminds you of that sulking kid, eleven winters ago, who smacked a busy in the face and got you both arrested.

You wish your world was that simple, that straight-forward and innocent, again.

"I'm not gonna off meself, if that's what ya think." He grumbles, when you open the door for him.

Leaning down, anchoring an arm around his back for stability, your reply's muffled in a lank mess of unwashed hair as Elvis lifts himself slowly, cringing. "Don't believe a word that comes outta your mouth lately, mate."

In the house, your mum fusses, naturally.

In the house, Elvis huffs and puffs and pretends he hates it.

You busy yourself upstairs, making up the spare bed in Chantelle's old room, smirking.

Your mum's always doted on Elvis like he's her own son.

And Elvis has always secretly loved the way she's a mum who'll actually /hug/ him.

Later, as you help him up to the bedroom, taking one stair every two minutes because he won't let you carry him (you tried. And you're counting.) he shakes his head in frustration, then elbows you in the ribs.

"I don't /want/ ya lookin' after me."

It's biting. Viscious. Like the last warning snarls of a wounded animal caught helpless in a snare. And it hurts you. Not because he's ungrateful or thankless, or because you've gone to all this trouble and he doesn't give a shit (you can deal with that, you've had a lifetime of it.) But because even after everything he's been through this month, after everything with Mattie and the fight and almost ending up dead, Elvis /still/ won't drop the bravado, /still/ won't be kind enough to allow himself to be /weak/.

You pull him tighter against your side. Lift the majority of his weight as he clutches at his stomach and braves the next step.

"Yeah well, I didn't wanna come save your arse from bein' buried six feet under at three in the mornin' 'cos Elways is incapable of thinkin' like a human bein', an' I don't /particularly/ fancy standin' about 'ere for three hours while you climb these bleedin' stairs, but sometimes — me lil fuckwit of a friend, you just 'ave to put up with shit."

---

You fetch it. All of Elvis's shit. Trudge up the street to what little remains of the Ianson family household, tooled with a clumsily scrawled list of everything he 'needs'.

Phone charger.

Laptop.

Crap to wear.

That one big tattered poster of Joan Jett that you're convinced is even older than him.

"I'm not bringin' yer entire wank bank." You'd told him, earlier that morning, when he'd swapped the list for a tray of your mum's breakfast in bed.

"Oh, come on," He'd whined, puppy-eyed even above a mouthful of scrambled eggs and pointing a fork to the Westlife collage completely covering one bedroom wall — a fading ode to Chantelle's obsessively romantic teenage years (years in which you'd had to accompany her to more than one of their shitty concerts, because your mum had /insisted/. Years in which you'd been needlessly excited when you discovered a picture of Alex Turner as her phone wallpaper, only to have your heart broken when she'd admitted she didn't like his band, and only had it there cos she /fancied/ him...), "I can't sit lookin' at those grinnin' paddy twats all day, I'll do meself in."

And so that's you, off to pick up clean clothes and electronics and fucking Joan Jett.

And that's you, anxiously pressing the Ianson's doorbell and hoping Elvis's mum actually lets you in.

As a kid, you'd never really liked her.

As a kid, you'd been convinced that dislike went both ways.

And as a kid, your Chantelle referred to her as 'the witch' on account of the sharp nose and cutting cheekbones Elvis later grew to inherit.

And growing up, Elvis's name for her had been solely 'the bitch'.

Nowadays though, you think you understand her.

Nowadays, you think you kinda get it.

After suffering four miscarriages and an unfortunate cot death, there's only so much of Elvis one mother's nerves can take.

When she opens the front door, however, you're surprised at her immediate inclination of head, gesturing for you to come in. And when you step into the living room, you're surprised to find a sofa scattered with Elvis's belongings. 

"I packed up a few bits I thought he might want. Clean clothes, toothbrush, computer... things..." Elvis's mum is so quiet you can barely hear her and she doesn't look you in the eye when she speaks. "Probably loads of stuff I missed, though. So you're welcome to go upstairs and pick up anything else you think he needs. You'll know better than I do. I don't know anything about him these days..."

Half an hour later, after you've fished Elvis's phone charger from the colony of wild socks underneath his bed and return downstairs with Joan Jett rolled up under an armpit, you find his mum in the kitchen, hunched tense over a cup of tea at the table, head in her hands and biting at a trembling bottom lip.

"He's gonna be alright, ya know." You tell her. Reasoning she needs to hear it. Reasoning some fucker has to be the one who remains positive.

She sniffs and nods. Twitches a thin smile. Doesn't look up at you, though. You reason she's likely just too broken for it.

"I know..." She eventually whispers on an exhale's fragile edge, "I know he's safe with you. You've always been a good influence on him. You looked after him so well when you were kids..."

(...when you were /kids/.)

"That's right." You step towards her. Crouch beside the table so you're at eye level. So she has no choice but to look at you. No choice but to see that you're /sincere/.

You've got this. You're Dominic.

"An' just 'cos he's a grown man now, doesn't mean I 'ave any intention of stoppin'..."

--

You're going to be the death of each other.

You've always known it.

Only it hits you a little bit harder when you find him sitting on the back step, kitchen door to the garden wide open, freezing his arse off in nothing but boxers and his leather jacket ‪at three o'clock‬ in the morning.

The urge for a piss had seen you glancing through his ajar bedroom door on your bleary eyed shuffle down the hallway, and it hadn't been until you'd finished in the bathroom that it twigged there hadn't actually /been/ anyone in his bed.

Now there's a thin strip of bruised knotted spine between leather and elastic that you wish you couldn't see, and you're standing six feet away, shivering in your t-shirt and Calvins.

"What's up?" You ask, when you've stood a bit too long, when you're certain he's waiting for you to say something, "Shit the bed?"

A plume of grey anorexic smoke. "Go back to sleep." And the hem of his jacket riding up to expose tattered ends of messy bandages haphazard with curling surgical tape.

He won't allow you to dress his wound. He'll barely let you touch him, these days. But he's sitting in your back doorway at an ungodly hour, wearing nothing but that stupid fucking jacket he left on the wing mirror of your car, so that must account for /something/.

Unable (and a little bit unwilling) to go back to sleep, you do what any discerning English gentleman would do in this situation.

You stick the kettle on.

Make tea.

Then join him out on the back step, trying to ignore the way it's so cold your nuts have practically crawled back up into your body.

"Red moon." He says, flatly, swinging the last third of his cig your way.

You take it. A straight trade for the cup of tea he wedges between grazed up knees.

Above you, hanging over the field at the end of your garden, where you and Elvis wore down the leather on footballs when you were kids, where you sprained countless ankles and wrists, because Elvis always played dirty — the United scum that he is — and where you laid the early foundations of a friendship later cemented in political fashions and music, a blood moon burns its warning.

The lunar eclipse. The end of days.

And, when you've crushed the cigarette filter into the concrete and your arse has gone numb from the cold on the step, when Elvis has drunk all of his tea and half of yours and you've both been quiet for ages, he hefts a sigh, leans back, angles up his chin and closes his eyes as though sunbathing. "What next?"

It's cryptic, like always, but you hear it — all the unspoken words overloading the single silent space in between.

The 'where do we go from here'.

The 'what does this mean'.

The 'sorry', maybe.

(Or perhaps you're just projecting.)

And you wish you had the answer.

You wish you had some security.

Wish his outburst hadn't caused you to lose your always certain, always steady footing.

Most of all though... most of all you wish you had something else to say other than, "I dunno, mate... You tell me."

--

You remember Glastonbury, '08.

Standing in a muddy field among hundreds of drunk festival goers while ‪The Verve‬ light up your Sunday. You're not dancing, you're not a bloke who does that sorta thing, but you've got your head thrown back and arms outstretched, soaking it all in. And Elvis — still wired from managing to blag a barrier position to see ‪Pete Doherty‬ on the Friday — is singing in your ear with an elbow hooked round your waist, and you're thinking (knowing, really) "I am a fucking 'Lucky Man', indeed."

You remember it being easier then.

(Happier, maybe.)

More manageable, definitely.

Even as you come across Noel later on, when you and Elvis stumble arm-in-arm back to your tent.

Noel who's come along to Glasto with you, but in true Elways style has quickly gone his own way. And who, after three days, is nothing but an indulgent mess of filthy bare feet, white jeans rolled up to the knees, rainbow body paint and strings upon strings of plaited daisy chains. Noel, who, on his way to fuck knows /who/ in fuck knows /where/, makes wanker gestures and shouts "who's on top, tonight, nancy boys??" when the sight of him running passed like some kind of Millennial-Woodstock reject has you and Elvis collapsing into one another, giggling.

You remember it being easier then.

(The word didn't sting.)

When it was just you and Elvis and sometimes, now and again, Noel Elways. Before that night down The Crown, when a five-foot-nothing blonde shoved in beside you at the bar, playing wing-woman for her scary best mate.

Before Noel and Specks. And Mattie and Elvis.

Before you could listen to ‪The Smiths‬ without thinking of a certain tacky knitwear obsessed artist.

And you wonder, if you were given the opportunity to go back in time, would you do it all differently?

And you wonder, if you could replay ‪Sunday night‬ at Glastonbury when you were nineteen — if you could rewind to that precise moment Elvis wrestled you down onto the tarpaulin, still cracking laughs on the back of Noel's comment, and jokingly suggested; "Ohhh, Dominic, KISS me." would you do it?

Probably... probably.

--

You're down town, flicking through the stacks in Sound on a Saturday, trying to find something decent to buy for Elvis as some sort of 'get well soon, ya twat' present, when he turns up.

You don't even need to see him, to know when he shows.

Because Liam Gaffney, Sound's sixteen-year-old weekend 'record assistant' and your own personal shopper, who's been trailing you about the aisles regurgitating every article he's read in this week's copy of NME word-for-word, standing way too close for comfort and constantly getting under your feet, suddenly exclaims, "JUDE!" so loud he almost bursts your ear drum, then rockets off in streaks of smiley faces and tie-dye.

You don't turn round. You don't even look up. Just slouch a bit further and sink your head a bit deeper, and strategically navigate your way towards the very back of the shop.

It doesn't really work. You're not sure why you bother. Sound's no bigger than a shoebox, so there's nowhere for you to hide at six foot two. You've also just gravitated into the Northern Soul corner, and if there's anyone who's gonna be browsing round that bit in a parka on a Saturday, it's you.

(Or Polly, you suppose.)

You hear snags of conversation between the gaps in the same Happy Mondays album Liam's /always/ got playing on repeat in the shop. (Pills 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches. Released five years before he was born and playing over and over again every weekend for the last twelve months. You're surprised his manager hasn't broken it in two.)

"Saved summink special just for you, la..."

"How much you robbing me, this time..?"

"Jussa tenner now for you innit, like. But don't be tellin' 'em all, right. Mates rates an' that. Can't 'ave everyone wannin a bidda de Gaff..." And then, mixed with the ringing of a till and rustling of a carrier bag, "Cheers. Ta. Your Dom's over there, ya know."

And you /feel/ it.

The hesitation.

The weighing up of the odds.

The 'should we/should we not'.

But he's gotta keep up appearances in front of Gaffney.

(In front of the whole fucking world.)

You both do.

And so he's there, a few seconds later, leaning against the rack next to you, with a smile that's more like a grimace and an upward acknowledging nod, "Alright, mate."

"Alright."

"Anything good?"

"Not really. You?"

"Couple of bits. Just picking up some stuff Liam put behind the counter for me during the week." He doesn't offer to tell you what they are. Beyond Morrissey and The Beatles, yours and Julian's musical tastes don't overlap that much. He's long since gauged your disinterest. So instead, as you side step down the aisle to flip through the next stack, he offers up a sudden, "I heard about Elvis." in a tone somewhere between sympathetic and sore.

You pause in your browsing. Feel the muscle tense in your jaw. "Noel."

Of course. You should have known.

"Well, kinda." He shifts uncomfortably on the edge of your view, "He told Sara and Sara told me, so..."

"So, Mattie knows." Because of course Specks won't have thought to keep her big fat mouth shut. Because of course the news that Elvis nearly died just has to get back to the poor fucking girl.

Sometimes, you wonder if you're the only one in your group of mates who actually possesses forethought and common sense.

Sometimes, you wonder if you were beamed in from a completely different planet to them all.

Julian doesn't confirm or deny this information. And you know he's doing that irritating pacifist thing again, where he's dodging questions because he doesn't want anyone to get hurt.

There was a time, many naive months ago, when you mistakenly found this quality a bit endearing. And there was a time, many naive months ago, when it was quite nice to meet somebody who possessed a genuine moral code.

Funny how everything that was once attractive about him, bugs the absolute shit outta you now.

"How is she?" You ask. Because you've got manners. Because you do care. Because it's been way too long since you visited and there's guilt collecting in your gut like a reservoir. "Not good..." he says.

(Not long, you hear.)

"I'll visit." You say.

"You should." He nods. And then, when the small talk's over and you've both put on enough of a show, "I should get off, anyway. I'm meeting Polly round the gallery at two. Don't wanna be too late. /Scary/ that girl."

"Right, yeah, course. Don't piss 'er off, will you."

As he turns to leave, relief allows your teeth to un-clench.

And as he turns to leave you think 'thank fuck'.

Only for him to suddenly turn back again with a mumbling, "Uhm, actually... Dom..." frowning and rifling through his Sound carrier bag and catching you completely off guard.

You don't know what to say when he slides out a copy of Radiohead's album 'The Bends'. And you don't know what to say when he slides it into your hand, track-listing side up, a paint-stained fingernail bullet-pointing 'High and Dry' just a little bit too long.

"Really good on vinyl, that one." He offers, looking you in the eye for the first time since he entered the shop, "Just so you know..."

--

You spend the rest of the weekend conjuring a tension headache from the furrow in your brow, stomping about the house and grunting like a Neanderthal whenever Elvis or your Mum try to strike up conversation. Because you know what Julian's implying. You know exactly what he's trying to say. You've heard High and Dry so much on the radio at work you're pretty sure you've absorbed every inch of it's meaning.

And you know you're a dickhead. You know you're struggling with this. You feel like you're fucking drowning, most days.

You don't need a reminder of your shortcomings.

So when Elvis confronts you, late ‪Sunday evening‬, you're laying across your bed pressing the heels of your hands into your eyeballs, trying to push the aches out of your skull.

"What's up wi' you, mard arse? You on your period?"

"Fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

Creaks on the floorboards. The soft brush of sliding cardboard. Paper, crinkling. And you know.

You - "Put that back."

Him - "Get lost."

The whir of the arms rotation. A dull drop of the needle. Static that reminds you of air before a thunderstorm.

"At least turn it down."

To your surprise, when the music kicks in there's no frenetic drumbeat, no growling bass or snarling guitar Elvis always favours, though.

Just the gentle lullaby notes of Lennon's white grand piano backed with that warm, vintage vinyl hiss you've always loved. And when you move your hands, Elvis is smirking. And when your frown starts to let up, he flops down beside you on the bed, deeming close proximity safe once more.

He lays in silence next to you with his eyes closed. Not touching. But near enough.

Just a presence.

A reminder.

("I am here for you, you know.")

And it takes a while - three songs in fact - but by the closing notes of 'Jealous Guy' you don't feel like you want him to fuck off any more.

"D'ya ever worry you're turnin' into your old man?" You surprise yourself with your honesty. It suddenly feels as though you've been carrying the weight of your entire twenty-one-year existence on your back at all times and now you're unpacking it, one hoarded forgotten object at a time.

Elvis huffs a laugh, "What? No? Worried about turnin' into me Mam, more.” It takes a few moments for him to clock on, but when you stare at the ceiling in silence he figures it out, "You're nothing like your Dad, man."

"I don't know..." the hands are at your eyes again, the bridge of your nose feels sore, "...I wouldn't be so sure."

You try to explain the rage dwelling deep inside of you. The ruthless aggression stamped like a branding into your bones. The way that every day feels like being stranded in the middle of a war zone, fighting uselessly between what you want and what you /are/.

You were made in your father's image. And while you want to believe that you're not a bad person, you know -- inherently -- that you are.

"Why don't you go and see him?" Elvis suggests, when the words have run out and you're not sure how to put your tormented thoughts into comprehensible sentences any more.

"Are you havin' a laugh?" The thought tightens like a pair of hands around your throat.

"Seriously, mate," he continues, "If nothing else it'll remind you just how different you’ve become..."

--

You're eight.

You're eight, when you ram Sareem Akhtar's face into the school gates and leave him needing four stitches in his eyebrow.

You don't remember why you do it. You're not sure you really have a good excuse. Elvis recalls something about him pulling Chantelle's ponytail to get her attention and kicking it all off, but in all honesty you'd been searching for a reason to batter him for weeks. Maybe even months.

You'd just been waiting for him to put a toe out of line and get on your nerves. Because you don't like his face.

Don't like the colour of his skin.

And he regrets it, whatever he did.

Because when he's curled on the concrete in a puddle of his own blood, and you're standing over him spitting "dirty paki cunt!" with half the school crowded round behind you, he wails his little heart out, the poor sod.

And when Chantelle — the fucking loudmouth, blabs about it all when you get home, your Mum shouts til her face turns tomato then sends you straight to your bedroom.

But your Dad, sitting in his chair by the telly, hunched over shining his Docs, just listens silently and smirks.

That night, Chantelle, Mercedes and Chelsea all climb into your bed.

That night, Natalie and Rachel — the two eldest — stand at the top of the stairs earwigging as your Mum and Dad fight. "It's about you, bro." Natalie calls down the hall.

And Chelsea — the only sister in your bed not currently curled up in your arms and sobbing into your neck, huffs a scathing, "Fuck's sake, it's /always/ about you!" then throws the duvet over her head as she turns her back.

Your Mum spends the next morning crying in the kitchen.

Your Dad thumps about the bedroom, stuffing clothes into bags.

And when you pause in the doorway, frowning.

(Worrying)

He gestures you in, then tugs you into a gruff hug.

"Proud o' you." His chest rumbles against your face as he holds you tight, rubbing the top of your shaved head, "So fucken proud, son."

You don't hug him back. You don't know how, or even if you should. The most affection you've ever had from your Dad is a clout round the ear. And he's always beat it into you not to be soft.

He's never — not once — told you he's proud of you before.

So when he pulls away and holds out his hand, old National Front tattoo faded to a red and blue smudge on his palm, you stand there a bit clueless until he grabs yours.

"Take care o' yer Mam an' sisters." He says. And it's not a request, but a command. "An' take care o' these bad boys." He goes on, plucking up your other hand, balling your fingers into fists and kissing each set of knuckles in turn, "Your best mates for life, these two. "

And then, as the realisation dawns on you.

As you become suddenly startlingly conscious of the massive fucking shoes you're required to fill.

"Don't you dare cry, lad. Don't wanna see none of those tears, now. Not today an' not ever. Understand? You're a fighter. You're not a puff an' yer not soft. You're a proud Englishman, born and bred. Hard as nails. An' yer /my/ son."

--

You knew he'd bounce back.

Week three and Elvis is out in your back garden, playing footie with all your nieces and nephews. Getting tackled into the grass by seven boisterous five-to-ten year olds. Getting tickled half to death and mass sat upon. Much to the delight of the toddlers, Poppy and Rose, who are parked in a double pushchair by the back door and gleefully smearing chocolate biscuits all over each other from the excitement of it all.

You're gazing out the window above the sink, over a mountain of soapy bubbles, while Chantelle stands next to you, armed with a dishtowel, the pair of you reenacting the ‪Sunday afternoon‬ duties from when you were young.

"He'd make a great Dad, you know." She says, as Elvis suddenly leaps up roaring, sending the kids scattering in fits of screeched giggles across the yard.

"He's engaged." You remind her. Reacting on autopilot.

A deterrent.

(Or he was. At one point.)

"I wasn't implying anythin', ya div. I don't /fancy/ him. I'm not after his /babies/, Dom. Just pointin' out he's good wi' kids, that's all."

"Well, obviously..." You direct your attention back to the washing up, "'cos he never bleedin' grew up."

It's quiet for a bit. Just the sound of you scraping the remainders of a steak pie off the bottom of a baking pan, Elvis mimicking a T-Rex outside and the muffled audio of the telly from the next room.

Until, "You'd make a great Dad, too."

And you're not sure if she's saying it because she believes you — like Elvis — have a special way with children, or because you — unlike your own Dad — stuck around to actually look after your sisters and your Mum. But either way it's honest. And either way it's a thought that both surprises and scares you.

"We're two players down for Elvis's football team." She goes on, grinning to herself. "When're me and you gonna contribute?"

"Never." You grunt, "I'm not 'avin kids. At least not after how /we/ grew up..." And then, because the opportunity's right there. Because the conversation's wide open. Because you know you'll regret it if you don't seize the moment. "I'm gonna go see him, ya know."

And Chantelle looks up at you, pencil thin dark brows pulled low beneath a poker straight curtain of yellow-blonde. "Who?"

"Dad. On Wednesday. Called the Visitor Centre last week an' they rang me back with his confirmation this mornin', so..."

"Oh..."

She's silent then, for ages.

So are you.

She stares at the plates slotted into the draining rack and you stare down at the bubbles enclosed round your hands.

Outside, Elvis performs keepie-ups for his adoring crowd.

When your sister speaks again her voice is quiet, /thin/, "You sure that's a good idea?"

And you huff a sardonic laugh, "Hah. No. But I have to... It's somethin' I /need/ to do."

You know she doesn't understand your mysterious, undisclosed motive and in all honesty, you don't expect her to. As far as Chantelle's concerned — as far as all of your sisters are concerned for that matter — your old man is just a cunt who abandoned his family right when they needed him the most.

And you know Chelsea, who was always closest to your Dad and who's never quite gotten over it all, still pins a large fraction of the blame on you.

Chantelle, though...

Chantelle's always fought in your corner. Even if she does have a massive gob on her that's got you into shit more than once.

"Anythin' you want me to tell him?" You ask, when you realise she's not gonna pursue the conversation any further on her own, "Got anythin' you want me to say from you?"

And at first she shakes her head. At first she scrunches her little pig-like upturned nose in disgust.

Until suddenly her face changes, and her jaw squares and her brow crumples into a scowl just like yours, and she looks you straight in the eyes and goes, "Yeah... Yeah, actually, I do... Tell him I hope he never gets parole. Tell him I said he deserves to sit in that cell 'til he /rots/."

---

You won't let him wonder 'what if?'. It's not something you're going to allow.

Because you know that feeling. You live with that uncertain wondering — the sometimes wishful thinking — every day of your life. And you know it's no good.

No good for you.

No good for Elvis.

So when he starts uhm-ing and ahh-ing and bitching and moaning and making excuses that are a bit light on their facts, you pick him up. Physically, pick him up. Then carry him, bridal-style, out to your car.

There's nothing even remotely fucking romantic in it, not when you're struggling to restrain him cos he's kicking off and mouthing off while simultaneously trying to knee you in the jaw. And not when you're dumping him carelessly on the backseat with zero concern for his comfort, then kicking closed the auto-locking door.

"I'm not fuckin' goin'!" His boots ramrod your backrest as you twist the key in the ignition then reverse out of the yard.

"Get a beef on all you want, mate," you say, flashing a nonchalant look in the rear mirror, briefly eyeing your bristling barb-wired boy hunkered in the reflection, all tongue and teeth and too much gum, "it's not gonna change anything. You're goin' to see her and that's that."

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, Elvis sits sullen and sulking and refusing to get out of the car.

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, you grab him by the scruff of his jacket and haul him out.

"She doesn't wanna see me!" He protests as you frog-march him down the garden path.

"How the fuck d'you know?"

"I don't wanna see her!" He insists when you're the one knocking on the door. "You can't kid a kidder, man."

And then, when you're pushing him into the Linnington family's living room like a reluctant toddler, pressing your mouth to his ear and a ring into his palm, "I'll come back in a few hours when you've sorted it out."

"Wait, what?! Wood! No!" And when he spins to face you he's less agitated, more helpless. Just big childlike worried eyes and incapable pleading hands. "Don't leave me. Please. Don't go!"

Because you're better at fixing shit that's damaged than he is.

Because you're the one who's always puzzled back together all the shattered pieces of his life before.

Because he's fucking terrified of his own inevitably built up, inevitably broken, perpetually battered, rapscallion heart.

"I can't, mate. Sorry." You've got an appointment at Strangeways in an hour. Today, both you and you best mate are facing up to shit in your lives that hurt. "It's all you now, son. Just you..."

---

You remember Elvis' first month at university.

Not because he tells you about it — but rather, because he doesn't.

There are no text messages. No phone calls. No voice mails left in the stupid hours of the morning when he can't sleep because he's bitten his own wild mind bleeding and raw.

And you don't call him. You want to. You pull his name up in your mobile's address book and sit with your thumb hovering over the 'call' button more times than you care to recount, but you don't do it.

Because not too long ago, you laid side-by-side, the world growing slowly beneath your bones, as you stared up at the stars. And you'd told Elvis you'd visit. Told him you'd come down all the time to hang out. But since helping him move into the flat — since you hauled four bags of crap and guitar up the stairs while he arsed about getting to know his new friend 'Noel', he hasn't invited you to come over once.

And you're not the type to drop in on somebody /uninvited/.

And you reason he's likely found a whole crew of mates cooler than you, by now. He always was the popular one.

So when Elvis does finally call you, howling laughter down the line like a wolf, before informing you that he and Noel are planning to throw their very first 'party' and asks you to come along, you realise you're probably just trying to spite him when you tell him that you can't.

You're covering a late shift that particular Friday for a guy at work, you say. Then an early shift the following Saturday morning.

"Sorry, mate. No can do."

And Elvis lets out a sigh so full of disappointment, you can practically hear him deflate on the other end, like a balloon.

"Aw, Wood... Seriously? Really wanted you to be there... It's not the same without you, you know..."

And it's not so much that you're jealous of all Elvis' new mates getting to spend time with him — you swear you're not.

More that you're just envious of Elvis himself, with this exciting new life unfurling at his feet, full of incredible opportunities that you can never have.

And yet... despite your excuses, despite the fact you know you're not going to enjoy it, despite the way you know you're gonna hate everyone, you still find yourself picking out and ironing a decent shirt the night before...

At Elvis and Noel's, it's all bodies.

Bodies clustered round the entrance doors to the building, smoking. Bodies dotting the stairwell, half throwing up. Reams of philanthropically drunk teenagers spilling out of the flat and down the hall.

You have to step over a couple wrapped around each other on the floor, doing thorough investigations of one anothers back molars, before you can get in through the door.

"Thought you had to work?"

A nip on your right arse cheek, hard enough to hurt, incites both a yelp and a warning bare of teeth as you spin around.

It's Elvis. Obviously.

Elvis, all crinkled laughing eyes and lolling teasing tongue and ballsy rogue-like hands that tear the world in two.

"Brought you a present." You say, conveniently side-stepping away from your excuse.

His attention is immediately diverted as you lift up the carrier bag from the off license.

His  smile slides into the corner of his mouth. "How thoughtful of you, Wood."

And you know that he knows it was all a lie. And you know that he knows exactly why.

Because he knows you, just as intimately as you know him.

But he's not going to challenge it.

You know that, too.

Elvis doesn't take the bag holding the six pack. Just rustles about, peels a can from the ring-holder and cracks open the tab. Around you, the bustling crowd in the flat churns like whirlpool.

"Made a lotta new friends." You remark.

It's not a surprise. Everyone has always known and loved Elvis. He makes it too difficult /not/ to.

"Lotta new birds, you mean." He grins, leaning conspiratorially forward.

Elvis is all warm body and cold can, and you're not sure if the goosebumps erupting on your arms are from the chill of the Carlsberg suddenly pressed against your chest, or the close proximity of his mouth.

"Come on. Lemme introduce you."

And while you'd like to believe that when he hauls you round the flat by the arm, parading you proudly from one cluster of party-goers to the next, beaming "Remember when I was tellin' ya 'bout me best mate, Dom?" and "Have ya had the honour of meeting me best boy, here, Wood?" at anyone who'll lend an ear for a second — you know, deep down, he's doing it because he knows you're unbelievably jealous of all of this. And you know, deep down, he wants to make you feel included. Like you're important. Show you off. Make you a part of all this too.

Because while he's laughably blind to things sometimes, (most times), Elvis isn't stupid.

And while he sometimes (a lot of the time) suffers from tunnel-vision, Elvis isn't selfish.

And by parading you about like a trophy, excitedly introducing you to all of his new friends, sharing funny anecdotes from when the two of you were young and making you sound much cooler and put together than you really are — he's resetting the balance. Cleverly easing away your anxiety and re-establishing your existence as the centre of his universe.

And later, in the quiet moments when the night's not quite over but all the frayed seams of the party are starting to gently come undone, he lays next to you, horizontally, on the sofa, legs hooked over the armrest, head on your thigh.

Across the room, Noel's wedged into an armchair with a girl on his lap. She's giggling. He's grinning. And then he's saying something you can't hear into the exposed skin of her collarbone, as he slides both hands beneath her skirt.

"How does he do that?"

You assume Elvis is not commenting on Noel's fingering technique.

(You hope he isn't.)

And that Elvis really means how does Noel /pull/.

You shrug. "Low standards." You suppose, you don't exactly know him much, "Surprising how much you can put it about when you don't care where it ends up."

Elvis' hair brushes your knuckles as you pick up the can wedged between your knees, then bring it your mouth.

"That why Dom Junior's not allowed out to play? Standards too high for the common woman?" He snatches your drink before you're done. And you don't think you're imagining it when you drop your hand and he leans his head into you, tangling hair around your fingers as though seeking out your touch.

"/Impossibly/ high standards." You say, looking down.

At him.

Your firecracker. Your minefield. Your thunderstorm.

Effortless and ignorant here, with a slowly sideways slipping smile and head in your lap.

Your best mate stacking another /feeling/ onto that emotional pile of dry kindling still waiting for a spark.

The teasing — mildly flirtatious — half-panting tongue is back.

"I know, I know," he banters, "it's not every day you run into a bird as perfect as I am."

#ljlsdom #ljlspartfive