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#like i get why so many seamstresses murdered their husbands
trucbiduleschouettes · 9 months
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🌸 What are some of their favourite things and why? List as many as you can think of!
This but with a twist. List one favourite thing and why, for each of your OC's that you feel like we should get to know better!
I'm not on my computer so this one will go doodle less pfff
Also I will have to limit it a bit still since having +200 OCs make it hard to not want most of them to be known better pff
-Laïg: her favourite thing is sewing because it reminds her of when she was still a normal half elf, living with her seamstress mother
-Mellow: She really likes her pendant as it is a gift from her murdered younger brother, back when he was still full of hope and dreams
-Lost: her favourite thing is saving someone's life, because she was forced for years to kill blindly for entertainment of others and her own survival, and she prefers to stop blood from being shed rather than make it run.
-Tarmenel: His favourite thing is painless days, when he gets to fully enjoy his duty as king and spend time with his family as well without the threat of ending up bedridden.
-Telundill: creative process and smithing especially. She just is fascinated with it and she is pig headed enough that she got herself the apprenticeship she wanted, with the rest adapting the tools to her missing arm so that she can works with as little issues as possible.
-Killian: being a librarian, books, and knowing how pissed his father is still about him refusing to join the marines to instead work for a big library. His second favourite thing is to piss off his younger sister, Katellig, because he is a Big Brother and knows best how to annoy her.
-Sweet: Her favourite thing is night at sea, just sitting on deck while the non elves are asleep, enjoying the quietness and fresh air. She loves life as a pirate, but does like her moments of quietness.
-Galaad: his favourite thing is Feywilds tea leaves, especially to drink alongside bread he baked himself- he is just an extremely old man who enjoy simple joys the most. The tea also reminds him of his ex husband who he may or may not get back together with post campaign -
-Lage: one of Niquis' dads. He loves taxidermy - both as his job and as a hobby. He is very anxious by nature but being on his own working on this helps him relax a lot. He enjoys it even more now that Niquis grew and enjoyed it as well, and they can hold shop together.
-Kassi: Niquis' other dad. His favourite thing is waking up first to see Lage still peacefully asleep and drooling over the pillow. He also is very fond of Niquis pretending to be asleep in the morning so that he can pretend to wake her up as well. He's just very fond of his family.
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jennypearseed · 2 years
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i.hate sewing I hate sewing
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shestrying2write · 4 years
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Blank Pages pt 1
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Pairing: Ivar x reader 
Warnings: My timeline and the shows timeline inconsistencies.
Word Count: 2,305
Author’s note: it’s kind of angsty? I love Ivar and I love suffering so here you go. I will probably write a second part, just because I don’t want this part to be too long. Please let me know what you guys think! I also didn’t edit it, so if you see any mistakes let me know.
Summary: Ivar must choose between the love of the man who abandoned him and the love of a woman he promised to never abandon.
Masterlist
Pt 2 // Pt 3
“What do you mean you’re leaving?!” A hurt Y/N shouted through tears as she stared at her best friend of years and recent lover. 
Ivar stared back, with his impatient blue eyes. “I’m going with my father Y/N” he repeated again. “Which part confused you?” His condescending tone, a mask to hide that he was truly sad to be leaving her. Y/N grabbed the first thing on her dresser, a brush, and threw it...hard. Ivar skillfully dodged it. “That almost hit me woman” he growled. 
“Yes. That was the point Ivar. Better I kill you than the saxons, or worse, your own father” She couldn’t believe her ears. After years of friendship, they finally had the courage to admit they had more than friendly feelings toward each other. Then came Ragnar and Ivar ran to him, like a dog whose long lost owner came back. 
“No one is going to kill me Y/N.” Ivar took a deep breath to calm himself then chuckled at seeing her red face. She cared. He could tell that she truly cared for him and he didn’t know why. She was better off without him, a cripple, bringing her down. He saw the way people looked at them together, he heard the whispers. “Except perhaps for you” he tried joking to ease her anger. It worked, slightly. She rolled her eyes and walked over to him, dropping to her knees in front of him, to be more at eye level as he sat on her bed. 
“I’m scared of losing you. I just found you. We just found each other” she whispered, her hand resting on his cheek. He leaned into her soft touch and smiled, his eyes closing. 
“You’re not going to lose me. I’ll come back to you...Eventually” his words brought her no comfort. She knew she couldn’t just sit around and hope that he was alive and well. So she did the one thing she promised herself she’d never do to anyone. She gave him an impossible choice, in the hopes of convincing him to stay. 
“Then you’ll lose me” she stated coldly as she removed her hand. Ivar’s eyes opened wide as he looked at her, waiting for further explanation. 
“Wh-What do you mean?” He mumbled, his hands trying to seek out hers. 
“If you go with your father, I will not wait for you Ivar. Stay with me or lose me” she couldn’t look into his blue eyes without tears threatening to run down her face. Though as hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop them. She slowly inched closer to him, her lips a centimeter from his. “Please Ivar. Choose me, choose happiness, stay with me, marry me” her voice broke on her last words as she pleaded with him. He leaned in and closed the gap between their faces, pressing his lips against hers as hard as he could. Trying to memorize every inch of her lips, the taste of her tongue in his mouth, the way she whimpered softly when he bit her lip and the way her eyes fluttered open when he pulled away, begging for more. Her eyes were filled with hope, and it broke his heart that he now had to break hers. 
“I can’t” he whispered almost inaudible, but by the look on her face, he knew she heard him. She stood up and wiped her eyes. “Please understand. I have to do this. I have to prove myself” he pleaded, but she was in no mood to hear him anymore. 
“Get out” she said through gritted teeth
“Please understand Y/N…” she didn’t give him a chance to finish. She wanted nothing more than to cry and throw things. Ivar knew he needed to do this. He needed to prove that he was a Viking and that he deserved the love of someone like her. 
“I SAID. GET. OUT!” He had never heard her so angry, and when he tried to reach out to her she yanked her arm away and walked to the other side of the room. “Please just — just go Ivar” she was hurt and he could see that. He had hurt the one person who had loved him as much as he loved her for someone who abandoned him and there was no turning back. 
Before he dragged himself out he muttered his last words to her “I really do love you. I hope you will be at the docks when I return and I truly hope you will come see me off” she didn’t respond, she didn’t even look in his direction, but he could hear her soft sobs. With that, he left. 
—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•— •—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—
He looked onto the docks, there was his mother and other people he didn’t care for. He had truly hoped and expected that Y/N would show up to say goodbye, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight. Their argument had been two days ago and he hadn’t seen her since. He gave a letter to one of his thralls to give to Y/N. He had stayed up all night thinking about what to write and what to say to make it better. But he knew nothing would change what was going to happen. It was all in the hands of the gods now. 
Ivar left and the thrall arrived at Y/N’s door. She gave her the letter and was dismissed back to Aslaug. Y/N’s eyes were red and puffy, she hadn’t stopped crying since Ivar had left. She felt destroyed. When she opened the letter there were only ten words on it. 
“Y/N,
I love you and I’m sorry. 
Forever yours,
Ivar”
—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•— •—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—
Her days felt lonely and she tried to keep them busy by visiting Queen Aslaug. She was just as torn as Y/N and together they found comfort in each other. Aslaug hadn’t always been a fan of Y/N because she always suspected that she might be using her son, and she constantly waited for the other foot to drop, but it never did. Then she felt like Y/N was stealing Ivar from his mother, but seeing her all mopey now, she realized they were the same. They both loved Ivar and wanted nothing but his return. What Aslaug didn’t know was that Y/N had already packed her belongings and was simply trying to find the courage to leave. 
She knew she told Ivar that she wouldn’t wait for him, but she wanted to. She didn’t want to leave him, she loved him, more than she had ever loved anyone else. She had turned down foreign suitors when they had asked for her hand, and denied the advances of most men if Ivar hadn’t liked them. Of course now she knew why he didn’t like most men, he was jealous. The thought that he couldn’t possibly love her as much as he claimed if he left her so easily always rattled in her mind and she hated it. Of course she understood that he had always felt like he had to prove himself a warrior, a true viking, but she wished that her seeing him that way would have been enough. 
Once Aslaug had woken up screaming and crying of Ivar’s death, Y/N knew there was nothing tying her to Kattegat. Aslaug was never wrong, her dreams, her premonitions, always being clear and true. Y/N comforted Aslaug as best as she could and one night while Aslaug was asleep, she had slipped a letter under her pillow explaining that she had to leave and that she was sorry and that she looked forward to seeing Ivar again when it was her time to go and eat with the gods. 
She had left most of her belongings in her home, not wanting to carry more than she needed. Her desk covered in crumbled pieces of parchment, all started with varying versions of ‘Dear Ivar,’ but not much else. She could never bring herself to write much after his name because she found herself crying or throwing things. The final letter she wrote had the words ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’ crossed out before they too were tossed aside. 
She loaded her cart with some dresses that Ivar had the best seamstress in Kattegat make for her, a dagger he had gifted her and enough food and water to last her a week. She let one last tear fall from her eyes as she said goodbye to her childhood home forever. 
—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•— •—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—
“A great army. At my command. Imagine it brothers” Ivar had been on one of his rants again. His brothers had, had enough. Sigurd with his mockery began pestering Ivar. And as always Ubbe made an attempt to settle their quarrels while Hvitserk just sat there eating. 
Bjorn having had enough just slammed his fist on the table, making all the brothers turn their attention to him, “we won’t succeed in avenging our father if we cannot get Earl Erik to agree to join us” with a frustrated gruff he pushed his plate far away from him. 
Ivar rolled his eyes “Brother please, with all the men and women coming to help us, we have more than enough to succeed” biting another piece of meat. 
Bjorn chuckled “You are naive brother, if you believe your words. Earl Erik has enough men and women at his disposal that he would nearly double our current army. They say his current wife is a great shieldmaiden who helped him conquer many villages. We want them as an ally, we want their loyalty. He has agreed to hear me out. We will place nice” he looked directly at Ivar and then Sigurd “We will make him feel welcomed and we will not waste his time with your pointless pissing contests. Are we clear?” 
Both brothers just gave a grunt of agreement and said nothing else. “I’ve heard she is as beautiful as she is terrifying in battle” Ubbe jumped in. 
Hvitserk nodded “They say she seduced her first husband and then murdered him for his army and now she’s slowly conquered Norway with her new husband. She’s giving king Herald a run for his money” he laughed as he continued eating. 
“A woman that powerful? I’m sure they greatly exaggerate. She’s probably not even real. I’m sure it’s all stories spread by Earl Erik’s own people.” Ivar grumbled. 
“Well whatever the case. We will pose our arguments and try to convince him to help. I expect you all on your best behaviors” as Bjorn finished his sentence a thrall rushed in slightly out of breath. 
With very little patience Ivar yelled “Spit it out already!” The poor thrall jumped and took a deep breath before speaking. 
“Earl Erik’s boats are on the horizon. He will be here before nightfall” She quickly exited as to not anger the brothers any further. 
Bjorn smiled and sent the slaves to prepare for the festivities that would be occurring as soon as Earl Erik arrived. “Let the preparations begin.” He stood up and excused himself to get ready. 
“I bet his wife won’t even show up with him” Ivar mockingly laughed. “And if she does I’m sure she is as average as they get.”
—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•— •—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—
“Earl Erik!” Bjorn held his arms out “Welcome to Kattegat. I hope your journey went well” 
Earl Erik towered slightly over Bjorn as he walked over. “Prince Bjorn. Long time, no see” They hugged and Erik turned to the rest of Bjorn’s brothers as he was introduced to them. They bowed heads to each other and everything seemed to be flowing nicely as they walked to the great hall together. 
Once they were there and everyone had a drink in hand Ivar opened his mouth. “So Earl. Where is this wife we’ve been hearing so much about?” Ubbe gave him a warning look but Ivar didn’t care “Was she too sick to travel perhaps?” Bjorn heard his tone and knew exactly what Ivar was insinuating. 
Earl Erik just chuckled and finished his drink. “She traveled with me. But said she did not want to be introduced to Ragnar’s sons right after a long trip. She told me to go ahead and she and our son would catch up later.” He knew what Ivar implied. Erik wasn’t stupid he knew exactly what Ivar meant to imply. It didn’t go past Erik that he was much older than they were and his once pretty looks were overtaken by white hairs in his red beard and scars on his cheeks from years of battle. “I’m sure you all will enjoy her company. Just not too much I hope” he teased his old friend Bjorn with an elbow to his side. Ivar just nodded and continued drinking, saying nothing else. 
After several rounds and toasts, the doors opened once again, and there stood two women, one holding a bundled up baby and behind her a woman with her face hidden by a cloak. Erik’s face broke into the biggest smile he had since arriving and the brothers took notice. “That must be your wife” Ivar half chuckled, staring at the lackluster blonde woman in raggedy clothes with spots across her nose, holding the baby.  He knew it, a woman, nothing special or grand about her. What Ivar wasn’t expecting was for Erik to walk right past her and lean down to the smaller woman in the cloak. His hands were on either side of her face as he pulled her in for a kiss, making her hood fall. He turned his attention to the crowd “Everyone. Please, meet my lovely wife—“ as her face came into view Ivar whispered her name at the same time that Earl Erik shouted it to the room “Y/N”
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@hunnybunn56​
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miraculouslycool · 4 years
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Miraculous: The Princess and the Pauper
Prologue
Next
Our tale begins in a faraway kingdom in the South of France, ruled by a just and fair king and queen. They were beloved by their subjects and because of their dedicated service to their kingdom, it flourished in prosperity, and was known as one of the most prominent trading and economic centres.
All was well, until one day the queen was struck with an uncurable illness which left her blind. Her husband, the king was devestated and worried, because they were expecting a baby, and feared that his wife's condition would pass on to his future heir as well.
The queen, however, was a bold woman, with nerves of steel. Her worry did not extend to herself, but rather to their daughter alone. She and her husband prayed fervently, and when their daughter was born, their fears were unfounded, because she was healthy and perfectly fine. Because the queen could not see her own daughter, the king decided to name their princess Kagami, after his wife's Asian heritage, and also because the name translated to 'Mirror'. It was a symbol of being able to see her daughter through the image that was conjured in her own mind.
Kagami was a spitting image of her mother. From the hair to the skin tone to the eye shape. Except for the fact that she inherited her light brown eyes from her father.
All was well, until the King was shot dead by assassins from their rivals - the Italians - not two years later. The entire kingdom mourned, but no one mourned more than the Queen, Tomoe.
Her husband was the only one who brought light into her dark world. He was the one who described things she couldn't see. He was the one who helped her cope with being blind. He was the one who excitedly described their daughter growing in front of their eyes. He was her other half. And now, he was gone. Murdered in front of her, and she couldn't even see how much he had suffered.
She was so grief ridden, she took upon her own personal vow that the same would never happen to her daughter.
She shut away her daughter from the world, and so, no one knew what the princess even looked like. Those who did come in contact with her didn't see her face, because it was always covered by a veil. The veil was Kagami's idea, out of respect for her mother. Neither she nor her mother attended any gala or party or celebration. Neither of them had their potraits painted. The palace's gates were left closed for Kagami. If it wasn't for the queen putting her grief aside and throwing herself into working for her kingdom, you would have believed there was no sign of living existence in the royal castle. It was like they were ghosts - you knew they were there, but you couldn't feel or see them.
Princess Kagami grew up, and was trained and polished and poised in every way possible. Her mother made sure of that. She was trained in martial arts as well. She did not even let her instructors see her face - for when she practiced, she wore a mask that covered the top half of her face. This was frowned upon by many of the members of the royal court, especially the royal advisor, Gabriel Agreste. But Tomoe had raised her daughter well.
'No matter what, your duty to the kingdom comes first, but never, ever forget to remain true to yourself.'
That was advice Kagami heard on a daily basis. And it never failed to touch her heart.
-------
In one of the poorest sectors of the kingdom's capital, a baker and his wife welcomed their beautiful baby daughter, whom they named Marinette.
Who was, coincidentally, born on the same day as the Princess herself. While the entire kingdom celebrated, Tom Dupain and his wife Sabine Cheng were huddled in their cold shack from the winter, but their happiness was in no way diluted. The warmth in their hearts that their little bundle of joy brought was more than enough.
As happy as their daughter made them, they were also worried. They had another mouth to feed, and they had spent their last bit of money from their failing bakery into hiring a midwife.
Sabine suggested that they borrow from Andre Bourgeois, one of the richest men in the country, and in return offer their services in one of his many businesses, which included the largest bakery and confectionery in the kingdom.
Tom was a proud man, but when it came to his family, he was ready to sacrifice it. He borrowed a large amount of money, and in return worked long and hard at the flour mills and bakeries. Every time he borrowed extra, his working hours would increase. Sabine pitched in as well as soon as their daughter was a toddler.
They never got back any salary, and no matter how long and hard they worked, their debt just never seemed to be paid in full.
Their family's struggles did not improve. Sabine died of pneumonia when Marinette was only eight years old. Marinette and her father were devestated, but they couldn't afford to be. The day after her mother's funeral, Marinette tearfully joined her father at work, somehow putting herself through school as well.
It seemed like the universe's bad luck was directed at Marinette, because she also lost her father when she was 18 years old to brain tumor. Marinette quit her last year of schooling to save more money for the necessary treatment, but it was incurable. Her father could only be stabalised for about three months, before he passed away too.
Marinette was a talented baker, but she couldn't bring herself to enjoy it when Bourgeois and his stuck up daughter never paid any of the workers. No, what she really wanted, was to become a fashion designer. She wanted to be the head of her own business, she wanted to show and share her wonderful creations with the entire world. Because Marinette was also a gifted seamstress as well.
But that could be nothing but a wistful dream. She had no resources,no connections, no funds for her capital, and more importantly, a mounding debt that just seemed to be growing day by day.
Marinette was a dreamer. Everyone told her that. From her best friend Alya, to her childhood bully and boss, Chloé Bourgeois. Her father had always supported her dreams, but he had never been able to fulfill them.
A mountain load of debt and interest was holding her back. And she could have disregarded it, told herself that didn't have to stop her dreams.
But Marinette loved her parents. And she learnt a thing or two from their own life experiences. Her father always wanted to be a baker, but her mother wanted to be an opera singer. Sabine's dreams were shattered when she had her daughter, but she didn't let it get in the way of her dedication to her family.
And that was why Marinette put aside her dreams and threw herself into her duty of her ridding herself and her parents' of their debt. Because family always came first. No matter what.
Hi, everyone! This is, obviously based off of the Barbie movie, which was honestly a huge part of my childhood. I have changed a few things here and there in the plot, which you will see as the story progresses. But for now, there are no songs,no superheroes and Serafina and Wolfie don't exist in my AU, even as Plagg and Tikki. The only kwamis I will mention are Nooroo and Duusu, but they are humans and are Gabriel/ Preminger's sidekicks Nick and Nack. Idk who's who, lol, so Nooroo is the slightly smarter one, and Duusu is the dumb blond.
@mysticmiraculer @chronicallylatetotheparty @beautymercurydragon @notall2gether @multimousemari @miraculousgrl @maximumjinx @fluffybreadd @disneyvamps
If you want to be added to the taglist, please PM me!
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giantmuschroom · 4 years
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Poison me twice
Hello everybody! 
Let me introduce you to police force Got7 in roaring twenties (or such). With @thespadesinyourhearts​ and @smooshdelia​ we took same case and put our own spin on it. So enjoy three stories with different endings! Their stories will be out later on the day, so look forward to it! 
Edit - the stories are out! 
the red snake
Pick your poison
Dedicated to @prettywordsyouleft​ ...We love you <3
!!trigger warning, it has death and murder in it!!
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She was rare beauty. That was the first thing Mark noticed, when he entered the room. She looked so delicate sitting on the chair in front of a full dinner table and across her, a dead body.  
“Lady Winston, I need you to move to the salon, please. We need to take care of your husband,” Jaebom said to her. She simply nodded and stood up.  
“Youngjae, go with Lady Winston and take her statement, please,” he instructed one of his subordinates. Youngjae extended his arm and she took it and they both exited the dining room.
“So, what do you think?” Jaebom asked Mark.  
“Well, he is dead,” he aswered and Jaebom chuckled.  
“No kidding, what else?”  
“For now, I can certainly say he was poisoned. But only further examination will give you the answers you seek.” He concluded his examination and began to pack his equipment.  
“I will take him to the morgue, you have job here to do,” he gestured to the two men standing at the door and they moved the body. Mark sent one last look to the open door of the salon, where Youngjae questioned the Lady. She was truly a beautiful one...and cruel. Murdering her own husband.  
“Jackson, iI need you to pack everything on the table. Make sure you get the glasses. Mark says it’s poison, so it will be in his drink or in food,” he Jaebom ordered the police officer who just entered the room.
“Did she do it?” he Jackson asked.  
“Well, that’s what we have to find out, right?” said Jaebom and finally entered the salon.  
                                                           ***
“Lady Winston, did you murdered your husband?” asked Jaebum and Youngjae gasped. She chuckled. It was the first emotion she showed since Youngjae took her to the salon. Youngjae knew Jaebom so well. Jaebom was sure, she was the killer. The chuckle just confirmed it for him.  
“I did not,” she denied. Her voice was just like her, soft and quiet.  
“What did you do then? Please, walk me through your day,” Jaebum said coldly. Youngjae got his notebook ready to take notes. She tilted her head and began.  
”I woke up, had breakfest, read a book, went shopping for new hat, got home, sewed a new handkerchief, took a walk in the garden, came back when it was time for dinner and then my husband died,” she ended her story.  
“You shopped at which seamstress?” Jaebom asked, ignoring the slightly sarcastic remark at the end.
“It’s called milliner, Superintendant. Madam Florence, on High Street. She makes the most beautiful bonnets,” she said and then it was Youngjae time to chuckled. This lady had some backbone.  
                                                                ***
“So what do we have?” Jaebom asked his team.  
“Lord Jonathan Winston III was piece of shi...” Yugyeom began, but Jaebom’s cold stare silenced him.
“But I'm right! He was rich as Midas, but paid his servants only minimal wage. One time a maid didn’t sweep dust from the fire place in a room that no one ever used and she got fired. He had a picky taste so he changed his cook six times in one month. Every time he fired someone, he didn’t give them a recommendation. He shouted at his wife and some maid said he event beat her,” that remark earned a few scoffs, ”So if she killed him, do we really have to jail her? I mean she did the world a good deed,” Yugyeom concluded.  
“Yugyeom, please,” Jaebom groaned.  
“His coach driver said he frequented one bar,” Jackson added,. “We have planned to visit the establishment tomorrow.”
“Fine. Mark? Do you know what kind of poison was used?” Jaebum asked the doctor.  
“Oh, that is interesting. He was indeed poisoned. No ordinary poison though. It was snake venom and before he finally died he must have been in agonizing pain,” Mark explained.  
“And she watched it? And didn’t call for help?” asked Jackson.  
“The glass had only his fingerprints, same as the cutlery and napkins,” said Jinyoung. It was his field of expertise.  
”She could have easily filled the glass with poison, wiped her fingerprints and gave it to him,” Jaebum said.
“We will end it for today. Jackson and Yugyeom will go to the bar tomorrow. Jinyoung will find what poisoned him and Youngjae will keep his eyes on Lady Winston,” Jaebum ordered.
                                                              ***
“Hello, officers. What can I do for you?” asked one of the dancers and waved a feather before Yugyeoms eyes. He slightly blushed because the lady had so little clothes on her.  
“We are looking for Bella,” Jackson said unbothered.  
“Oh, that little darling, she is not feeling very well right now. But she is in the dressing room in the back,” she gestured to the hallway.  
They found the dancer hunched over the marble sink. “Are you alright, miss?” asked Yugyeom concerned.  
“Who are you?” she aked and turned to them, quickly noted the uniforms.
“Officer Wang and Officer Kim. We are here to ask you about Lord Winston. He was murdered last night,” Jackson said.  
She screamed in horror. ”No! That can’t be true. Johnny...I saw him yesterday...we went shopping for engagement ring. He can’t be dead.”
“Miss Bella, Lord Winston was already married,” Jackson informed her. She looked at him with eyes full of tears.  
“It can’t be. He promised...” she collapsed on the chair behind her.  
“When was the last time you saw him?” Jackson continue question her.  
“He left me at five. Said he had work to do,” she answered.  
“Thank you for your cooperation, miss,” Jackson slightly bowed to her and then exited the room.  
“ I know that look. What do you think?” asked Yugyeom.  
“I think that the little dancer doesn’t tell the whole truth,” answered Jackson with a serious face.  
“But she was crying!”
“Oh, Yugyeom. You have so much to learn,” Jackson finally smiled.  
                                                           ***
“What are you looking at?”  
“Bambam, what are you doing here?”  
“Well everyone is here, so Ii figured there is something interesting,” he answered and began to look around.
“Lady Winston is here for questioning, Jaebom is still convinced that it was her. So everyone is here to oogle at her,“ said Yugyeom.  
“Oh, oohhh!” exclaimed when he laid eyes on the lady sitting behind Superintendant Im’s desk.  
“Do you think she did it?” he asked Yugyeom.  
“If she did, I would’t blame her. Her husband didn’t treat her right, had a lover and was an asshole,” Yugyeom said with a little too much passion.  
“Then thank God, you are only an investigator,” smiled Bambam at his friend,. “Now I will go and make the lovely lady some chamomille tea. She will need it.”
                                                       ***
Jaebom watched Lady Winston like a hawk.  
“Did you know you husband had a lover?” he fired. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t start crying, she just sat there looking into his eyes.  
“Which one?” she asked finally.  
“What do you mean?” he was suprised.  
“I meant which one did you find. The little milk maid from market? The expensive one? The one in sailors pub? The one in Ruby Lady? Should I continue?”
Jaebom was suprised. And he was rarely suprised. Certainly not when it comes to murder suspects.  
“The dancer one,” he said.  
“Oh, well in that case. I didn’t know,” answered Lady Winston.  
Jaebum stood up to find his composure. She was distracting him.  
“He was poisoned. It took a while before he died and you didn’t call for help, how come?”
“There was no one I could call. Johnathan sent everyone in to the kitchen, he wanted to tell me something and didn’t want witnesses. But before he had chance to speak he died,” she said firmly.  
“What did he want to say to you?”
“Maybe something about his new mistress? He loved to shove them in my face.”  
Jaebom sighed. He was so sure she is the killer. Poison is an elegant weapon often used by ladies. But every fact he built his theory on was shatered by her.  
“Lady Winston, can I interest you in cup of tea?” Bambam made his way to the desk.  
“That would be lovely, thank you,” she smiled at him and Jaebom swore that he heard a couple of sighs in the distance.  
                                                          ***
“She didn’t do it. She knew about the women. If she was angry, she could kill him long time ago,” said Jaebom. “Jinyoung, did you know how he injest the poison?”
“It was in the drink. Weird thing is, it was sherry,” Jinyoung wondered.  
“Why is that weird?” asked Youngjae.  
“How many men drink sherry?”  
“You got a point, Jinyoung. And there is this weird feeling I'm getting from the dancer. She was so suprised when we told her that he was dead, but she was acting suprised when we told her he was already married,” Jakson stated.  
“She coudn’t kill him. I asked around. The snake venom is really expensive. As a dancer she can’t earn that much.” Mark entered the debate.  
“She had wealthy lover,” Jaebom dismissed his remark.  
“Oh I can see it. ‘Honey, i need to buy some really expensive snake poison to kill you. Can you give me a hundred dollars’?’” said Bambam mockingly in high pitched voice.  
“What did you just say?” Everyone looked at Jaebom with wide eyes.
“Honey, can you give me a hundred dollars to buy a snake poison?” repeated Bambam, now in his normal voice.  
“Thats it!” Jaebom exclaimed and rushed somewhere.  
“It is?” asked Youngjae uncomprehendingly as others looked at him with similar expresions.  
                                                         ***
“Thank you all, for coming,” said Jaebom.  
“What am I doing here?” asked Lady Winston sternly and looked beside her.  
“You are here to find out who killed your husband and why,” Jaebom aswered her and noticed the uncomfortable shift of the dancer.  
“Well then, what is she doing here?”  
“She is here for the same reason. Let me introduce to you Miss Bella Ridley. She is you husband last lover,” he said.  
Lady Winston looked at the girl. She was pale, thin and obviously pregnant.  
“Indeed,”  Jaebum apllauded the cold appearance of Lady Winston. Lady for all occasions.  
“Please, Superintendant. Tell me your findings, I have an urgent matter to attend,” she said disinterestedly. 
Jaebom smiled. It was perfect. Lady Winston was stone cold and the little dancer boiled. This was the last straw.
“He didn’t want you!” Bella shrieked, “He was disgusted by you. You could’t have children. You were old and cold and boring! So he found me! I knew how to make him happy! I was his love!  It should be you! You bitch! You should have died!”  
Jaebom gestured to Jackson who cuffed the hysterical dancer and checked Lady Winston.  
“So he wanted to murder me,” she sighned. “You know, Superintendant. I should have figured. He wanted to drink sherry with me. Said he was interested in the taste,” she grinned ironically.  
“I’m sorry I suspected you,” said Jaebom.  
“Don’t worry, Superintendant. I was the logical choice, right?” she smiled at him and he finally understood those sighs.  
                                                          ***
“So he and the dancer planned to kill his wife,” concluded Bambam enthusiastically.  
“But he accidentally took the wrong glass and drank the poison himself,” added Yugyeom.  
“How dumb you must be to poison yourself?” asked Jackson.  
Jaebom smiled at his men but the moment was cut short by ringing telephone.  
“Guys? We have case in docks,” he called and ignored the groans.  
“Go on lads, I'll be here, waiting with coffee. It looks like another long night,” said Bambam.  
33 notes · View notes
hellomorganus · 3 years
Text
Helen Draiz
I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. The book/musical/movies belong to their rightful owners. I only own my characters.
CHAPTER 1
“Where on Earth are your shoes?” laughed the red haired maid who was hanging up the laundry to dry. “You know Madame Bisset will have a fit once she sees your feet!”
The woman with no shoes was none other than Helen Driaz. A fellow maid at the Opera Populaire who was too free spirited for her own good. She wiggled her toes in the wet grass, smiling. “Then let her have a fit Camille! Feeling the grass against my skin reminds me of home.”
Home.
Helen hadn’t been there in years since her brother died. They had always wanted to travel the world together and just a few months before they would be, he died. Most say it was an accident, while other’s thought it was a murder attempt. 
Home was in the grassy meadows of the United States of America. Home was in a secluded area that not many people knew about, and that’s what she loved most about it. 
Camille shook her head, wringing out another dress from the ballerinas before hanging it up to dry. “You should go back then if you miss it so much Helen,” she chuckled. 
Helen hummed in response, helping Camille lift the dress over the string, clipping it in place. “If I return home then I’m afraid I might never travel again. And we can’t have that, now can we?” she replied, bumping hips with the younger girl. 
The red curls framing Camille’s face bounced as she tried to regain her balance, softly laughing. “Then you should at least write more to your family. I’m sure they’re worried sick.”
Helen smiled, shaking her head. “No they’re not. They know Henry is looking after me.” she replied, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
Camille sighed dreamily, leaning backwards into the brunette. “Henry,” she smirked, fanning herself. 
Helen shook her head, chuckling. “Careful now, he is courting me.” she said, fanning the girl too. 
Camille smiled, shaking her head as she stood straight up. “Surely he must mean to propose soon! You have been courting since you left America which was...how long ago?”
Helen smiled. “Nearing two years ago.”
“Two years!” gasped the girl, covering her mouth. “And he hasn’t even suggested it?”
The brunette rolled her eyes at the 18 year old. “Of course he has. He has suggested it a few times but it always becomes quiet afterwards.”
“He’s probably nervous Helen. All men get nervous before popping the question.”
Helen nodded. He often was nervous when he brought up the subject of marriage. The sweat that formed on his brow always proved the idea. But why would he be so nervous? They had been courting for nearly two years now and he already had her family’s blessing. So what was he waiting for?
“Mademoiselle Helen!” screeched an older woman in horror. “Where are your shoes?!”
Helen blushed, chuckling to herself. “They must have walked off Madame.”
Madame Bisset crossed her arms. “Walked off have they?” she retorted, looking around the yard. “You best find them young lady. Señora Carlotta has a tear in her dress, she would like you to fix it immediately.” 
Camille hid her laughter behind her hand, shaking her head as Madame Bisset walked off cursing the brunette. 
Helen curtseyed mockeringly, stifling her laughter behind her tightly closed lips. “I honestly haven’t the faintest clue on how I still work here.” she said before walking towards where she hid her shoes. 
Camille chuckled, crouching down to lift the basket up. “Neither do I,” she replied, hoisting the basket up and balancing it on her hip as she walked over to Helen. 
The brunette had just finished slipping on her black flats when Camille made it over to her, offering her an arm. 
Helen gladly accepted the arm, walking up the stone steps to enter the Opera Populaire. 
                                                    ~-~-~
The needle pierced through the fabric as Carlotta yelled at the new managers. Turns out, she hadn’t just ripped her dress but her head piece as well. Helen sat on the sidelines, listening with a smirk as the managers began to grovel to the fierce redhead. 
She stopped her foot in annoyance, spinning towards where Helen was situated, pouring herself a glass of water as the managers tripped over their own feet to try and keep up with her. 
“Mr. Reyer!” called the shorter of the two managers. “Isn’t there a rather marvelous aria for Elisa in act three of Hannibal?” 
Carlotta hummed, shaking her head no. “Yes, yes, but no! Because I have not my costume for act three because,” she turned around to face the seamstress in charge of her dress. “somebody not finish it!”
She then spun back to Helen, pointing to the headpiece. “And, I hate my hat!”
Helen chuckled, tying off the thread and finishing the sewing. She held it up in her hands, examining it. “I’ll see what I can do to fix it, sí?” Helen said, standing up and gently placing the headpiece back on her head. 
Carlotta huffed, crossing her arms as she turned her attention back to the managers just in time for them to suggest she sing from the act. 
Monsieur Reyer stood tall, a frown on his lips. “If my diva commands,” he said with annoyance. 
Carlotta, with just as much annoyance, glared at him while she replied, “Yes! I do!”
Camille walked over to Helen and nudged her shoulder, pointing to Henry and waving to him as he set up his violin. He gave the two girls a grin, acknowledging them before Mr. Reyer began directing them. 
Camille’s arms fell around Helen’s neck as she swayed with the music, Helen wrapping her hands around her friend’s arms as she watched Henry play with as much passion as the day they met. 
Helen smiled, closing her eyes as she listened to the soft music and Carlotta’s, somewhat, decent voice. 
She was at peace here. She never wanted to leave the opera house. This was her new home. 
Screams filled the stage as a loud thud sounded throughout the auditorium. When Helen opened her eyes, she gasped, covering her mouth. The backdrop had fallen on top of Carlotta, pinning her to the ground.
She immediately stood up to help the distressed woman up from the ground. Once the backdrop was off her, Helen took a hold of her hands and helped her to her feet as the former manager yelled up to Joseph Buquet on what had happened. 
“Are you alright?” she asked, flinching away when the soprano ripped her hands out of Helen’s. 
“Senora, these things do happen,” a voice said, trying to soothe the diva from breaking down. 
“For the past years, these things do happen! And did you stop them from happening? No!” she fumed, pointing to the former manager before spinning towards the new ones. “And you two! You are as bad as him! These things happen! Well until you stop these things from happening, this thing. Does not happen!” 
She pushed past Helen and towards her own maid, storming off the stage, her husband, Piangi, following behind her. 
Henry climbed onto the stage, leaving his violin behind to check on Helen. When he reached her, his hands rested on her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Helen nodded, smiling softly at him. “Yes, I am fine. Are you okay?”
Henry nodded, a twinkle in his eyes as he hugged her. “Yes, I am fine.” he whispered, running his hands through her hair. 
Helen smiled and hugged him back. He has always been so protective of her, claiming it was to keep her family sane. He hated to see even the faintest of a frown on her face, always ensuring that she was kept happy. 
“-so Monsieur?” a gentle voice cut in through the argument. Madame Giry. “I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost.”
Henry pulled back, scoffing lightly. “This Opera Ghost is on the last of my nerves…” he grumbled to Helen, taking her hand in his and squeezing it. 
Helen chuckled. “I think it’s entertaining.” she admitted, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand. 
“Christine Daae could sing it sir,” Madame Giry called to the bickering managers. 
“A chorus girl?” questioned Monsieur Andre. “Don’t be silly.”
“She’s been taking lessons from a great teacher, Monsieur.” 
The manager became intrigued, turning to face the chorus girl fully. “Who?”
The blonde girl lowered her blue eyes before answering. “I do not know his name, Monsieur.” 
Madame Giry rested a hand on Christine’s shoulder, brushing her blonde curls back. “Let her sing for you Monsieur. She has been taught well.”
Helen led Henry away from the center of the stage as Christine walked forward, her hands shaking from nerves. 
“Get back to playing,” she whispered to him, kissing his cheek and helping him lower himself back into his seat.  
Henry grinned and squeezed her hand once more before returning to his instrument to begin playing. 
Helen watched the blonde woman shaking her nerves out before singing. It started off very soft, almost like she was singing under her breath but as she looked around to see the comforting smiles, her confidence grew. Along with her confidence, her voice grew louder, echoing throughout the auditorium. 
By the looks the managers shared with one another, everyone knew who would be taking Carlotta’s place. 
Christine Daae would be the leading soprano until Carlotta decided to return. 
                                                    ~-~-~
The opera was filled with a standing ovation as the blonde from earlier softened her voice, distinguishing the end of the song. The curtains closed as she bowed, resting her hand gently on her bosom. The cast and some other stage hands around cheered for her as she made her way off the stage. 
Helen, however, was not so lucky to give the talented girl a standing ovation. She, instead, had been fixing another one of Carlotta’s dresses, muttering to herself, wishing she could be there to congratulate the 19 year old. 
A knock sounded on the doorway and a familiar redhead peeked inside the crowded room. “You’re muttering again,” she pointed out, entering the room and lifting a hat to her head. 
“I don’t mutter,” replied the brunette as she gently took the hat from Camille’s head. 
Camille laughed, leaning back against the table. “Yes you do,” she replied, watching Helen work. “Henry wants to take you to supper.”
Helen looked up at the mention of Henry, a small smile tugging her lips. But that smile soon vanished when she looked down at the rip in the dress. It was nowhere near finished. 
“Could you tell him perhaps another time?” she asked, looking up at her best friend. “Please?”
Camille shook her head. “Helen. Tonight could be the night.” she tutted, standing upright and taking the dress from her hands. “Go have dinner. Show me that diamond when you get back.”
Helen reached for the dress, shaking her head. “Camille. Please. I have to finish that before morning.”
Camille held the dress behind her back just as Helen stood from her seat. “I’ll finish it. You go have dinner.”
Helen raised her eyebrow, frowning at the 17 year old. “You? Sew?”
Camille faked a gasp of pain. “How dare you. I can sew.” she said, fighting back Helen’s reaching hands. 
Helen laughed, shaking her head as she gave up, throwing her hands into the air. “Fine! You win!” she chuckled. “I’ll have dinner.”
Camille grinned, dropping the dress on the table behind her as she hugged Helen. “Bien (Good)!” 
The red haired girl then took Helen’s hand and dragged her out of the sewing room towards their shared room. “We must find you a dress! He’s proposing!” Camille laughed. 
Helen shook her head, following the eccentric girl. “How can you be so sure?” she asked, lifting her skirts up so she wouldn’t trip over them. 
“I just have a feeling Helen!” she laughed, tossing the girl onto her bed before flinging open their closets, looking for the perfect dress. 
3 notes · View notes
fictionfromafar · 3 years
Text
Unmissable International Crime Fiction Novels from April 2021 onwards
1 April
The Untamable by Guillermo Arriaga
MacLehose Press
A gripping coming of age thriller of vengeance and destiny set between Mexico City's murderous 1960s underworld and the bleak tundras of Canada's most remote province. By the BAFTA-winning screenwriter of Amores Perros.
Yukon, Canada's far north. A young man tracks a wolf through the wilderness. In Mexico City, Juan Guillermo has pledged vengeance.
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1 April
Bullet Train by Kotaro Isaka, translated by Sam Marissa
Harvill Secker
Five killers find themselves on a bullet train from Tokyo competing for a suitcase full of money. Who will make it to the last station? A bestseller in Japan, Bullet Train is an original and propulsive thriller which fizzes with an incredible energy as its complex net of double-crosses and twists unwinds to the last station.
15 April
Silenced by Sólveig Pálsdóttir, translated by Quentin Bates
Corylus Books
After a turbulent few years, Guðgeir Fransson is back with the Reykjavík police force and is called on to look into the suspicious suicide of a young woman in a cell at the Hólmsheiði prison. On the surface, it looks like a straightforward investigation. As he digs into the dead woman’s past, he unearths links to a man’s disappearance more than twenty years ago.
My review of The Fox:
15 April
We Trade Our Night for Someone Else’s Day by Ivana Bodrožić, translated by Ellen Elias-Bursac
Penguin Random House
Nora is a journalist assigned to do a puff piece on the perpetrator of a crime of passion–a Croatian high school teacher who fell in love with one of her students, a Serb, and is now in prison for having murdered her husband. But Nora herself is the daughter of a man who was murdered years earlier under mysterious circumstances. And she wants, if not to avenge her father, at least to bring to justice whoever committed the crime.
15 April
How To Betray Your Country by James Wolff
Bitter Lemon Press
Following on from the acclaimed debut novel Beside the Syrian Sea, this is the second title in a planned trilogy about loyalty and betrayal in the modern world. An authentic thriller about the thin line between following your conscience and following orders. James Wolff is the pseudonym of a young English novelist who “has been working for the British government for the last ten years”.
22 April
Trap for Cinderella by Sebastien Japrisot
Gallic Books
A beach house at a French resort is gutted by fire. Trapped inside are two women - one rich and the other poor. Only one of them survives, burnt beyond recognition and in a state of total amnesia. Who is she, the heiress or her penniless friend? A killer, or an intended victim?
29 April
Geiger by Gustaf Skordeman
Zaffre
The landline rings as Agneta is waving off her grandchildren. Just one word comes out of the receiver: 'Geiger'. For decades, Agneta has always known that this moment would come, but she is shaken. She knows what it means. Retrieving her weapon from its hiding place, she attaches the silencer and creeps up behind her husband before pressing the barrel to his temple.
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29 April
Facets of Death by Michael Stanley
Orenda Books
Detective Kubu, renowned international detective, has faced off with death more times than he can count... But what was the case that established him as a force to be reckoned with? In Facets of Death, a prequel to the acclaimed Detective Kubu series, the fresh-faced cop gets ensnared in an international web of danger—can he get out before disaster strikes?
29 April
The Girl Who Died by Ragnar Jonasson
Michael Joseph
Una knows she is struggling to deal with her father's sudden, tragic suicide. She spends her nights drinking alone in Reykjavik, stricken with thoughts that she might one day follow in his footsteps.
So when she sees an advert seeking a teacher for two girls in the tiny village of Skálar - population of ten - on the storm-battered north coast of the island, she sees it as a chance to escape.
13 May
Seat 7a by Sebastian Fitzek, translated by Jamie Bulloch
Head of Zeus
Psychiatrist Mats Krüger knows that his irrational fear of flying is just that – irrational. He knows that flying is nineteen times safer than driving. He also knows that if something does happen on a plane, the worst place to be is seat 7A. That's why on his first plane journey in 20 years – to be with his only daughter as she gives birth – he's booked seat 7A, so no one else can sit there. If no one is sat there, surely nothing will go wrong.
My review of Passenger 23 :
https://fictionfromafar.tumblr.com/post/643950323513311232/passenger-23-by-sebastian-fitzek-passenger-23-by
13 May
The Assistant by Kjell Ola Dahl, translated by Don Bartlett
Orenda Books
Oslo, 1938. When a woman turns up at the office of police-turned-private investigator Ludvig Paaske, has accepted a routine case to find evidence of a cheating husband but soon enough his assistant Jack Rivers has been accused of murder. Rivers is no angel, and Paaske must dig deep to find out what’s going on. The secrets he uncovers go all the way back to 1920s Norway when smugglers, pimps and racketeers ruled the Oslo underworld.
20 May
Summertime, All the Cats Are Bored by Philippe Georget, Translated by Steven Rendall
Europa Editions
It’s the middle of a long hot summer on the French Mediterranean shore and the town is full of tourists. Sebag and Molina, two tired cops who are being slowly devoured by dull routine and family worries, deal with the day’s misdemeanors and petty complaints at the Perpignan police headquarters without a trace of enthusiasm. Out of the blue a young Dutch woman is brutally murdered on a beach at Argelès, and another disappears without a trace in the alleys of the city. A serial killer obsessed with Dutch women?
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20 May
Oxygen by Sacha Naspini, Translated by Clarissa Botsford
Europa Editions
Laura disappeared into thin air in 1999, at eight years old. She was found in a metal container, fourteen years later.
Luca is having dinner with his father dinner when they are interrupted by a visit from the carabinieri, who take his father away. Luca can only watch the scene unfold, helpless. The charges brought against esteemed anthropologist Carlo Maria Balestri are extremely grave: multiple counts of abduction, torture, murder, and concealing his victims’ bodies.
27 May
The Waiter by Ajay Chowdhury
Harvill Secker
Disgraced detective Kamil Rahman moves from Kolkata to London to start afresh as a waiter in an Indian restaurant. But the day he caters a birthday party for his boss's friend on Millionaire's Row, his simple new life becomes rather complicated. The event is a success, the food is delicious, but later that evening the host, Rakesh, is found dead in his swimming pool.
27 May
The Fortune Men by Nadifa Mohamed
Viking
Mahmood Mattan is a fixture in Cardiff's Tiger Bay, 1952, which bustles with Somali and West Indian sailors, Maltese businessmen and Jewish families. He is a father, chancer, some-time petty thief. He is many things, in fact, but he is not a murderer.
So when a shopkeeper is brutally killed and all eyes fall on him, Mahmood isn't too worried. It is true that he has been getting into trouble more often since his Welsh wife Laura left him. But Mahmood is secure in his innocence in a country where, he thinks, justice is served.
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10 June
In the Shadow of the Fire by Herve Le Corre, translated by Tina Kover
Europa Editions
The Paris Commune’s “bloody week” sees the climax of the savagery of the clashes between the Communards and the French Armed Forces loyal to Versailles. Amid the shrapnel and the chaos, while the entire west side of Paris is a field of ruins, a photographer fascinated by the suffering of young women takes “suggestive” photos to sell to a particular clientele. Young women begin disappearing, and when Caroline, a seamstress who volunteers at a first aid station, is counted among the missing, her fiancé Nicolas, a member of the Commune’s National Guard, and Communal security officer Antoine, sets off independently in search of her.
10 June
The All Human Wisdom by Pierre Lemaitre
MacLehose Press
In 1927, the great and the good of Paris gather at the funeral of the wealthy banker, Marcel Péricourt. His daughter, Madeleine, is poised to take over his financial empire (although, unfortunately, she knows next to nothing about banking). More unfortunately still, when Madeleine's seven-year-old son, Paul, tumbles from a second floor window of the Péricourt mansion on the day of his grandfather's funeral, and suffers life-changing injuries, his fall sets off a chain of events that will reduce Madeleine to destitution and ruin in a matter of months.
15 June
The Transparency Of Time, Leonardo Padura, translated by Anna Kushner,
Bitter Lemon Press
Mario Conde is facing down his sixtieth birthday. What does he have to show for his decades on the planet? A failing body, a slower mind, and a decrepit country, in which both the ideals and failures of the Cuban Revolution are being swept away in favor of a new and newly cosmopolitan worship of money. Rescue comes in the form of a new case: an old Marxist turned flamboyant practitioner of Santería appears on the scene to engage Conde to track down a stolen statue of the Virgen de Regla—a black Madonna. This sets Conde on a quest that spans twenty-first century Havana as well as the distant past to uncover the true provenance of the statue.
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My review of Havana Fever:
https://fictionfromafar.tumblr.com/post/631759758177746944/havana-fever-written-by-leonardo-padura
24 June
The Wrong Goodbye by Toshihiko Yahagi, translated by Alfred Birnbaum
MacLehose Press
In a nod to Raymond Chandler, The Wrong Goodbye pits homicide detective Eiji Futamura against a shady Chinese business empire and U.S. military intelligence in the docklands of recession hit Japan. After the frozen corpse of immigrant barman Tran Binh Long washes up in midsummer near Yokosuka U.S. Navy Base, Futamura meets a strange customer from Tran’s bar. Vietnam vet pilot Billy Lou Bonney talks Futamura into hauling three suitcases of “goods” to Yokota US Air Base late at night and flies off leaving a dead woman behind. My review:
https://fictionfromafar.tumblr.com/post/641412317374988288/the-wrong-goodbye
24 June
Sleepless by Romy Haussmann, translated by Jamie Bulloch
Quercus
It's been years since Nadja Kulka was convicted of a cruel crime. After being released from prison, she's wanted nothing more than to live a normal life: nice flat, steady job, even a few friends. But when one of those friends, Laura von Hoven - free-spirited beauty and wife of Nadja's boss - kills her lover and begs Nadja for her help, Nadja can't seem to be able to refuse.
29 June
Black Ice by Carin Gerhardsen
Scarlet
January in Gotland. The days are short, the air is cold, and all the roads are covered in snow. On a deserted, icy backroad, these wintery conditions will soon bring together a group of strangers with a force devastating enough to change their lives forever when, in the midst of a brief period, a deadly accident and two separate crimes leave victims in their wake.
1st July
The Darkness Knows by Arnaldur Indridason
Harvill Secker
A woman approaches Konrad with new information and progress can finally be made. But as Konrad starts to look back at the case and secrets of the past, he is forced to come face to face with his own dark side. In What the Darkness Knows, the master of Icelandic crime writing reunites readers with Konrad, the unforgettable retired detective from The Shadow District.
1 July
Resilience by Bogdan Hrib, translated by Marina Sofia
Corylus Books
Stelian Munteanu has had enough of being an international man of mystery: all he wants to do is make the long-distance relationship with his wife Sofia work. But when the notorious Romanian businessman Pavel Coman asks him to investigate the death of his daughter in the north of England, he reluctantly gets involved once more in what proves to be a tangled web of shady business dealings and political conspiracies. Moving rapidly between London, Newcastle, Bucharest and Iasi, this novel shows just how easy it is to fall prey to fake news and social media manipulation.
8 July
The Therapist by Helene Flood, translated by Alison McCulloch
MacLehose Press
A voicemail from her husband tells Sara he's arrived at the holiday cabin. Then a call from his friend confirms he never did. She tries to carry on as normal, teasing out her clients' deepest fears, but as the hours stretch out, her own begin to surface. And when the police finally take an interest, they want to know why Sara deleted that voicemail.
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13 July
Elena Knows by Claudia Piñeiro translated by Frances Riddle
Charco Press
After Rita is found dead in a church she used to attend, the official investigation into the incident is quickly closed. Her sickly mother is the only person still determined to find the culprit. Chronicling a difficult journey across the suburbs of the city, an old debt and a revealing conversation, Elena Knows unravels the secrets of its characters and the hidden facets of authoritarianism and hypocrisy in our society.
My review of Betty Boo:
https://fictionfromafar.tumblr.com/post/633225446612484096/
15 July
The Basel Killings
Hansjörg Schneider
Bitter Lemon Press
It the end of October, the city of Basel is grey and wet. It could be December. It is just after midnight when Police Inspector Peter Hunkeler, on his way home and slightly worse for wear, spots old man Hardy sitting on a bench under a street light. He wants to smoke a cigarette with him, but the usually very loquacious Hardy is silent—his throat a gaping wound. Turns out he was first strangled, then his left earlobe slit, his diamond stud stolen. The media and the police come quickly to the same conclusion: Hardy’s murder was the work of a gang of Albanian drug smugglers. But for Hunkeler that seems too obvious.
20 July
The Double Mother by Michel Bussi, translated by Sam Taylor
W&N
Already shown as a serial on Channel4’s Walter Presents (as The Other Mother), four-year-old Malone Moulin is haunted by nightmares of being handed over to a complete stranger and begins claiming his mother is not his real mother. His teachers at school say that it is all in his imagination as his mother has a birth certificate, photos of him as a child and even the pediatrician confirms Malone is her son. The school psychologist, Vasily, believes otherwise as the child vividly describes an exchange between two women.
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22 July
Girls Who Lie Eva Bjorg AEgisdottir
Orenda
When single mother Maríanna disappears from her home, leaving an apologetic note on the kitchen table, everyone assumes that she’s taken her own life … until her body is found on the Grábrók lava fields seven months later, clearly the victim of murder. Her neglected fifteen-year-old daughter Hekla has been placed in foster care, but is her perfect new life hiding something sinister?
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My Review of A Creak On The Stairs:
https://fictionfromafar.tumblr.com/post/631717704661942273/
22nd July
The Doll Yrsa Sigurdardottir
Hodder & Stoughton
It was meant to be a quiet family fishing trip, a chance for mother and daughter to talk. But it changes the course of their lives forever. They catch nothing except a broken doll that gets tangled in the net. After years in the ocean, the doll a terrifying sight and the mother's first instinct is to throw it back, but she relents when her daughter pleads to keep it. This simple act of kindness proves fatal. That evening, the mother posts a picture of the doll on social media. By the morning, she is dead and the doll has disappeared.
5 August
The Soul Breaker by Sebastian Fitzek, translated by Jamie Bulloch
Head Of Zeus
He doesn't kill them, or mutilate them. But he leaves them completely dead inside, paralysed and catatonic. His only trace a note left in their hands. There are three known victims when suddenly the abductions stop. The Soul Breaker has tired of his game, it seems. Meanwhile, a man has been found in the snow outside an exclusive psychiatric clinic. He has no recollection of who he is, or why he is there. Unable to match him to any of the police's missing people, the nurses call him Casper.
12 August
Cold Sun by Anita Sivakumaran
Dialogue Books
Bangalore. Three high-profile women murdered, their bodies draped in identical red saris. When the killer targets the British Foreign Minister's ex-wife, Scotland Yard sends the troubled, brilliant DI Vijay Patel to lend his expertise to the Indian police investigation. Stranger in a strange land, ex-professional cricketer Patel must battle local resentment and his own ignorance of his ancestral country, while trying to save his failing relationship back home.
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August date TBC
Skin Deep by Antonia Lassa, translated by Jacky Collins
Corylus Books
The corpse of an elderly millionaire is discovered brutally scarred with acid burns. Her young lover is the chief suspect but the authorities admit they are baffled. It will take the intervention of private detective Albert Larten to explore all the complexities of desire, and ultimately reveal the truth.
19 August
Come Hell Or High Water by Christian Unge
MacLehose Press
The first in a new Swedish crime series featuring Tekla Berg – a fearless doctor with a remarkable photographic memory
With 85% per cent burns to his body and a 115% risk of dying, it’s a miracle the patient is still alive. That he made it this far is thanks to Tekla Berg, an emergency physician whose unorthodox methods and photographic memory are often the difference between life and death.
30 September
Night Hunters by Oliver Bottini
MacLehose Press
The fourth in the Black Forest Investigations - by the four-time winner of the German Crime Fiction Award. Over the course of several days one hot summer, a female student from Freiburg disappears, a father is murdered in a brutal attack, a teenage boy drowns in the Rhine in suspicious circumstances. It soon becomes evident to Chief Inspector Louise Boni and her colleagues at Freiburg's criminal police that the three cases are connected - and that others are now in terrible danger. Including Boni herself.
07 October
Lemon by Kwon Yeo-Sun
House Of Zeus
Focusing on the unsolved murder of teenage girl, this literary crime novel offers insights into gender, class and privilege in Seoul, and marks the English-language debut for award-winning Korean author, Kwon Yeo-sun.
In the summer of 2002, my big sister Hae-on was murdered. She was beautiful, intelligent, and only nineteen years old. Two boys were questioned, but the case was never solved. Her killer still walks free.
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12 October
Bread: The Bastards of Pizzofalcone
by Maurizio de Giovanni
Europa Editions
Sometimes it takes facing a formidable adversary to truly know one’s worth. The Bastards of Pizzofalcone may have found just that: when the brutal murder of a baker rattles the city, they are ready to investigate. There’s nothing they wouldn’t do to prove themselves to their community. But this time the police are divided: for the special anti-mob branch, the local mafia is doubtlessly responsible for the crime, but the Bastards are not so sure and think there may be another reason for the murder of the renowned artisan, whose traditionally baked bread attracted customers from far and wide. A rivalry between the policeman and the magistrate is formed, one that, in the end, will extend to more than just their work lives.
12 October
The Corpse Flower by Anne Mette Hancock
Crooked Lane Books
It's early September in Copenhagen, the rain has been coming down for weeks, and 36-year-old journalist Heloise Kaldan is in the middle of a nightmare. One of her sources has been caught lying, and she could lose her job over it. And then she receives the first in a series of cryptic and ominous letters from an alleged killer.
28 October
Inertia by Camilla Grebe
Zaffre
Inertia is an eerie psychological thriller from the award-winning Swedish bestselling author Camilla Grebe. When 18-year old Samuel finds himself at the centre of a drug deal gone wrong, he is forced to go underground to escape the police and an infamous drug lord.
October date TBC
The Commandments by Oskar Gudmundsson
Corylus Books
On a cold winter morning in 1995, Anton, a 19-year-old boy, met a priest outside Glerárkirkja in Akureyri. After that, he was never seen again. Two decades later a priest is found murdered in the church in Grenivík. When the police investigate the case, they finds that a deacon has also been executed inside Akureyri.
28 October
Cold as Hell by Lilja Sigurdardottir
Orenda Books
Icelandic sisters Áróra and Ísafold live in different countries and aren‘t on speaking terms, but when their mother loses contact with Ísafold, Áróra reluctantly returns to Iceland to find her sister. But she soon realizes that her sister isn’t avoiding her … she has disappeared, without trace.
As she confonts Ísafold’s abusive, drug-dealing boyfriend Björn, and begins to probe her sister’s reclusive neighbours – who have their own reasons for staying out of sight – leads Áróra into an ever darker web of intrigue and manipulation.
28 October
The Rabbit Factor by Antti Toumainen
Orenda Books
What makes life perfect? Insurance mathematician Henri Koskinen knows the answer because he calculates everything down to the very last decimal.
And then, for the first time, Henri is faced with the incalculable. After suddenly losing his job, Henri inherits an adventure park from his brother – its peculiar employees and troubling financial problems included. The worst of the financial issues appear to originate from big loans taken from criminal quarters … and some dangerous men are very keen to get their money back.
2 November
Bricklayers
Selva Almada
Charco Press
Oscar Tamai and Elvio Miranda, the patriarchs of two families of brickmakers, have for years nursed a mutual hatred, but their teenage sons, Pájaro and Ángelito, somehow fell in love. Brickmakers begins as Pájaro and Marciano, Ángelito’s older brother, lie dying in the mud at the base of a Ferris wheel. Inhabiting a dreamlike state between life and death, they recall the events that forced them to pay the price of their fathers’ petty feud.
My review of Dead Girls:
https://fictionfromafar.tumblr.com/post/642554449326489600/dead-girls-charco-press
4 November
The Night Will Be Long
Santiago Gamboa
Europa Editions
When a horribly violent confrontation occurs outside of Cauca, Colombia, only a young boy is around to witness it. But no sooner does the violence happen than it disappears, vanished without a trace. Nobody claims to have seen anything. Nobody claims to have heard anything. That is, until an anonymous accusation catalyzes a dangerous investigation into the deep underbelly of the Christian churches present today in Latin America. The Night Will Be Long is a dark, twisting thriller filled with moments of humor and pain--a story that will stick with readers long after they turn the last page.
11 November
The Shadows of Men by Abir Mukherjee
Harvill Secker
When a Hindu theologian is found murdered in his home, the city is on the brink of all-out religious war. Can officers of the Imperial Police Force, Captain Sam Wyndham and Sergeant Surendranath Banerjee track down those responsible in time to stop a bloodbath? Set at a time of heightened political tension, beginning in atmospheric Calcutta and taking the detectives all the way to bustling Bombay, the latest instalment in this 'unmissable' (The Times) series presents Wyndham and Banerjee with an unprecedented challenge.
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southeastasianists · 5 years
Link
Though 10-year-old Vira Rama didn’t understand what his family’s secrets were, he knew that they had to be kept hidden. At first glance, they seemed innocuous enough: a stash of family photos of trips to the beach and Siem Reap, a photo of Rama in a youth scout uniform, all wrapped up in a bag made of cut tarp.
When the Khmer Rouge seized control of the country in April 1975, Rama’s mother, Kim Pean Ky, had insisted on taking this bundle of photos with her as her family was forcibly relocated from their home in the northwestern city of Battambang. She kept them concealed as soldiers marched them into the country on dusty roads congested with people fleeing in three-wheeled tuk-tuks, on ox-driven carts, and even on foot. As soon as the family was resettled in a village called O’ Srarlao, located in what the military regime called Zone 4, Rama watched as his mother dug a hole under their small wooden hut just large enough for the bag of photos. He didn’t ask questions as she hid the traces of their middle-class life under a pile of banana leaves. Though the family would travel to several other zones during the rule of the Khmer Rouge, from 1975 to 1979, Rama’s mother never forgot about the photos. Each time they moved, she quietly and dutifully excavated the bag and then buried again, and again, and again. If the severe, unpredictable, paranoid Khmer Rouge had found it, their lives would be forfeit.
Now, 44 years later, the archive Rama’s mother risked her life to preserve has been published in a book, aptly named Buried. The book is a collaboration between the family and British photographer Charles Fox, who has worked in Cambodia since 2005 running Found Cambodia, an archive of photos of life before, during, and after the reign of the Khmer Rouge in the late 1970s. Of all the photos Fox has encountered in Found Cambodia, he says the Rama’s archive is by far the most complete. “Their story is one of thousands of stories,” he says. “But their collection is unique. Vira tried to record as much of his family history as possible.”
“I feel lucky to have these photos,” says Rama, who held on to Ky’s archive long after the family relocated to the United States (both now live in Southern California). “It gives me something to go back to. Many people who survive the Khmer Rouge have nothing at all.”
Rama was born in 1965 in Battambang. The second-eldest of seven siblings, he lived a charmed early life that was assiduously documented by his father. “I liked being photographed. I was always the goofy one,” he says, adding that many of his childhood photobombs did not make the cut for Buried. In Battambang, before their forced relocation, the photos lay behind plastic in albums and hung on the walls in frames. The tarp bag provided less protection, and many of the photos were damaged. Rama’s mother also altered some of the photos that would have been impossible to explain her way out of, had they been found. For example, she cut King Norodom Sihanouk—who had a complicated and fraught relationship with the Khmer Rouge—out of a photo of her husband.
In the camps, the photos had to be buried because Khmer Rouge soldiers conducted random searches of people’s huts to purge any evidence of city life. Other families also concealed treasures that could get them killed, such as jewelry or medicine, which indicated you were wealthy enough to have seen a doctor. O’ Srarlao’s Zone 4 became one of the most brutal areas controlled by the Khmer Rouge. In addition to executions, the villages were rife with starvation and disease made worse by forced labor.
At O’ Srarlao, the family slowly splintered as children were sent to perform forced labor at different camps, some planting rice and others constructing irrigation systems. Despite the family’s best efforts to conceal their history, Rama’s father stood out as a target for the Khmer Rouge, which actively persecuted and murdered intellectuals. A former math and French language teacher who worked as a banker for the Banque Khmere Pour Le Commerce, he was a member the class that the new regime saw as an existential threat. In 1977, he was executed.
Shortly after, the Ramas knew they had to leave the country. The family members remaining at Zone 4 split into three groups, Ky dug up the photos and fled with some of her seven children to the less violent Zone 3, reburying the photos in each village they stayed in. “My mom valued these photos even though it was risky evidence,” Rama says. “If they searched us, they would kill us.”
When Vietnamese forces liberated the country in 1979, the Ramas reunited in Battambang. But Khmer Rouge soldiers still lurked, and so they fled once more through jungles and minefields to the Thai border. They arrived in 1980 and settled in the Khao-I-Dang refugee camp. After 18 months there, they found a sponsor in the United States. After a few months in the Philippines to learn English, the Ramas moved to Shreveport, Louisiana, in 1981. Rama had just turned 16. Buried contains photos of these unsettled but peaceful times, both at the refugee camp and during the family’s first few years in America.
In Louisiana, Ky worked various jobs—as a seamstress, in a spice factory, at restaurants. Her seven children went to school. Rama attended Warren Easton High School, the first time he’d been in school for six years, and graduated in 1985. With the help of his math and science teacher Mr. Blanchard, Rama became a civil engineer.
Around a year after Rama’s family arrived, his sponsor gave him a cheap camera. It was the first time Rama had held a one since before the Khmer Rouge took over. Later in life, he upgraded to a series of fancy digital cameras, including a Nikon DSLR he used to snap photos of his children in soccer and basketball games. Taking photos had become an everyday luxury, and Rama errs on the side of over-documentation.
Rama’s love of photography made him the family’s photokeeper. He kept all his family’s photos in a safety deposit box and scanned many to upload to Flickr—glimpses of life before and after the Khmer Rouge. He also kept artifacts of his family’s immigration, such as the Pan Am tickets they used to fly to America. In 2015, he stumbled upon Found Cambodia, Fox’s project. “I sent Charles an email with a link to my Flickr, saying he was more than welcome to take any photos to add to his collection,” Rama says. “The very next day he emailed me back.”
Fox had dozens of questions. Who were the people in the photos? Where were they taken? Who did the photos belong to? Fox recognized that Rama possessed an incredible document of a time mostly lost to history. “Other family’s photos are so fragmented, which have their own importance,” Fox says. “But what the Ramas managed to save and how they managed to survive is quite remarkable.”
The horrors of the Khmer Rouge are hard to imagine, in part because there are almost no surviving photos of what life was like under the military regime due to the regime’s eschewal of modern life. The most known pictures of that period consist of 7,000 portraits taken by Nhem Ein, a young photographer working in the Tuol Sleng prison, according to The New York Times. It is a grim collection, as every portrait is of a person about to be executed.
When Fox saw all of Rama’s archive, he was struck by its narrative cohesion—a family’s story. He proposed the photos be arranged in a simple booklet, and all members of the Rama family were game. “He consulted with me every step, from the color to the title,” Rama says. The book’s design is intentional: The inside covers are decorated with rumdul flowers, the national flower of Cambodia, and pages that separate life before and after the Khmer Rouge are blank and red.
When Fox sent Rama the first draft of the book, the photos were arranged without any identifying details. Fox asked if Rama’s family could jot down quick captions noting who was in each photo and what occasion, if any, it captured. Rama passed the manuscript to his relatives, who each wrote a few lines in blue pen under the photos that were most meaningful to them. Those handwritten captions appear in the final book—occasionally illegible and deeply human. “That’s how close the family is,” Fox says. “And that’s one of the things that made the book possible.”
Now, each year, the family—Ky, Vira Rama, his six siblings and their families—go camping. Sometimes it’s Mammoth Lakes, sometimes it’s Yosemite. Rama says his relatives often jokingly complain. “They say, ‘We escaped all this hardship, why are we going to spend a week in a tent?’ But maybe that’s part of the healing.” On these trips, the family cooks what Rama calls their native food: cajun and creole cuisine—gumbo, jambalaya, red beans and rice. Unsurprisingly, Rama takes photos of everything. Now that he’s older, he’s traded his fancy DSLR for a lighter antique Fujifilm.
In Rama’s eyes, Buried is a historical document with very modern echoes. Over the past year, he can’t help but spot the parallels between his own family’s harrowing escape and the current situation at the U.S.-Mexico border. He says images of caravans attempting to cross into America bring flashbacks to the fear and violence he experienced as a child. “These people just want a better life for themselves and their children,” he says. “Here in America we’re supposed to be the most generous country but we treat refugees like criminals.”
Cambodia is struggling as well, in particular with its history, according to The Nation. “A lot of millennials in Cambodia don’t know what happened under the Khmer Rouge,” Rama says. “They think it’s fake news.” He hopes Buried will continue to open up new conversations both in the United States and Cambodia about this violent chapter of history. He understands that his family’s journey is not unique, but their records are, and he hopes other Cambodian families will continue to learn their history and break cycles of trauma that afflict generations.
Rama has worked for the city of Los Angeles for 29 years now, and he says he’s five years away from retirement. Recently, he’s noticed more and more people telling him to go back where he came from. “I ask them, which way should I take?” Rama says. “The road I just built, or the other road I built?”
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j3mjj3m · 5 years
Text
to ruin a royal wedding
idek man i wanted one royal au that wasn’t entwined with fae/magical elements
Prince Nathaniel Abram Wesniski. The name granted him power he’d never asked for in the first place, and yet it was the only way he could have survived. His father reigned with terror, and if he wished to usurp the man, he had to hold onto all resources at his disposal, being his advisor, the honourable Matthew Boyd, and allies from near provinces, Danielle Boyd, Allison Reynolds, and, most importantly, Crown Prince Kevin Day.
There was only the slightest of hiccups: His soon approaching wedding to his father’s allies. Riko Moriyama.
“Kevin assured me that you will keep me safe.” From my father, went unsaid. The knight who stood before him was shorter, broader, and hired by the Wesninski King. Those who betrayed Nathan didn’t live long. Neil clasped his hands behind his back. “That I should trust you.”
“You shouldn’t trust Day’s judgement of character.” Andrew Minyard stated. The man was renowned for his keen swordsmanship, impeccable use of the bow and arrow, and infamous for the blood on his hands. It made sense that the Butcher would hire a once-manic, bloodthirsty man to escort his son, to be a constant threat, should Neil cause trouble. His eyes were voids that Neil found himself spiralling within. “I will be waiting outside your door if you require my service, Prince Nathaniel.”
“Neil.” He said, quickly.
With only a moment of hesitated, Andrew said: “Prince Neil.” He huffed. “Lock your windows.”
“Good night.” Neil said carefully.
“Good night.” The knight returned.
Andrew remained stood by the door, watching Neil with a keen eye as the prince was fitted for his new finery. It would be white, of which the seamstress insisted would be beautiful against his tan skin. He wore an under-shirt now, to cover the scars across his chest, despite Marissa’s fretting and irritation.
His knight barely blinked, nor slept a wink. With all the chaos of the wedding preparations, Neil was exhausted: Not having to watch his own back as he slept was somewhat of a relief.
His window of opportunity to escape was closing. Rapidly.
Marissa checked her watch. “I must run and grab something from my carriage. I’ll be back at once. Don’t move!” She warned, before closing the door.
Neil didn’t move: Instead, Andrew locked the door and came to stand in front of him.
“You should burn your letter correspondences, to those friends you so adore.” Andrew said. Neil’s heart fluttered with fear. “Someone may find them.”
It was the first time Andrew had spoken to him in the past week.
He fiddled. “I fear I would forget their contents.”
“I do not forget things.” Andrew promised. “I will be able to recall their contents for you, if desired. Burn the letters. It’s not safe.”
“You do despise him, don’t you.” Neil said, in a hushed voice. “My father. The Moriyamas. Please tell me you won’t betray me.”
“I detest that word.” Andrew’s perfect facade cracked with an angered grimace. “I do not break my promises, and I vowed I would escort you to safety, to Kevin, when the time comes.”
“Riko Moriyama will not let me out of his grasp, once we are wed.” Neil confided. “You do not have much time.”
“Riko Moriyama will not touch you, for as long as you may live.” Andrew said. His fingers, warm and oddly gentle, brushed over Neil’s cheek.
A rapping upon his chambers’ door disturbed the strange moment between them, and Andrew moved to the door to let the seamstress in.
An idea struck, as the fitting resumed. Neil glanced at his knight, the sultry curve of cheekbones and blonde tufts of hair. Yes, he thought. It might just work.
“Tell me, why are we covertly meeting at a derelict church, in our best finery?” Nicholas Hemmick inquired, Neil’s soon-to-be cousin by marriage.
Andrew had taken but a mere moment to agree upon Neil’s terms: As the knight was allied to Kevin Day, rather than bound under the Wesninski jurisdiction, Neil would be able to choose whom he follows: His husband, or his father. It would force his father to renounce Neil’s position as the heir to his throne, and grant Neil freedom from his father’s kingdom.
And so, he and Andrew had snuck out from Neil’s quarters - it was all very exciting - to snatch the newly crafted wedding garments, intended for Neil’s wedding to Riko Moriyama in two days. Now they were here, with Kevin Day and his fellow allied representatives. Neil was rather chuffed: They all detested his father, and thus he had anticipated they would be cold and unforgiving towards him. But they had taken him under his wing, scheming to free him from his father’s grasp.
“I, too, would like an explanation, Neil.” Kevin said, irritated. As the only fellow Crown Prince in the cohort, he was the only other who wouldn’t call Neil by his title. “It is most tiring, being up so late.”
“It’s freezing.” Allison snapped. “Whatever ludicrous scheme it is this time, I want some mulled wine to accompany it.”
“I’m getting married.” Neil said.
Danielle Wilds, Dan, rolled her eyes. “Yes, Neil. We are aware. In two days, in fact. We were all invited.” Her (secret) husband and Neil’s chosen advisor, Matt, shook his head. Neil was very fond of Matt: He was glad he agreed to come tonight, even if it was difficult to escape the Wesninski castle.
“I wish it weren’t so.” Matt said. “We will lose you to those Moriyamas.”
“No.” He said, gently. “I’m getting married tonight. To Andrew. I asked: He has accepted my hand in marriage.”
The odd dozen faces gathered before the church were distorted with utmost shock.
Wymack, Kevin’s illegitimate father and the late Queen Kayleigh Day’s advisor, sighed, taking his wife Abigail’s hand. “Gracious, finally. I thought Andrew would never settle.”
“But -!” Nicky spluttered. “Neil, you have refused this plan thus far! You did not want to marry. You insisted.”
“You must admit, we’re short on time.” Neil continued to fiddle with his garments. There were too many lace frills. “There isn’t much choice in the matter, is there?”
“But -”
“I know what I said.” Neil snapped, irritated. “I’m marrying Andrew. Anymore qualms, queries, concerns, regarding our partnership? Or is everyone happy to simply shut up?”
“Yes,” Aaron said quietly, eyes boring into Andrew with vehemence. “We will discuss this later. Won’t we?”
“What is there to discuss?” Andrew said flatly.
“Who will unite you in matrimony?” Nicky inquired. “I am yet to have the qualifications.”
“I am.” Said a quiet voice, from the shadows.
Renee Walker was most unnerving for Neil, as he had never truly spoken with her in his life, but it seemed as though the two had both nothing and everything in common. She and Andrew trained together as vigilantes. Now she was a woman of the church.
“Shall we?” She gestured to the church, helping usher everyone within.
Andrew’s hand halted on Neil’s shoulder, a blossom of warmth in the cold, dreary night. “You do not have to marry, if you do not wish to.”
“I must admit, the construct itself seemed undesirable. It was why I refused it, initially.” Neil admitted. “But I find I do not mind. Not with you.”
It was so strange. Over the past few days, almost two weeks, Neil and Andrew had mulled over possible escapes, or ways to break the binding contract between the Wesninskis and Moriyamas. The quiet peace that had developed between them was unparalleled. Neil had never felt so safe.
Beyond his marriage and resulting escape from his father’s clutches, what was it that they would have in common? Not much, but he found he didn’t mind. Talking with Andrew was easy, regardless of subject.
Andrew offered his arm, and Neil hooked his hand through Andrew’s elbow. “Let us be wed, then.”
Neil hated his father’s chambers. An ominous portrait of the late Queen Mary hung over a fireplace. The rug in front of it was stained red with the blood of those who dared to cross Nathan Wesninski. The windows, broad and paned with red stained glass, opened onto the lower courtyards with a deadly drop.
He was sat in front of the fireplace with a placid woman by his side, when Neil knocked upon the wooden doorframe at the chambers’ entrance.
“What is it?” His father growled. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“It’s me, father.” Neil glanced across at Andrew, before reaching out to grasp Andrew’s hand. Andrew nodded: Neil laced their fingers together, the gold bands that united them warm to the touch.
“Nathaniel. Why must you disturb me at this hour?” He snapped his fingers at the girl, who scampered away.
“I fear I cannot marry Riko Moriyama.” Neil’s fear of his father ricocheted to and fro within his lungs. “It’s most stuffy in here, isn’t it, father?” He pushed the windows closest to the fire place.
His father lurched to his feet, murderous rage curling his hands into fists. “You will marry the Moriyama boy, Nathaniel. I will not hear another word on the subject. Close that damn window, the drafts will extinguish the fire.”
“It will be objected to.” Neil said. “I am already married. It is not possible that I may marry another.”
His father’s nostrils flared. “What? What are you saying, boy?”
He held up his hand. The gold glinted in the firelight. “I was wed, last night. I am not marrying the Moriyama. I will be departing this castle, and the Wesninski kingdom, at sunrise.”
“Like hell you’ll be leaving.” He snarled, reaching forward to snatch the collar of Neil’s shirt. “I’ll kill whatever rat you’ve pledged yourself to, or I’ll kill you. Those are your options, you conniving little fucker. I knew there was too much of your cowardly bitch of a mother in you. I’ll fucking kill you!”
“You will not harm him no more.” Came a cold voice, the chamber door slamming closed. Andrew held a knife loosely in his fingers, pointed directly at Nathan Wesninski’s throat. “Your reign of terror is done, Wesninski.”
“You -” Nathan gave a guttural scream of frustration. “The academy promised that you were the most loyal, the most bloodthirsty, of your companions! How dare you fool me thus!”
“You forget,” Andrew’s smile was small, cold, and incredibly deadly. Neil’s heart fluttered. My husband. “The academy is hosted by David Wymack, allied to Kevin Day, who opposes you and your paradigms, and is a sworn enemy of the Moriyamas. Now, let go of my husband.”
“Him!” Nathan barked out a laugh. “You married the knight? His hands are just as bloody as mine, dear Nathaniel. You fool.”
“Let me go, father.” Neil said.
“I’ve had enough of you.” Nathan smiled, wickedly sinister, as he shook Neil by the neck. “I’m going to crush your neck as your husband watches. Then I’ll incapacitate him, throw him to a rabid crowd. Let the wolves have him. They’ll rip him to pieces.”
Neil fought to free himself from his father’s grasp, stumbling to Andrew, who accepted Neil into his welcoming grasp. His father charged at the two of them, and so he sprinted, towards the window, before skidding to a halt. His father barrelled towards him. Neil ducked, onto the floor, to avoid being crushed against the brick wall.
Then, in a split second decision, he threw his leg out from where he was crumbled on the floor, and watched with glee as his father tripped and stumbled out of the wide-open window. The panicked yell quickly faded away, before there was a disgusting splat! in the distance.
“He almost crushed you.” Andrew growled, hauling him off the ground. “Don’t dare attempt such acts of idiocy again.”
Neil let himself lean on his husband. “That’s enough for today, yes.”
Andrew merely served him a flat glare.
They fled the chambers, to remain innocuous. It would be frightfully difficult to reclaim the throne if he was charged with his father’s murder.
Within his own chambers, he paced. Desperate for a distraction, he turned to his husband. “Tell me a truth.”
“I committed matricide.” Andrew said, taking Neil’s hands. “You committed patricide. We are most the same. Your turn.”
Neil paused his pacing to look at Andrew. His eyes glowed golden, like the bands of metal around their fingers that linked them together. His lips were curled down with concern as he surveyed Neil. Neil felt his gaze upon his skin like tongues of fire.
He took a deep breath, and let the confession roll off his tongue.
“I told you that I would not develop romantic attachments to you, as I had not expected to.” Neil admitted, cheeks flushed. “I apologise for being unable to control myself, and adhere to the agreement that we both consented to, but I must be honest with you, my husband. I’m most fond of you. Incredibly so.”
Andrew stared at him.
“And you do not need to act upon my desires - I’d never force you. We are equals, regardless of prince and knight status. But if you are -” He hiccupped. “If you are uncomfortable, we may separate. If that is what you wish.” He inhaled sharply, unable to control the shaking of his fingers.
Andrew placed his hands, his warm, strong hands, on the back of Neil’s neck. A while passed before Andrew spoke. “I may also have neglected to adhere to that aspect of our agreement.” His breath washed over the skin of Neil’s neck. Neil felt giddy with the lightness of his heart at Andrew’s confession. “May I kiss you?”
“Such a gentleman.” Neil murmured against his lips, the kiss irresistibly gentle.
“I’ll prove you wrong.” Andrew insisted, walking Neil back to the bed. He then guided Neil’s hands to his hair and warned him, “Just here.”
Neil nodded eagerly.
“Your father toppled from his chamber’s window late in the evening.” The messenger confessed, when Neil cracked the door open to his frantic knocking. The sun was barely up: Neil wanted to return to his bed, where his husband lay, bare to the skin and warmer than the frightfully cold stone beneath his feet.
“You will be crowned as king.” The boy continued. “Your father’s advisors suggest that you should remain engaged with Prince Riko Moriyama to maintain alliances.”
“Tell them that they’re all fired.” Neil said with conviction. “You should also notify them that we are hereby allied with the Days. And that I already have a husband. Run along, now.”
White-faced, the messenger fled.
The minister, Rhenmann, smiled warmly as he placed the golden halo upon Neil’s nest of red curls. The smile crinkled his eyes.“And with the crown bestowed upon you, I declare thee as King. Please announce your title to your new subjects.”
Neil turned around, the crowd weighted upon his head.
The merry band of Neil’s close friends and family that he had gained through his and Andrew’s marriage who were sat in the front row of his coronation, however, Andrew stood by Neil’s side. Neil granted Andrew’s attentive gaze with a small smile, and took his hand.
“King Neil Abram Minyard, of Mary Hatford and Nathan Wesninski.” He turned to Andrew. “A kiss?”
Andrew leant forward, granting Neil a small peck at the corner of his lips.
The crowd stood, and bellowed: “All hail, King Neil!”
i love cute fluffy things, like andrew minyard and cliches and this royalty au
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pokemonruby · 4 years
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zhen for the OC game !
Full Name: zhen song (his family name is “xu”, though) Gender and Sexuality: he is nonbinary + bisexual! Pronouns: he primarily uses he/him but doesn’t mind they/them or she/her pronouns either.  Ethnicity/Species: chinese + human  Birthplace and Birthdate: in my original universe he was born in a kingdom known as kouka within the massive continent of senju. as for his birthday, it’s the 20th of april!  Guilty Pleasures: trips to the spa, styling hair (whether it’d be his own, his husband’s, or his child’s - it depends on who is willing at that time), laying on the couch in nothing but a bathrobe and sipping tea while reading one of his many cheesy romance novels.... he’s stressed 24/7 so he deserves to treat himself. Phobias: What They Would Be Famous For: well, he’s already renowned for his services, of which he doesn’t charge even a penny for, as an underground doctor - well, herbalist. but medicine isn’t the only thing he has practiced; as the parent of a troublemaker who has a tendency to get into fights, he’s learned how to mend wounds as well.  What They Would Get Arrested For: zhen is a law-abiding citizen... unlike his husband and his child. but they’ve yet to get caught, so he probably won’t get arrested for abetting murder.....  OC You Ship Them With: akumu aka the husband i kept mentioning... they are best friends who also happen to be married to each other. oh, and there’s also xavier, who zhen adopted before getting into a relationship with akumu. they’re a happy family :)  OC Most Likely To Murder Them: no one.... zhen is a sweetie and has never done a single thing wrong in his life.  Favorite Movie/Book Genre: he is particularly fond of the romance genre, as i mentioned. zhen will cry at the predictable plot-twists and overly cheesy dialogue and rant to akumu about which character should be with who, and akumu’s eyes just roll into the back of his skull.  Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: the number of times he’s had to ditch books because they resorted to the surprisingly overdone trope of having a character get back with their partner despite finding out they’ve been cheated on.... ugh.  Talents and/or Powers: well, outside of being a very talented herbalist, zhen is a good cook, seamstress (he’s even designed his own outfits before!), and even indulges in writing from time to time, and he is surprisingly quite the poet despite his rather........ generic taste in books.  Why Someone Might Love Them: he is a literal angel who goes out of his way to help those in need without asking for a single thing in return... he’s a respectable and doting partner, a wise and nurturing parent, and would do anything for the people he loves. why wouldn’t you love him, is my question? Why Someone Might Hate Them: i honestly can’t fathom why anyone would.......... he is an angel without wings.  How They Change: zhen is a, uh - very stressed individual who attempts to shoulder all of his burdens alone without asking others for help, since he feels as if he has to remain strong for their sake. but over time he gets over this detrimental mindset of his and lets himself relax a bit.  Why You Love Them: zhen is one of my oldest ocs to date - i think i created him in like, 2013 or 2014? and he’s gone through a lot of revisions since then, and i’m very happy with the character he’s become since he’s just... such a good person. like, the very epitome of goodness. i love him so much. 
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ivory-in-rapture · 4 years
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The Beautiful by Renee Ahdieh: A review
I had to take a break from writing this review. It was four pages of angry salty rant and all over the place but now I’m calm so I can review the book in a logical manner.
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Name: The Beautiful
Author: Renee Ahdieh
Genre: Historical fiction, fantasy, paranormal, vampires
Category: Young Adult
Rating: 2/5 stars
The beautiful is a historical romance, a young adult novel with themes of vampires, horror and mystery.
Summary: “It’s 1872. (wow really?!) Meet Celine. A young French seamstress who is moving to the new world (specifically New Orleans) to start anew away from the monsters of her passed. But then a series of crimes begin to terrorize the citizens of New Orleans just as Celine begins to fall for this super-hot, emo, sexy boy with a really weird edgy attitude. And obviously, it seems like this love-interest is the murderer. (of course!)”
                                                   ****************
I have a lot of problems with this book. I’ll start with the good though. The story is very beautifully written. Ahdieh has a lot of poetic, scenic descriptions and all the emotional descriptions are grand and lovely and beautifully expressed. The descriptions of the city of New Orleans are very beautiful. In fact, my favorite part of the story was the exploration of this new town and its customs. I just wish there was more of that in the actual story. (Aaaaaand there ends the nice things) In fact, while the story tries very hard to be diverse and open-minded, we only really discover the very…not-diverse side of New Orleans. I would have loved for the story to get into the other cultures that really define New Orleans as a fictional landmark but it was the same as reading about the rich of Paris.
Well failed to be nice there. Anyway, I have condensed my disappointment in this book down to three points:
1. This was not a good vampire book
2. This is not really a vampire book
3. Vampires aside, this book is actually not good.
I’ll explain. Expect spoilers.
1. This was a bad vampire book.
A lot of readers might have gotten into this book knowing nothing but this book had been hyped for over a year as the “resurgence of the vampire genre in YA lit”. Everyone in the YA community was talking about how this book is going to be innovative and breathe new life into the dead trope and it was subversive and I got really hyped!
I used to love vampire books (until I got tired of the cliche plots.) I have read many vamp books and after reading the description and beginning of this book, I thought I knew just how this book would be different.
I thought Celine was the murderous vampire terrorizing the city and she was actively seducing the guy so he’d get blamed while she can get info about his personal life to further the illusion and also so she can have deniability if she gets caught!
I was wrong. This book actually didn’t do anything innovative in its vampireyness. The story is about a “strong female character” in the most cliché and transparent way you can imagine. Celine takes stupid, illogical risks without any sensible reason because she’s just “so brave!”. She makes mistake after mistake and for some really lousy reason, she becomes the object of the vampire’s obsession. Everyone she meets falls in love with her. She’s just…a really cliché vampire-genre heroine. Just like its genre, this trope of protagonists is outdated now. There’s this push to make vampire stories less creepy by making it so the woman seems so in control and powerful but news flash: Vampires are creepy! It’s not gonna be a vampire story if it isn’t creepy! That’s the whole point! That’s why the trope still works for adult novels but it’s just not working for YA anymore. YA has moved on to better things. All this said, this book?
2. It’s not even a vampire story!
Despite the excessive marketing of this novel, this isn’t actually a vampire book. This book is not interested in the horror, the mystery or even the aesthetic of vampire stories. There are vampires somewhere in there but it’s not really important. The word isn’t even mentioned until 140 pages in and the characters don’t really ever talk about it either. We get every mystery resolved before we really get to stew in it. There’s really no shock or smart plot twist in it (oh there are plot twists, they’re just not smart). We get these long, boring chapters from the perspective of the vampire/killer which just ruins the whole allure of it. This killer is such a snooze! He was so boring that I’m pretty sure I zoned out during his chapters and missed some heavy exposition. The victims of the crimes are skeleton characters we barely care about, too. I mean, I’m pretty sure we learn the name of one victim after he is killed! The stakes are below ground in the story. The story is actually about two humans… reluctantly falling in love...and there are some vampires in the background besides the boring killer, who really should join a theater group and get his angst out there instead of on his food. We only really get some vampire-related action at the very end but by that point, I was already so exhausted by the boring plot and the terrible main character that I was too irritated to care. And that brings me…to the third point
3. This was just a really bad book.
I am sad. I really liked The wrath and the dawn (I’m actually questioning that these days too…) but I have yet to read something else by Renee Ahdieh that I’ll enjoy. It’s possible that we just don’t work; her writing and my reading taste.
But I really think this book was bad. Like I mentioned before, this book has both a plot problem and a character problem.
The plot first: The story doesn’t make sense in a lot of places because the character doesn’t operate on a logical wavelength! It’s terrible at building tension; mysteries get solved before they really sink in and the explanations are not good enough. There’s no cohesive rise and fall to the plot. It’s mostly grunt work; we move from the main character arguing with someone in one scene to her arguing with someone else in another scene. All around, there was just so much argument in this book! Celine is such an outspoken woman that she just can’t leave anything well enough alone. She has to fight with everyone over everything. It was exhausting and she argued over the most mundane and ridiculous things. She is probably one of the worst characters I’ve ever had to tolerate throughout a book! She never actually argued about anything that mattered. It was always about her pride and just for the sake of being stubborn. I think she even says at some point that she didn’t disagree with the character but she just had to argue with their point.
On top of that…Celine is not like other girls. She’s different. She actually thinks she’s better than the other girls she meets on her journey. She acts like she doesn’t want a husband but then goes and falls for the most eligible bachelor of the town after three meetings. (One just a glance, the second an argument…and the third, another argument.”) It’s instalove and it’s convoluted and stupid. By the end of the book, she’s so in love that she’s shrieking over the body of the guy, she’s almost had sex with him and she already knows everything about him because they had one nice conversation while they walked about being mixed race.
This brings me to the character issue: The story tries too hard to be diverse and edgy but it just comes across as fake and pretentious. Every character has one or two “diverse points”. This one is a lesbian, that one is half Chinese and the other is half African. The main three have diverse points of their own which they ‘bond’ over and that was actually one of the few saving graces of the story but as a whole, the book chooses to be about the most boring characters of the story! Others might disagree but even the meek friend, Pippa, who we are supposed to look down at in the story for being a good and nice girl, is more interesting than Celine. If the story was actually about the lesbian vampire side character, this book would have actually been something special. The love interest is so boring? He’s like a nice guy in the most innocent ways possible. A pioneer of consent and equality in 1870s, Bastian is treated as devil-incarnate because he beat up a creepy dude that one time! The book keeps saying he’s a bad boy…but then like he’s one step away from joining a 2010s women’s march! It’s just almost laughable. I don’t have anything to say about him. He’s just a really handsome, nice but bad boy looking guy?! I don’t know.  
Okay, I think I’m done. I could nag more but I’m going to cut it here. This was still salty but oh boy! You should have seen the first draft. There was a lot of all caps!
Anyway as a whole, I think this book was a total failure because it failed in every sense. It failed to be true to its marketing promises, it failed its genre. The plot was poorly thought out and uninteresting and the characters were not compelling or sympathizing.  
I’m not going to read the sequel. Even though the cover looks gorgeous and we might have a main vampire character. I just dislike Celine too much to tolerate more of her irritating narrative voice!
I really hope someone reads this.  Thank you if you stayed through this. I know it was long.
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thesecretfandom · 6 years
Text
American Dream: Part One -- Bughead Au
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I. Land of Excess
Word Count: 5,051
Rated: G
A/N: Part 1/3 Bughead 1920′s Au.( Read on AO3) (Part 2 Coming Soon)
"Ethel, have you seen my diamond necklace?" Betty called to her assistant. Betty had hired Ethel six months ago, and she was thus far the best assistant she'd ever had. She was responsible for organizing Betty's latest fashion show, with all the biggest names in fashion in attendance. It was the first fashion show Cooper Fashions had hosted, starring the innovative styles of the young yet top female designer, Elizabeth Cooper.
"You hung it on your vanity, ma'am."  Ethel replied.
"You don't need to call me ma'am, Ethel. You make me sound like an old woman." Betty sighed. She'd insisted when she first hired Ethel that she call her Betty, even Elizabeth, but she still called her ma'am regardless. "Remind me again why I hung a priceless diamond necklace on my vanity? Do I not have a jewelry box?"
"That's what I said last night, and you said that it could stay there because you were wearing it to the theater today."
"I don't know why I question you." Betty lifted the gold chain from where it hung on the spindle of the mirror attached to her vanity. "Be a dear and make sure the car is waiting. I'm almost ready to go."
"Yes, ma'am."
Betty entered the black town car alone, allowing her chauffer to close the door behind her. The New York City streets were busy on that weekend. Young men and women walked the streets, leaving trails of cigarette smoke in their wake. None would admit what they were up to that night, but in the mid-1920s at the height of Prohibition, Betty knew they must be wandering in to one of many speakeasies that were hidden throughout the city.
Betty preferred to keep up her image, avoiding the less savory locations in the city when there was a chance of the paparazzi catching her. She was just establishing herself in an industry thus far held hostage by men, and she would not allow some scandal to knock her out of the spotlight.
The lights from the theater were glowing, sparkling like stars pulled down from the sky. The night sky in New York City grew increasingly dimmer as the years went on. Betty remembered, as a child, visiting the city before the War… before the city lights drowned out her dreams of life on a farm with her childhood sweetheart and replaced them with dreams of fashion, adventure, and forbidden romance.
She was born at the turn of the century, her age always reflected in the year facing her. Now 1924, Betty was successful for her age, but an enigma to her peers. What was a beautiful young woman like her doing without a husband? That was something that Betty herself couldn't answer. A husband was always on her list, but her career was always higher on the list. Her husband, whoever he was, would have to wait.
A red carpet sprawled across the sidewalk from where her car stopped, leading up the stairs into the theater. Her chauffer held out a white gloved hand and as soon as her foot hit the ground flashes of light burst forth from the cameras of the news reporters.
"Miss Cooper, are you with someone?" A hot topic of conversation wherever she went.
"Miss Cooper, how long are you staying in New York?" Less common, but they always wanted to know which city she was headed off to next.
"Miss Cooper, who are you wearing?" The only question that she answered honestly every time.
Betty smiled toward the direction of the question,  the lace of her dress pooling around her ankles. "Myself of course."
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"Mister Jones?"
"What is it, Keller?" Jughead was busy. His newest show premiered tonight and already his lead actress had ripped a seam in her dress and the spotlight bulb had shattered. Luckily, both had remedies. An adequate seamstress and spare bulb would fix all of his problems, if only the damn bulb could be found in the supply closet.
"Elizabeth Cooper is on the red carpet."
Jughead stopped in his tracks. He trained his eyes on his assistant, trying to decide if the young man was lying to him.
"A celebrity is coming to my show?"
"Some may argue that you're a celebrity, Sir." Kevin responded promptly.
"I don't care for flattery, you know this." Jughead was on the move again. If the handyman couldn't find a simple light bulb, he'd have to do it himself. "I wasn't made aware of this when the VIP booths were reserved."
"She didn't reserve a booth." Kevin wrung his hands together. "She came alone with a single ticket, general audience. That's how she slipped through. She had her personal assistant buy a ticket for her."
"Well, move her to a VIP seat then. I would have gladly sent her complimentary tickets had I known."
"That… may be a problem." Kevin shrunk away from his boss when Jughead whirled on him. Kevin hated to be the bearer of bad news, especially with his particularly hotheaded boss. "All of the VIP seats have been reserved by some incredibly esteemed members of society. We can't afford to move anyone."
"Then…" Jughead thought for a moment. "Then put her in my booth. It's the best seat in the house. What are you waiting for? Go!"
Kevin scurried away toward the front of the building, through a small crowd that that had already arrived. Many of the higher class citizens, considered to be celebrities to New Yorkers, had arrived on the red carpet just moments before the esteemed fashion designer. Jughead watched as they entered the theater, seemingly disappointed that their small moment in the spotlight had been stolen away by an international star.
Jughead had first heard of Elizabeth Cooper five years ago, when she was granted her first spotlight at a fashion show in New York at the age of nineteen. She became a celebrated designer with rapid speed. One of few female designers from America, and the youngest female designer in the world to have her first line of women’s formal wear met with rave reviews.
Despite his four year seniority on the young woman, she had found fame much sooner than him. When Elizabeth was jet setting across the globe to various fashion shows, Jughead was struggling with his first big play. While her designs were in high demand, Jughead was begging on his hands and knees in front of potential investors.
His first controversial show was met with mixed reviews, but with a murderous plot line and a mysterious figure pulling the strings, it was a hit that skyrocketed Jughead into the spotlight… quite literally.
"Five minutes to show time! Everyone to your places!" Jughead waited at the center of the stage, just behind the thick, red curtain.
A nervous energy appeared behind him. "Mr. Jones…"
"Now is not the time, Keller." Jughead straightened his tie.
"But…"
"Is this going to affect the show in any way?"
"Well, it-"
"Get backstage, Kevin. Everything is going to be fine."
Once again, Kevin disappeared into the crowd of cast and crew that waited backstage. Jughead slowly pushed through the curtain and stepped into the spotlight at center stage. Through the bright light, he couldn't make out the audience… though he'd been assured it was a full house. Jughead grinned, "Welcome, esteemed guests to the premier of  Land of Excess."
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Betty sat in the sixth row back from the stage, watching as Forsythe Jones took the stage to introduce the show. She could feel the eyes of various audience members watching her with sidelong glances. She'd been offered a seat in a VIP booth by Forsythe's assistant and with much disappointment to him, she'd refused. After all, she'd come to this show at this particular theater for a reason.
As a child, when she'd first visited the city with her parents and siblings, they'd gone to a show at the small theater that had once sat on this land. She was quite young when Peter Pan came to America, and her parents had saved money for something of just the sort. A new theater had been built in its place after the war ended, but Betty still felt like a child again as she sat n the middle of the theater six rows back, just where she had been over fifteen years ago.
This show was much more mature. Set in the present day, it was a rags to riches story about a young woman with a dark past establishing herself as a successful business woman. Amidst a stalker from her past and a new mysterious lover, it was a grand romance that would empower any woman hoping to make her mark on the world. No doubt it would have mixed reviews from the influential theater critics, made up mostly of old men.
By the end of the show, Betty vowed to use her influence to promote the show. Not many shows had a female as the lead, especially when most playwrights were men. She had to give Forsythe Jones props, he always found a way to make his controversial plays strike some cord with a large audience.
Betty waited in her seat long after the show ended until only a few audience members still shuffled around the back of the theater.
"Did you enjoy the show?" A deep voice spoke from stage left, followed by a tall man with dark hair.
"Quite." Betty stood at the arrival  of Forsythe Jones. She'd seen his face in newspapers before, but he was much more handsome in person.
"You are Elizabeth Cooper." He stated, stepping through the rows of seats to stand in the row just in front of her.
"And you're Forsythe Jones."
"Call me Jughead." His lips quirked into a small smile.
"Well, if we're on a nickname basis… you can call me Betty."
She held her hand out to him and he took it happily. His hand was large, enveloping hers completely as they shook.
"I invited you to a VIP booth, did my assistant get in contact with you?"
"Ah, so you noticed." Betty smiled. "Yes, I got the message. However, I paid my modest fee for my carefully chosen seat and I intended to sit there amongst the… peasants."
"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to tease strange men?"
"Are you a strange man, Mr. Jones?"
He didn't respond to this question. Instead, he laughed. Betty raised an eyebrow at him, something about his presence felt familiar; almost comforting.
"I so wish you would have taken my invitation." He laughed. "Your conversation is much more stimulating than Kevin's, my assistant. He's just a bundle of nervous energy most of the time."
"Were you not nervous on your opening night?" Betty found that hard to believe. "I am always nervous out of my mind when I release a new line."
"You see right through me, Miss Cooper."
She was fascinated by his eyes. A deep sparkling blue. There wasn't a lot of color in today's world. Even her own designs tended toward silver and gold trimming on black and white fabric. Perhaps she should consider investing in some blue dyes, or maybe red and green. The new year approached in a few short months, and with it her next line of fashion due to hit the market.
"The night is young. Care to join me for a night on the town?"
Betty smiled a small apology. She knew just what a night on the town meant. "I'll have to politely decline."
"That's a shame." He shifted his weight and began walking toward the exit. "Allow me to give you a ride home. I'd love to hear what you think of the show."
"My car should be waiting." Betty replied, following him toward the exit.
"Let me at least show you my car." Forsythe Jones walked backward down the aisle, his eyes locked on Betty. "It's a gorgeous light blue with a convertible top, though I'll leave the top up since I believe it's getting a tad cold outside."
"A little presumptuous, aren't you?" Betty smiled regardless.
"I have faith in my car. Come on, I had Kevin bring it around front."
Betty followed him, admittedly curious. She'd never been too interested in cars. Her family had never had a personal car. She distinctly remember her first ride being in a taxi after she'd moved to New York to pursue her  dreams. Even now, she owned a car but had never had the courage to drive in the city. Instead, she hired a chauffeur.
The car was beautiful, standing out against the dark city street. It was much more beautiful than Betty's plain black car, which was parked just behind his. Betty noticed the smile in her comrade's eye as she stepped closer to the car. She'd seen some luxurious things in her time, but there was something different about this particular car. Maybe it was the stains of mud swirling around the wheel wells, something  most people with such a nice car and good amount of money would normally keep clean.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?"
Forsythe swept his hand across the hood of the car, rubbing out a water spot with his thumb.
"She?" Betty responded.
"Well, of course." He replied. "Something this beautiful has got to be a woman, don't you think?"
Betty rolled her eyes, something she felt she may do often in the presence of this strange man. "I can't argue with that logic. It is a beautiful car."
Forsythe Jones smiled then, his lips curling up at the corners. "So you're saying you'll let me drive you home?"
Betty grinned in reply. "I never said that."
"You didn't have to." He stepped off the curb and walked around the driver's side of Betty's car, where Reginald Mantle sat waiting to take her home. "Hello, fine sir. I'd like to send you home early with a hefty tip. I'll escort Miss Cooper home tonight."
Forsythe held out a five dollar bill to the young chauffeur, which Reggie, bless his heart, refused to take.
"I'll need to speak to Miss Cooper. She tells me when to go home, sir."
Betty found her way to the passenger window. "It's okay, Reg. Take the money, go home, and don't spend that all at once."
"Thank you, Miss Cooper. My mother will be so grateful."
"Tell her hello from me." Betty smiled. "And also tell her that I'm still waiting for her to come to the office to get fitted for a new Sunday dress."
"I'll tell her, but I won't promise she'll listen. You know she gets nervous around expensive things."
"I'll win her over one of these days." Betty stepped back from the car. "Have a good night."
Reggie waved and waited for Forsythe to return to the sidewalk before pulling out onto the street. Betty watched the car disappear around the corner, even as she felt the presence of Forsythe Jones at her side once more.
"Well said, Miss Cooper. And it looks as if I've won you over as well?"
"Your car won me over." She corrected. "And it's a short ride home."
He walked over to his car and pulled the door open. Betty lifted her dress slightly to step into the car before she was stopped.
"Before you get in, promise me you will at least give me a chance to win you over during the drive."
"Do your worst, Forsythe Jones."
He closed the door behind her and moved swiftly behind the wheel. "Let's start with you calling me Jughead."
"Okay, Jughead. Woo me."
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Betty hooked her arm with Jughead as she led the way to her temporary New York apartment. He'd driven around the block twice after Betty had pointed out her building. She hadn't said anything when he kept driving, so he knew that he had, in fact, won her over on the short drive.
"I'd expected you somewhere a bit more lavish." Jughead said when they stopped at the front door.
"I'm one woman, who spends a lot of time living in hotels and train cars. I don't need, nor do I care for an expensive house that I'll never use."
"Fair enough, I sleep in my office most days. Lately, actually I've been sleeping at the theater."
"All work and no play…"
"I wouldn't say no play. Normally I would try to go out and find some adventure on a Friday night, but something much more interesting came up."
Jughead frowned when Betty pulled her arm away. She reached for the door handle and prepared to go inside.
"I had a lovely time at the show, Jughead. Thank you for the ride home."
"My pleasure." Jughead held his hand out to her and she placed her hand in his. He lifted her much smaller hand, leaving a light kiss on the soft skin. "Can I call on you tomorrow?"
Betty took her hand back and stepped through her door. "You can try."
Jughead spent the rest of the night thinking about those last three words she said. Her confidence may be the most alluring thing about her, but something told him that she was just as interested in him as he was in her. He knew he'd be back the next day, and maybe convince her to have dinner.
His office was cold when he returned. So maybe he hadn't told the entire truth about why it was that he slept in his office. He had a small bed set up in the corner of the loft, a kitchenette set at the back of the room. His desk sat in front of the only window, providing a view of the city streets panning out beneath him.
It wasn't that he didn't want a bigger home, but he was comfortable here. He'd grown up in a one room home with his parents and sister, one that was smaller than the room he currently lived in. Anything bigger he thought would feel empty.
And anyway, he was satisfied with sending his well earned money to his parents so they could afford to give his sister, ten years his junior, an education. Not many women got the chance to go to school, but Jughead had made sure, since his produced his first play, that she would stay in school.
He was ridiculously proud of her, now in her first year of nursing school. She wanted to become a doctor, but would settle for nursing until she could make her case to the dean of the medical college that women should be allowed to study more advanced forms of medicine.
Jughead fell asleep thinking about this. He thought, maybe if tomorrow went as planned he'd one day be able to introduce his sister to Betty Cooper. Betty had managed to make a name for herself in a man's world. She could instill some hope in his young sister.
The morning sun woke him early, a stream of bright light shone across his eyes. He yanked a pillow over his face, begging for sleep to take him back again, but it seemed he was not destined to return to dreamland. In the light of the new day, he felt nervous about his eventual return to Miss Betty Cooper. There was something about the dark of the night that granted him confidence, like she wouldn't see though him to his less than golden past.
Despite his current misgivings, he left his small home late in the afternoon to call on the young woman. His building seemed different in the daylight, and he caught a glance of golden blonde hair in the window above. Jughead smiled to himself; now he remembered why he swallowed his anxiety to take the few short steps to the building's lobby.
"Good afternoon, sir." A man in a suit and bellman's hat stood behind a desk in the lobby, a bright smile on his face. "How can I help you today?"
"Elizabeth Cooper?" Jughead supplied. "Would you let her know that Jughead Jones is here?"
The man nodded and pressed a button on an intercom. He spoke in hushed tones, so Jughead couldn't hear what he was saying to her.
"She wants me to tell you that she may or may not be down in ten minutes, and that you should wait outside."
Ten minutes. Jughead leaned against his car as he watched the time pass as various businessmen walked down the street, briefcases in hand. As ten minutes approached, he started to worry that she wouldn't be coming. Then… something caught his eye. A swatch of pale yellow fabric fluttered out of the window through which he'd seen golden hair ten minutes prior. A leg poked out from under the fabric as none other than Betty Cooper climbed out onto the fire escape.
"I don't remember Juliet climbing off her balcony to meet Romeo." Jughead called out to her.
"Who said I wanted to be Juliet?" Betty replied. "They die in the end you know. An esteemed writer such as yourself should be familiar with the works of Shakespeare, no?"
She was climbing down the metal stairway, careful not to let her dress get caught on any sharp edges. Jughead stepped away from his car, closer to the building as Betty reached the final ladder leading to the sidewalk. The end of the ladder stopped three feet from sidewalk.
"Well, Romeo. Are you going to help me down or not?"
Jughead obliged. He held one hand to her waist, the other to the hand not holding the ladder, and she hopped to the sidewalk. Betty was smiling, her soft features even more beautiful in the day light. Her hair was tied up in a knot on top of her head, a delicate chain around her neck.
"I'll admit, after last night I wasn't sure how you'd respond to my coming here today."
"What can I say? You are a mysterious man, and I need a little excitement in my life." Betty brushed past Jughead and walked around his car.  "It's much more beautiful in the daylight."
"Most things are." Jughead replied.  "Would you be interested in dinner?"
"You have a place in mind?"
"I do." Jughead smiled, opening the passenger door for Better to enter. "And I just so happen to be friends with the owner."
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"It was a disaster!" Betty laughed, recalling a story from her past over a plate of spaghetti. "It was my second fashion show ever, and the first model tripped over the front of the dress and fell right on her face!"
"I don't see how that's something you can control, though." Jughead responded. She knew he was just trying to make her feel better. "It's not your fault she was clumsy."
"Here's what you need to know about the fashion industry." Betty took a sip of her water. "If the model stumbles, it’s the shoes. If the model trips and falls, it's absolutely the fault of the dress. I thought my career was over after that. It was all over the community that I couldn't sew a proper hem length."
"It seems you managed to get past that. At least, you seem to have done pretty well for yourself."
Betty shrugged. It had been a little discouraging to have her name alongside "Fashion Fail" in the newspapers, but she had survived. That one moment that had threatened her career, ultimately only increased her motivation to prove the critics wrong. And now here she was, one of the most successful fashion designers in the world sitting across the table from one of New York's greatest playwrights.
"Are you up for a little excitement tonight?" Jughead spoke again. He had finished his food quickly, and watched as Betty slowly took small bites of her food. Now, however, Betty had finished her meal and assumed he would be taking her home.
"I suppose I can't say no to excitement, especially after I specifically said that was what I was looking for."
"I've got something in mind if you'd like to see?" Jughead raised his hand to signal the waiter.
"I trust you." Betty smiled as Jughead spoke to their waiter.
He asked to give his compliments to the chef and they were led back toward the kitchen. Betty didn't bother to ask what exactly they were doing, but she had an idea. The kitchen was a frenzy of activity, but the chef saw Jughead, shouted some instructions, and then made his was to where they stood by the door.
"Jughead Jones!" The tall man reached out to shake Jughead's hand. "And who is this lovely lady?"
Betty offered her hand to him and the chef placed a soft kiss to her hand.
"The is Elizabeth Cooper, world renowned fashion designer AND my date for the evening so you'd better watch yourself, Sweet Pea."
"Sweet Pea?" Betty questioned.
"It's a nickname, obviously. When you're in a certain business it's better for your clients to not know your real name."
"So I take it you're not just a chef then?"
"Clever." Sweet Pea winked at her then turned his attention to Jughead. "So you're going in then?"
"If you'd be so kind." Jughead crooked his elbow for Betty to link their arms as they followed Sweet Pea to the back of the kitchen where two large metal doors stood side by side. The moved through the door on the left and were escorted into a room cloudy with smoke and smooth jazz crooning from a stage set in the back of the building.
Sweet Pea got the attention of the bartender, speaking quietly so that other customers couldn't hear him. "These two are VIP. All drinks are free tonight for them." He turned to face Jughead. "Try not to make me go bankrupt."
"No worries." Jughead clapped him on the shoulder and Sweet Pea disappeared back to the kitchen.
Betty was more focused on the environment around her than the bottles of alcohol organized behind the bar. A few small tables with a few men and women sitting around each. She suddenly felt like her outfit, long and covered in lace, was entirely out of place. The few other women in the room wore black flapper dresses, a fashion Betty had never given a second thought to, and accessories made of feathers around their necks and on their heads.
"Betty?" Jughead's hand was on her elbow, leading her through the small crowd. "Are you okay with this table here? Close enough to hear the music but not too close that I can't hear you talk."
"Who said I wanted to talk?" Betty teased. She took the seat anyway as Jughead ordered from the bar. He returned with a glass of whiskey for himself and red wine for her.
"I wasn't sure what you would like, so I took the easy option."
"That's fine. Honestly, wine is the only alcohol I've had… and that was usually at church or at home when my sister snuck some her current beau."
"I often forget how young you are." Jughead said, followed by a sip of his bitter drink.
"Too young?" Betty asked. She was twenty-four, and by the time she'd reached an age where she felt the desire to drink alcohol it had become illegal. Even with her connections, she had never ventured into a speakeasy until tonight.
"You seem the perfect age to me. It fits you."
The smell of smoke and spilled alcohol permeated the small room, and as the night wore on more patrons entered through the secret door in the kitchen. The room became increasingly crowded and Betty was pushed in Jughead as another couple joined their table.
Jughead seemed to sense the tension she felt with the crowd because he stood and offered his hand to her.
"One dance and I'll take you home?"
Betty took his hand with a smile and followed him to the small bit of the open dance floor. The music came halting to a stop and was replaced by a slower ballad, the bass plunking out a deep rhythm. A sweet melody floated out from the upright piano at the side of the stage.
Betty  draped one arm over Jughead's shoulder, the other held in his hand as he pulled her close at the waist. They swayed softly with the music, a few other couples following their lead. There wasn't much room to move, so Jughead pulled her in small circles until the music wound down and ultimately went silent.
Jughead's arm was still around her even when the music stopped, and Betty thought that she quite liked this. She hadn't danced with a boy since she was in school and even then it felt forced, like something she was expected to do. Here, it felt entirely unexpected and exciting.
Jughead led her back to the door they had come through and passed through the kitchen, which had since become much more quiet. The streets outside were still crowded with people moving from one place to another, but in the alley beside the restaurant Jughead's car sat alone.
"I think I'd like to ride home with the top down, if you don't mind." Betty asked as they approached the car.
"I thought you'd never ask."
With the wind in her hair, Betty felt more free than she ever had before. City lights glowing around her and a handsome man sitting next to her, she could get used to a life like this. She wasn't entirely ready for the night to end when her apartment was suddenly imposing in front of her.
"You'll walk me up?"
"We aren't going up the fire escape this time, are we?" Jughead teased.
"I think the indoor stairs will do just fine." Betty took Jughead's arm as she led him to her doorway. She stopped outside the door, not yet taking her key from her purse. "When can I expect you to call on me again?"
Betty turned to face Jughead, their bodies so close she could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He tilted his head down, closer to hers and his lips pressed softly against her cheek.
"As soon as possible." He said, pulling away.
"I look forward to it."
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A/N: Let me know what you think! Trying to write in the mind of how people acted almost 100 years ago was a bit strange, but I hope I did it justice. Keep an eye out for part 2!
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badgerpride96 · 5 years
Text
A Wild West Experience, Part 2!
Part 2 is live! I’m very excited about this chapter, there’s some back story, character development, new people, yadda yadda...
Sheriff managed to get the woman back to Haven proper without a fuss. Walter Beats, the town physician, lived on the edge of town. Sheriff pulled Gigi around the back of the building slid off and hitched her to the post. He turned back around see the woman trying to dismount herself. He caught her just in time.
She cracked one eye open and hissed through gritted teeth, “You try to carry me, sheriff, and I will shoot you.”
Sheriff chuckled. “Yes ma’am, I believe you would. Would a friendly arm be sufficient?”
She nodded, and leaned heavily on his arm as they shuffled up to the door.
“Walt!” Sheriff yelled, banging on the door. “Open up doc, I got an injury out here!”
The door flew open to reveal a grinning man pulling on a shirt and yawning. “Jiminy Cricket, Gio, any louder and you’ll wake the doc in the next town yonder!” He blinked a few times, blearily taking in the visitors. “Ma’am, I hate to alarm you, but you appear to have been shot.”
“Yes, Dr. Beats,” she cooly remarked. “Though I appreciate a second opinion.”
“Oh please,” Walter said, ushering them into the office and helping the woman onto an operating table. “Call me Walter. Dr. Beats was my father.”
The sheriff leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed. “Ma’am, we will need to know your name, at the least.”
She grimaced.”You might as well know. Kelly Rose, at your service. Outlaw wife of a murder victim.”
Sheriff froze. “I heard of you. You’re wanted for murder and evadin the sheriff, and for injuring his men. Been 6 months now, ain’t it?”
“Bout there, yes.” Miss Rose looked him in the eyes. “Sheriff, it wasn’t me that shot my husband, though god knows sometimes I wanted to, what with the whores and the drinkin...but I did not, Sheriff. I loved him. He was not a perfect man, but he was my husband and I loved him. It was his brother, the damned sheriff in our town.”
“Hold it!” Sheriff exclaimed. He pushed off the door frame and strode to the table, leaning on his hands in her face. “Let’s be absolutely clear. You, an outlaw, are accusing a sheriff of murdering his own brother. You are on some thin ice, Miss. You better have an excellent reason, is all I’m sayin’.”
She tilted her head back and kept her eyes locked. Walter put a hand on Sheriff’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t believe my own words, sir, but for knowing something no one else knows. He, the other Sheriff that is, was runnin out of money. He had a nasty opium habit, a pregnant mistress, and has been usin the money for the town for his own debts. Thing is, he’s extremely good at hidin it and all his men are loyal til the day they die, literally. He’s damned charmin, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
“Now, bout seven months ago, their father realizes he’s dyin and decides to split the fortune down the middle. He starts lastin longer than he expected, so the sheriff, Jacob, he goes about to John, my husband, to ask for a loan til the old man passes. John refused, as he should’ve; he may have been a whoring cad but he was smart. So the sheriff broke into our home, snatched our husband out of bed, and held his gun to his head and demanded the money. My husband refused again and the sheriff shot him. Then he threatened me, because I stood to inherit if John died.”
“How’d you get away?” Sheriff asked, pacing the room now.
“I bit him,” She said, shrugging. “He hand his arm around me and I bit down on his trigger hand. He shrieked like a little boy and dropped his pistol, and I whipped him round the head with it. I grabbed my own, the shotgun, and a pack of John’s for an emergency with some clothes and money. I managed to get to Persephone and get nearly out of town before he raised the alarm. He ruled me an outlaw, while they worked out which direction I was headin in. That way I could be arrested, but I can’t run back home.”
Miss Rose dropped her head back, closing her eyes. “I tried to find a new place, but no town would simply accept a woman wearin men’s clothes with no explanation and a warrant out for her. No one ever gave me the benefit of the doubt. Persephone is more used to dashin away in the night than any horse alive. In the last place, they caught me by surprise. I had to put a few of them out cold, or shot in the leg. The sheriff’s men had caught up to me and he followed them. As I was racin off, he got a shot off on me. And thus, here I am.” She opened her eyes and looked at the two men. “I can’t run anymore, Sheriff. I will die, or lose my horse, which makes me as good as dead. . I’ve heard of Haven, I know y’all will give me a fair trial and that if I’m found innocent, I could make a life for myself here. You have reputation for mercy and justice, Sheriff. It is usually only justice. So if ye intend to arrest me, tell me now so I can prepare myself.”
Sheriff thought for a moment. This woman didn’t seem like a cold hearted killer. She claimed to have never even killed the men hunting her, and surely they would’ve heard by now if there were several men dead in a nearby town. He couldn’t deny how guilty she looked, at least according to the other sheriff; and he was loath to blame murder on a fellow. For all he knew, Kelly Rose had killed her husband and would kill him and his people too.
But something in her face, as Walt offered her some brandy and told her he’d be as respectful of her privacy as he could, but he apologized in advance any discomfort, that convinced the sheriff to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“No ma’am,” he said, as Walt prepared his tools. “I am not going to arrest you. However, you are confined to the perimeters of Haven proper. You will not ride out without me or Jones, my deputy. You are permitted to keep a knife but I will take your guns. You may stay in the rooms above the sheriff’s office, and as I assume you have little money left, you may help Sass in the bar and me in the sheriff’s office. No one will give you trouble, but due to the small size of Haven, people will be watching. Show them who you are, would be my recommendation. Can we strike a bargain on that, Miss Rose?
“Kelly,” she croaked. “Thank you, sheriff. Truly.”
“Gio, you’re gonna want to be leavin now,” Walter said, gesturing with his tweezers to the door. Gio gulped and nodded; for a man who carried a gun, a medical scene made his stomach lurch. He tipped his hat to Kelly and quietly shut the door. “Alright, Miss Rose,” he heard Walter say, “I ask that if you’re gonna scream, to give me some warnin, so as I don’t further stab you.” Kelly laughed, and then the sheriff sat on the porch to wait for Sam to come back.
While he waited, settled into one of the many rocking chairs on the porch, he considered what this woman might mean for Haven. These people, his people, wouldn’t exclude her or ostracise her; god knows they all had lives that had led them to Haven in the first place. The town was a place where you ended up when you need the most help, where you went when the world had thrown what it could at you and you had come crawling out the other side. He would have to make his case on this, but they were a close knit town; they supported and looked after their own, no matter how recently they had joined their ranks. He would not need to explain why he trusted her to the average joe. He wasn’t quite sure he could have.
He supposed it was similar to his inability to explain why he had fallen so hard for Mary, though markedly different. With Kelly, it was that he simply trusted her. She seemed open, genuine in desperation. Mary was a feeling of quiet wonder, reverence, a calming sense that the world was worth protecting.
He would have Sam get the room ready. I’ll see about getting him a horse of his own, the Sheriff considered. Sam’s mother was a seamstress in Mary’s shop, but Sam worked as Haven’s courier and page boy, delivering messages for a fair fee. He was 13 now, a good age to care for a horse. He could raise his rates for speed. His birthday was approaching - perhaps a fundraiser could be organized.
Just as he’d begun to formulate this plan, Sam himself rode up on Persephone. Gigi whinnied as though greeting an old friend.
“Howdy, Sheriff,” He called out.
“Don’t dismount, if you would Sam. I’ll pay ye double for the next one. Ride quicklike over to my office and ready the rooms above. You can leave Persephone there-” he nodded to the horse- “and run to Mary to ask for the castoffs this week to stock them rooms.”
“Dresses, sheriff?”
He considered. “Dresses, but some dungarees and shirts as well.”
Sam dashed off. Mary would pay him probably more than double, she loved to spoil Sam. The castoffs came from the whole town. Mary had begun a program where anyone with clothes that needed simple repair but where no longer needed could be donated, and she and her girls would ride to the nearest towns and cities and sell them to the poor houses and brothels to keep their tenants clothed. It was enormously popular. Sheriff had originally had doubts about his wife visiting such places, but he wasn’t about to argue with the determined glint in her eyes. The next delivery would go out next week, but she would have some in storage till then.
Having done that task, the sheriff slumped back into the rocking chair, the heat closing in around him, and finally had his nap.
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the-tales-of-horror · 7 years
Text
Wink Murder
Original Link By iwantabear
I am a deeply distrustful person, certain events in my life have made me this way. So, when Cara moved to town, I was pretty suspicious. No one had ever seen her parents, she had no siblings, she lived alone in an opulent mansion, and she never invited anyone home, although she was always hanging out and meeting people. But she satisfied nearly every characteristic of the manic pixie dream girl trope, which naturally made every boy fall in love with her, and made every girl want to be her.
I seemed to be the one person who was not enamoured by her, but that only meant she sought me out. It definitely seemed like she wanted to win everyone over. You know that feeling you have when everyone likes someone or something and you just have this strange idea something is off? Yeah, that’s the vibe I got off her. But considering it was senior year anyway, and I was planning an escape route out of town, I decided not to voice my suspicions. I didn’t outright ignore her, but was rather coolly indifferent. Still, every other day, she’d stop by my locker, with an Iced Americana, and an invitation to go shopping or get ice cream or sneak into a bar. Until she started this active pursuit of me as a friend, I had just been vaguely distrustful, but I really got worried after. I couldn’t figure out how she knew my favourite drink; it’s possible one of my friends could have told her, but I doubted it. Like I said before, I don’t trust easily, and I’m not very close to anyone and I was pretty sure I hadn’t gone to Starbucks with anyone before. Then a couple of weeks later, she turned up with tickets to an Eluveitie concert. They were my favorite band, and I hadn’t been able to get tickets for their show, and she magically turns up with a pair when I had given up? Something was definitely wrong.
Then the dreams started.
A couple of months into the school year, and I was still fending off her invitations, and I began to see her façade crack. Her lips would turn down the slightest each time I refused her, and her eyes would narrow every time I came up with an excuse. Finally, she cracked, when I told her I didn’t want to study with her: “Why do you hate me so much? I just want to get to know you!”, she said sadly, her blue eyes filling with tears. Alarmed, I backed away and simply said “I don’t hate you, I just like being alone. Don’t take it personally, please. And stop asking me to come out with you. I’m not going to.” Maybe it seems harsh, but I thought putting it bluntly would get her off my back. And in a way, it did. She stopped asking me to do things, but she made little jabs at me that hinted she knew something about the dreams I was having – but that couldn’t have been possible right?
Now, I will never really know the truth.
The night she confronted me, I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, and I began to dream. I was a handmaiden to a beautiful princess who looked eerily like Cara. She was betrothed to a prince of another state, but he was a toerag who secretly came on to me. I refused him again and again and again, while attending to the princess. Finally, the prince couldn’t take it any longer, and stole one of her necklaces in front of me, taunting me, telling me he would pin it on me. And he did, and by the decrees of the nation, I was sentenced to death. But, afterwards I came back to life and haunted the prince, by calling out the stones of the different necklaces the princess owned – except for diamond, the one he stole – until he went crazy and killed himself.
When I woke up, I remembered the dream in vivid detail, something that usually never happens. It struck me as odd, because the dream seemed very similar to a story or a movie or something I had seen ages ago, but I couldn’t place it. Deciding it wasn’t of significance, I promptly forgot about it as I made my way to school. Cara passed by me and winked, asking out loud: “Did you sleep well?”
I remember freezing in place, as if what she said physically stopped me. For a fraction of a second, her blue eyes turned stormy grey, and her grin melted into a crooked smirk, before reverting back to normal. Struggling to recover, I simply muttered “Fine”, and walked off. But for the rest of the day, my brain travelled around in circles, trying to determine if there was any way she could have known about the dream, or possibly even caused it. Trying to be practical, I gave up trying to figure it out. The dream was just that – a dream. And everything else was merely coincidence.
But I continued to have strange dreams for all the following nights. One where I was a young English seamstress whose husband had gone to war and had been left alone with her baby, only to be violated by bandits and left for dead in the forest. I haunted people in nearby towns. In another I didn’t appear to have corporeal form, I was one with the dust and the wind rolling across countryside and attacking children. In yet another, I sat atop clouds and watched men clash in rebellions and wars below me, and decided who would live and who would die. They were all pretty awful, but one in particular horrified me. I was a maid to a rich, single mother, who had a child who would not speak, though otherwise normal. Being spiritual, she called upon a holy man for advice. He told her that she had to feed her child the heart of a living fetus, so I was commissioned for the task of obtaining one. I leave my own daughter alone, with nothing but my ring for protection, and go in search of it, but no one, of course, is willing to offer one. So, I wait for years and years in the middle of the woods, waiting for a pregnant woman to come by me, so I may obtain the fetus by more devious means. Finally, a young woman passes by, and I attack her, but only too late do I notice her ring. She was my daughter. Then I go insane and eat people.
The dreams bothered me, and I tried to find a connection, or a meaning. I did some research, and it turned out that many of them were legends or folk tales of woman who avenge wrongs done to them, or women who are granted the power to do terrible things, and make judgements on other people. Putting a name to some of the entities I became while dreaming eased my mind somewhat. Valkyrie, Okiku, Onibaba, I seemed to turn into a different creature every dream. But more disturbing than the dreams was the fact that every day Cara made some sort of remark about my night. Most often they were innocuous comments, but once in a while she would jeer at me “Looks like something doesn’t let you get your beauty sleep. There might be ways you can change that”, and then look at me expectantly. I refused to give in. There was no way that tiny slip of a girl was manipulating my dreams, even if such a thing was possible. So, I continued to ignore her as much as I could.
Two things happened which changed my mind. The night I had one of the most triggering dreams I have ever had coincided with an invitation to Cara’s party. I know what you’re thinking. Why would I have even considered going, given everything I had already done to avoid her? Here’s why: she was holding it at her house. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to learn more about her, and I told myself it was so I could ease my mind. It wasn’t even really a party, more a small get-together. Cara had invited a really random group of nine people, but even though those nine didn’t necessarily like each other, they all liked Cara, and immediately RSVP’d. I was still hesitant, but after the nauseating dream I had, I decided to go.
I arrived at her house a little late, and stood on the ornate porch nervously, waiting for her to open the door. When she arrived at last, I couldn’t help feeling a little relieved, feeling as if I would be getting some answers today. She smiled widely at me for a moment, her grin looking slightly too large, her teeth slightly too sharp, before ushering me in cheerfully, “Come in, come in, you’re the last one here.”
I followed her into a room too fancy to just be a living room, it was probably a parlour room or some such. Everyone else was just lounging around, most of them seemed to have a drink in hand, but the air was somewhat awkward. Which was to be expected, considering that none of these people had probably hung out with each other before. The few I knew by name were radically different from each other. Bryan, the class clown, who was confined to a wheel chair because of a car accident a year ago, Rebecca; in a world full of Pokémon, you would be hard-pressed to find a bigger fan than her, Kelsey; our school’s Taylor Swift wannabe.
Cara clapped her hands, and I swear the mood lifted immediately, “Let’s play a game!” she announced. Everyone seemed eager to do what she said, which was extremely weird because I didn’t think anyone came here to play some random game. I was also a bit disappointed, as I had thought she was going to play some music, and get everyone drunk, which would have given me the opportunity to explore. Keeping those thoughts to myself, I asked “What game?”
“Wink murder” she replied.
Everyone looked uneasily at each other at this point, but seemed to shrug off whatever notions they had. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember how to play, so I asked.
“Basically, I will pass out pieces of paper to everyone. Most of them will say ‘Civilian’, but one will say ‘Murderer’, and one ‘Detective’. The game is very simple. The murderer has to wink at people, and once they have, that person is dead. The detective has to try and find out who the murderer is before say, six people are dead. When you’re dead, just fall over. But I suggest you wait a little before dying as that will make the game more interesting.”
No one had any questions, so she set about passing the papers to everyone. Surreptitiously, I looked down at mine, it had ‘Detective’ written on it in a flourishing font. I stuffed it into my pocket, and joined the circle being formed on the floor. I noticed that after glancing at their paper, many of the others looked a little uneasy, even nauseous, but remained quiet. Everyone began looking at each other suspiciously, gazes flicking from one face to another as quickly as lightning. The mood had darkened, and I couldn’t figure out why. Up above us, the light from the chandelier flickered, and in a moment, a red-headed girl from my Calculus class slumped to the floor. My eyes immediately went to Cara, and she caught my gaze and a small smirk hovered on her lips before she turned away. Bryan went down next, and in my gut I knew it was Cara, but I hadn’t caught her in the act yet, so I didn’t want to waste my guess. Rebecca, a pair of blond twins who played in a grunge band and a cheerleader went down in quick succession, before I noticed something was off. Everyone who had “died” seemed to take their job of being dead seriously. Too seriously, that I couldn’t see their chests rise and fall.
Nervously, I looked to Cara, to find her looking right back at me. There was a series of thumps, as the remaining players fell. “What did you do to them?” I said tremblingly, waiting for whatever had happened to them to happen to me too. “Did you drug them?” She threw her head back and laughed, “No, no, it’s much easier than that.”
Scared, I got up and moved towards the door, “I don’t know what you’re playing at, if this is a prank, or why you drugged these people, but I’m sure as hell not going to let you get away with it.”
She laughed scornfully “I didn’t drug them. You had the same drink they did, and you’re alright. You know they’re dead, deep down, you know it. And they deserved it. Each and every one of them.”
Even though every instinct was telling me to run, I stayed put. “You killed them, you killed them, they’re people with lives and loves and hearts and souls and who are you to decide, who are you to judge?” my voice rose hysterically at the end . She looked at me dead – on then, her eyes glowing bright silver in the dim light, “Who am I to judge? Who are you to judge? Tell me, what did you dream about last night, hmmm? Maybe it was more like reliving a nightmare.”
At that moment, my legs locked, I couldn’t move, whether out of fear, or a motivation to get answers, to see everything through, I can’t say. “Who are you? How do you know anything about that? ” She continued on as if I had never even asked a question. “Two years ago, that senior who smokes pot behind the woodshed? Yeah, that guy violated you in every way possible, scarring your heart and your body and your soul. And you kept all that pain and bitterness inside you, and one day, when you saw him fishing by the creek while you were out walking your dog, you pushed him. Didn’t you? No one suspected a thing, he was permanently high anyway. It was completely plausible that he fell into the river. An accident. And yesterday night you relived it all over again.”
I had started crying angrily by then, “It was a mistake it was a mistake it was a mistake” I chanted. “He didn’t deserve to die, I should have stood up for myself and told someone what had happened.” My anger – at her and at myself – began to override my fear of what she would do to me. “No one should be the judge of that, no one gets to play God.”
I pointed at the bodies behind me and yelled “Fix it! Fix whatever you did.”
The glow of her eyes began to dim and she looked at me sadly “I can’t.”
Then the power went off, and we were plunged into a pitch black night. Everything was quiet and still, and I remained frozen in place, unsure if I should run out or stay. Before I could decide, I felt something brush past me softly, almost like a silk cloth over my skin, and I could have sworn I heard the softest of whispers say “Maybe this time I was wrong” before the lights came back on.
The room was empty. Cara was not there, and neither were the bodies. My mind went numb with shock. The only sign that I possibly had not dreamt up the entire episode were the scraps of paper littering the floor, I hurriedly picked them up, just to reassure myself, before running back home. I don’t know how I slept, considering I would probably have to explain 10 missing people then next day, all while questioning my sanity. But I think I was in such a state of shock, that I just collapsed.
The next morning, I was pale and quiet as I went about my morning routine. I dreaded going to school. But when I went, it was as if nothing had happened. I caught up to Bryan’s best friend, and asked him about Bryan. He looked at me strangely, and asked “Who are you talking about?” After asking around a bit more, I realized that no one had any memory of Cara or any of the others. They were simply gone. As if they never existed. After learning that, I knew I couldn’t make it through the whole day, and ended up going home sick. I took a week off from school, faking sick the entire time. I slept a lot, just trying to forget everything that had happened. Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to let me go. When I pulled on my hoodie, a bunch of scraps fell out – the ones designating everyone’s role in the deadliest game of Wink Murder ever played. I was going to through them out, but hesitated since I noticed that they seemed to have a lot more written on them than just ‘Civilian’. I picked one up.
Bryan: Civilian. Remember when you got into that accident that left you wheelchair bound? You were drunk that night. You hit someone. A woman, a single mother, raising two children on your own. You had just ruined her life, but you couldn’t bear the thought of ruining your own. Despite the fact that you could barely move, you managed to move her body into a drain, where she is yet to be discovered. I know what you did.
My hands started to shake as I picked up another.
Kelsey: Civilian. Every time you enter a song writing or singing competition, you’re very careful when you learn about your competitors. And you sabotage their chances every time. One girl even got permanent throat damage when you replaced her warm tea with boiling water. I know what you did.
The worst thing about reading about all the terrible things my schoolmates did was that it made me question. It made me question if Cara – whatever creature she was – was right. If sometimes people needed to die because they were so cruel and manipulative. If there should be someone to objectively judge, and intervene. I didn’t want to think that way, but I found myself questioning my previous beliefs often. Whoever Cara was, and I wondered often – an avenging angel or a deadly demon – I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t understand the full picture. I had killed someone, which was as awful as anyone else who came to the party, but she hasn’t killed me. Granted, my motivations may have been somewhat different, but it still didn’t explain what she wanted with me. And why she let me go, that too with my memories intact.
I spent many days just honestly believing I was crazy. Which brings me to today. I discovered my own paper, which I had stuffed into my jeans on that fateful night. I pulled it out, and flipped it around. There was a number scrawled on it.
I think…I think that whatever it is Cara does – she wanted to recruit me to do it as well. That’s why she came to town in the first place. But I’m tearing the paper up as we speak. It’s the correct thing to do, right? I might never know the truth, but at least I can live with myself. And that's the best I can do.
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