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thedeathdeelers · 3 years

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Okay just because I fucking love your writing unmm something about Julie maybe reflecting on how Luke was brought to her, by the universe or her mom etc, and just fucking soulmate fluff. I loved your religion drabble btw!!

thank you so much!!!🥰

sorry for the delay :$ but i hope you like it!! (ps it turned out to be way longer than i anticipated, so, ya)

pps: you can now find this on my AO3 🤗

——

i think i dreamed you into life

It was a Julie & Luke writing session, just like any other. They were sat, hunched over their shared journal on the faded black couch, too absorbed by the words and notes scribbled on the pages in front of them to pay any attention to anything else.

Julie had just had an epiphany, finally finding the right words to lead them into the chorus following the first verse. With a stiff neck and a cramping hand, Julie stretched her arms over her head, sitting up for a second before collapsing back onto the back cushions of the couch. She heaved a large sigh, looking around and only just registering the low setting sun. They had somehow managed to lose track of time, again, spending well over what she assumed was 4 hours working on this one song. She shook her head, a small smile on her lips as she looked back at her writing partner, still fully focused on the journal in his lap.

They were so alike sometimes, it scared her a little. How could they be so perfect for each other when they were never meant to meet? Cross paths? She often found herself wondering about the way they were brought together, the reasons they were in each others’ lives. But then as soon as her mind wandered towards the mysteries of the universe and its guiding powers, she always ended up spiraling - no matter how she looked at it, Luke and her were somehow meant to be. Fated. Star crossed....whatever.

Her train of thought would always start off innocently enough - she was part of a ghost band. She could see ghosts (well three particular ghosts, at least) - the only lifer who could without Caleb’s help (as far as Willie could tell). She had never really been one to believe in the supernatural, but she was now so intrinsically involved, that she frequently wondered whether everything about her life wasn’t just a dream. Maybe after years & years of practice, she had managed to hone in her daydreaming skills to a point that allowed her to create a world that sounded a little too much like she was the protagonist in a movie or a show. This couldn’t actually be real life, could it? Her life?

The couch shifted, Luke reaching over to grab his guitar, testing out a line before placing his guitar back on the ground, and crossing out a whole section. No, she doesn’t think her mind could have ever managed to dream up Luke.

Don’t get her wrong, there were definitely moments where Julie felt just as normal as she used to. She’d forget that the boys were anything other than her lovable, goofy bandmates. Normal teenage boys, messing around and playing music in her mom’s studio. But then she would look up and see bright hazel eyes staring back at her, and she‘d unexpectedly be hit again by the storm of emotions that washed over her the first time she had accidentally walked through Luke. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. She had felt cold, then warm, and then this peculiar feeling of being....whole. Like she had just come home after a long tiring trip. She couldn’t describe it properly even if she tried, but the only thing that came close to summing it up was home.

Julie closed her eyes, trying to recreate the feeling, bringing it back up to the surface.

Her logical side knew soulmates was just a term used to romanticise romance, she knows that, but whenever she remembers that feeling, just like she is now, she wonders whether she had somehow felt his soul in that kitchen - sneaked a peek before latching onto it. These thoughts made it harder to hold onto logic.

Ugh, she was spiralling again. Julie lifted her hands to her face, rubbing furiously at her eyes, trying to dislodge some of the thoughts clouding her mind. She could feel a headache coming on, and that was the last thing she needed right now. She rolled her head back, resting against the old cushions, and looked at the floating chairs on the ceiling.

Her mother. Didn’t her mother always tell her that there was more to the world than meets the eye? That it wasn’t always wise to think only with one’s mind, but to trust your gut, your heart?

It used to be comments like those that led Julie to believe that her mother was more than just her mother. Could Rose have been an angel in disguise all along? Fate, Love, personified? Julie would be lying to herself if she said she had never thought about her mother being the key instigator behind the boys’ presence in her life. She just somehow knew that Rose had handpicked these boys, and sent them to her. Sent Luke to her. She had known that Julie would need divine intervention to pull herself out of her slump, and who better to do that than the one person, the one soul in the universe that perfectly aligned with hers?

Julie rolled her head to the side once more, staring at Luke’s profile, his brows drawn, deep in thought. If he hadn’t died all those years ago, if he hadn’t eaten that unfortunate hotdog, this never would have been possible - they never would have met. Julie shuddered at the thought, her heart and soul aching in protest.

A connection of heart, mind and soul, her mother had told her. “They really do exist, mija” she‘d say, but Julie would only smile and nod, never truly believing that soulmates were real, that they were part of the universe’s grand design. But now-

Oh. Soulmates.

“Did you say something?”

Startled, Julie blinked herself out of her daze, realising too late that she was thinking out loud.

“N- no, no, nothing. Just uh- just thinking of the next verse, you know,” she chuckled awkwardly, avoiding Luke as she tried not to fidget. “Always working!” She pointed to her temple, immediately regretting the movement, cringing at her awful attempt at a cover up.

She could feel Luke’s unwavering gaze, focused on her as he sat up, pushing the journal onto the seat next to him. He shifted, turning towards her, even as she continued to face forward. Her cheeks were definitely getting warmer. Not good.

“Did you-” she saw him tilt his head to the side from the corner of her eye, “did you just say Soulmates?”

A lie was on the tip of her tongue, ready to burst, but as she reflexively slid her eyes to meet his, the words died out before they could be vocalised.

He was looking at her with a peculiar look in his eyes, a slightly awed expression etched on his face.

“I- I was just thinking...” She stuttered, unable to take her eyes off of Luke’s, even as her fingers fiddled with the loose threads of her jumper.

“About?”

“You know,” she lifted her hands, gesturing at the space around them, trying to be as vague as possible. “Life.”

Eyebrows shot up, disappearing under his orange beanie.

“Life? Really?”

“Yes. Life. Just..you know, how things change. Like the way you grow up thinking one thing but then something happens and it completely changes the way you see the world around you, the way your beliefs...shift.” She shrugged, trying and failing to seem nonchalant.

“Hm, deep thoughts for a Saturday afternoon.” He studied her for a second, before cocking his head to the side. “Any reason this led to the conclusion of Soulmates?”

Julie shifted uncomfortably, trying hard not to look away even as she felt her cheeks somehow growing even warmer.

“I...I was just thinking about my mom. And things she used to talk about and believe in with a certainty that always...confused me I guess. How could she believe in something so easily, when she couldn’t even see it? Feel it?” Julie diverted her gaze, choosing to look at her mom’s piano instead. Her voice took on a quieter tone, almost reflective as she continued with her new train of thought. “What if she wanted me to believe again? What if she had somehow found a way to not only get music back into my life, but to believe in love and fate and-“ Julie stopped short, her eyes darting back to Luke - his face was now frozen, showing her nothing of what he might be feeling.

Julie suddenly felt very silly.

“Never mind,” she laughed awkwardly, trying to play it off as just silly musings. “My mind was just wandering, but now I’m back and maybe we should just get back to that second verse...” Her voice trailed off, Luke’s face still giving nothing away.

Crap. She just made it weird - this is what she gets for letting her mind go down the rabbit hole that is the universe and its misguided mysteries. Way to go, Julie.

Just as she was about to jump up and flee to her bedroom, hoping that maybe her floor would do her the courtesy of swallowing her up, Julie felt the couch dip further down to her right, Luke’s knee pressing up against her thigh. Resisting the urge to look at him, her eyes flickered to her fingers, to their journal and then back to her mom’s piano.

“You know,” Luke spoke up, voice soft, almost a whisper, “I never gave fate much thought back when I was alive. I always figured a person forged their own fate by believing hard enough in what they wanted and then working even harder to get there.” He reached over, grabbing hold of her right hand, ceasing the fidgeting motions of her fingers. “Even when it came to my soul, I only ever considered it when thinking about music and the power it had over me and my life. If music was so important, wouldn’t it mean my soul was constantly connected to it? My instrument, an intrinsic part of who I am?”

He went quiet for a few seconds, prompting Julie to turn her head back towards him, as his calloused thumb started rubbing gently against her knuckles. His gaze, which had been glued to her face the entire time, was now locked on their hands.

“So I always figured I was “fated”, I guess you could say, to follow that connection I had with music, and just see where that took me.” His fingers were now tracing little circles on the back of her hand. “But then we died, and became ghosts, and it changed the way I think about things, but at the same, my core beliefs remained the same. I’m still not sure about fate, and the role it plays in how things are dictated in my life, but I know that music is still such a major part of me. Because, I mean, if that wasn’t the case, how could you have possibly pulled me back from the dead and down to earth by playing our song? How could you, a lifer 25 years after I died, have been the one to pull me back, and make me feel alive again?” He shook his head before he continued. “And every time I ask myself these questions I just come back to the same conclusion,” he stops for a second, lifting his eyes back up to hers. “You embody music to me. You, Julie, have always been what my soul was connected to - not my guitar, not just music in general - but you, my own personal musical goddess.” His lips tilted up at the corners at his last words, his eyes boring into hers.

“So yeah, I know what you mean about not necessarily wanting to believe in something unless you can see it or feel it. But at this stage, how could I not believe in soulmates when you’re right here, somehow a part of my life, 25 years after I’ve died?” He shook his head again, his smile getting a little sad. “We technically never should have met, would have never crossed paths, but fate....fate had other plans for us I guess. Our souls just couldn’t bare being separated, and the universe just....found a way to rectify that.”

Julie could do nothing but stare at the beautiful boy in front of her, her mind trying to process the prose he just recited to her. Almost as if by reflex, Julie slowly lifted her hands up, cupping his face and held onto him like he was the most precious thing in the entire world - because he was.

Luke mirrored her actions, his eyes soft, as his fingers traced her cheeks, wiping away tears she didn’t even know were there.

And just as she was about to let loose the words that had been rattling around in her mind ever since he had stumbled into her life, Luke beat her to it.

“I think we might be soulmates, Jules.”

FIN

#ask #jatp #juke #julie and the phantoms #jatp fics #my fics #ask fics #luke patterson #julie molina #luke x julie #julie x luke #thedeathdeelers fics

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mytastessuck · 3 years

Text

Gorillaz: Plastic Beach

mAh, nostalgia. This album was my high school years. I got a digital copy for my birthday from my mom and became obsessed with this album well into college. The dominance of electronica, the use of people with great voices, the expansion of the lore, Lou Reed...this album was all of music when I got it. It's my favorite Gorillaz album and it looks like it's gonna stay that way for a while. But how is it on a not even approaching semi-objective level? Let's find out.

1. Orchestral Intro

You can probably guess it by my awful taste but I'm not really into orchestra. This opening though, with the sound of waves and the mourning instruments, really tipped me off that I was in for something different. This album wasn't going to start off with something chill or even a zombie movie clip. No, at this point, Gorillaz were officially done fucking around.

10/10

2. Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach

Then we get the brass leading us into a good beat and then HOLY SHIT, SNOOP DOGG?! He leads us in like a bandleader while a chorus of women back him up Just Like That while he goes with his usual flow. He adds the needed touch of instant cool to an album that's practically frozen with the artists already on it and with this song, it feels like you're walking past the gate into Disneyland.

9/10

3. White Flag

Some nice Arabian sounding instruments on this one. Pretty cool for Gorillaz to keep engaging in world music. Anyway, this was a really cool instrumental but it's time to move on to the other son---

Huh?

Suddenly, we get beeps and mixes backing up Bashy and Kano as they kick so much ass talking about pacifism for the sake of survival. This song kicks an undisputed amount of ass and it barely even tries.

9/10

4. Rhinestone Eyes

What I like about this song is that I keep finding new things to like about it as the years go back. First, I liked the weirdly-threatening nature of the song along with the woman moaning in time with the verses. Then I liked the video (even though it was insanely shady of EMI to release that without Damon's and Jamie's permission and it ended up being the thing that led to Phase 3's premature ending and Gorillaz going on hiatus). Then I liked the continuation of the moaning that I first noticed in live performances then finally heard in the song itself. This song is like Rolexes falling from the sky.

10/10

5. Stylo

Ah, the first single from the album. I remember telling my dad about this when I first saw the video for it. I was about to write off Gorillaz as a relic of my past before I saw Murdoc and 2D get run off the road by Bruce Willis. This song has an awesome bridge by Yasiin Bey, nice crooning by Damon Albarn and incredible back-up by Bobby Womack, who manages to lift the entire song over his head using just his voice. Damn, wish he had another song that put his voice on full display. Maybe later in the album...

10/10

6. Superfast Jellyfish

Yeah, De La Soul is back! And they're singing about TV dinners! Seriously, these guys can make guessing crossword actually fun instead of a dredging experience and have Shiny Toy Guns frontman Chad Petree singing about radioactive seas brings the whole thing home. It makes you want to really go out and eat a random jellyfish but don't do that. It'll hurt.

11/10

7. Empire Ants

Okay, before I give this song its totally fair score, it should be noted this is my third favorite song of all time. I love Damon's reassuring lyrics in the beginning but the switch in the middle to a more upbeat electronic pop tune pushes this song past perfect.

Then there's Little Dragon...

This song introduced to me to Yukimi Nagano's voice and wow...I didn't think humans could sound like that, let alone an Asian woman singing soul. If you think the instruments are carrying her here, obviously there are clearly no other songs on the album that showcase her talents so I have to recommend After The Rain, Twice and Constant Surprises by Little Dragon. Seriously, this woman's voice will water your fucking crops.

500/10

8. Glitter Freeze

Where is north from here? Don't ask me, I'm not a compass. Anyway, this song has Mark E. Smith from The Fall and they use him to his fullest extent...by which I mean letting him make an absolutely evil fucking laugh somewhere near the end. The instrumentation makes it feel like you're in a storm on a shaky ship and you're definitely going to feel like you need some pills after you're finished. This stuff will put hair on your chest.

11/10

9. Some Kind of Nature

This song introduced me to Lou Reed and I'm grateful to it for that. Lou was a shitty dude but damn his voice really made things better than they should have been. Fuck, I was one of the eight defenders of Lulu for this reason. But Damon doesn't sit with his thumbs up his ass on this song. He holds his own and makes the chorus sound legitimately dreamlike. All we are is stars, indeed.

100/10

10. On Melancholy Hill

This song is awesome to chill to...unless you're escaping a cruise ship while being gunned down by fighter jets. But other than that particular example, I recommend this song for anyone trying to relax while thinking of someone special. But be careful with the last note of this song. That gong can be a real eye opener.

9/10

11. Broken

Bummer of a song but if there's one song you absolutely NEED to learn on melodica, it's this one. Aren't we all broken? Well I am. And this song speaks to me.

10/10

12. Sweepstakes

Yasiin's back and there's gonna be trouble. He plays a carny in this track and you know that no matter how many times you listen to this song, you'll always gonna fall for his schemes. He's gone on to say that this is one of his finest achievements as a MC and I can see why.

10/10

13. Plastic Beach

Holy shit, they got the 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover guy on this track. Makes since because this, outside of Empire Ants, is my favorite song on the album. The harmony, the little imp they got for the bridge, the triangle...everything makes this song better than it has any right to be on an already awesome album. Damn, plastico indeed.

200/10

14. To Binge

Shock of all shocks, Yukimi's back! And it's a duet with Damon! And it's a song about a relationship torn apart by addiction! It's not my birthday so it must be Christmas. These two manage to drown the listen in waves of audio goodness that leaves them feeling like they spent 3 minutes and 56 seconds standing under a waterfall.

20/10

15. Cloud of Unknowing

Okay, I cried to this song. And now, with Bobby Womack's passing, I cry even harder. This song should be an anime ending with how solemn it is but you need to listen to the end to hear, "It may bring sunshine on its wings." Also, Damon covered this song live after Womack's passing. I suggest you look it up because it is tear-ripping.

50/10

16. Pirate Jet

Eh. Pretty average song compared to the others on the album but I appreciate the message. Sweet Lord, people. Turn off your shit when you're not using it. We only got one planet and I don't trust Elon Musk.

8/10

Album Score: 60.1/10

Whoo! No biases! Anyway, next week is The Fall, otherwise known as the album Albarn did on his Ipad. Otherotherwise known as the album a significant portion of the fandom has a hate-on for. Does it deserve the hate? We'll find out!

#gorillaz #plastic beach #music #review

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wistfulchicken · 3 years

Text

PART ONE : THE HUG

Word Count: 1k | Rating: G | Warnings: panic attacks

Summary: The streets are empty. Whirling snowflakes dance in the wind. Shams stares up at the factory, its mighty metal frame claiming the sky. Like the beasts of old legends, it seems to watch over the city beneath it.

In the silence of this winter afternoon, Shams makes a life-changing encounter.

Story and art are under the cut.

⭒✦⭒✧⭒✦⭒✧⭒✦⭒✧⭒✦⭒✧

The streets are empty. Whirling snowflakes dance in the wind, and strange whizzing sounds fill the silence of this winter afternoon. Shams stares up at the factory, its mighty metal frame claiming the sky. Like the beasts of old legends, it seems to watch over the city beneath it. Smoke rises from its chimneys. A fire-breathing dragon, at rest.

But the world teeters and spins around Shams, and not even the smell of melting chocolate can comfort him. He holds out a trembling arm and tries to steady himself by pressing his palm to the wall. He can already feel the panic rising. His feet are cold, frozen almost, and home is so very far away. Thick clouds gather over the horizon and seem to block out the sun, and in the sudden gloom Shams feels like the shadows might swallow him whole.

He knows what this is, of course. It’s happened before—one too many times—but it doesn’t get any easier. He feels himself falter, feels the cold stone against his back as he presses his body to the wall, desperate for something solid; something real. The storm is raging inside his head. He closes his eyes. It doesn’t help, but everything’s spinning too fast, and he’s panting, breathless, lost, terrified…

“Are you alright?”

The question comes from a tiny voice a little to the left. Shams opens his eyes. Two figures stand a few feet away from him on the sidewalk, silhouetted against the white of the snow. Shams doesn’t have the strength to observe much, and his mind is making so much noise it’s difficult to concentrate, but he can tell one of the figures—the one who spoke—is smaller than the other. A child.

“Are you alright?” the boy asks again.

Shams stares back wordlessly, trying to come up with an appropriate answer. The boy shakes his head and says, “Do you need help?”

At this, Shams nods frantically. Yes, yes he really needs help.

The child looks up at the other figure; a man. That’s when Shams notices the long burgundy coat, the striped walking stick, the black top hat. A name flits through his mind, but he’s too troubled to care right now. He watches as the man nods, his top hat bobbing up and down.

The boy smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry,” he tells Shams. “You’ll be fine. Come inside.”

There’s a confused sort of silence as all three of them stare at each other, then the boy tugs on the top hat-wearing man’s coat, and the man jumps. “Right, yeah,” he says, shaking his head and turning towards the road. He starts walking away, gesturing for Shams to follow. “We’ll just use the great glass elev—”

The rest of his sentence is muffled as he slams into… thin air? Shams squints, and in his confusion he thinks he might have imagined it, if it weren’t for the fact that the top hat got knocked right off the man’s head and that he is now leaning down to pick it up. “I have to be more careful where I park this thing,” he mumbles, looking a little annoyed.

A loud ding! is heard, and that’s when Shams finally sees it: a big transparent glass box, waiting there on the edge of the road. A door swooshes open. The man and the boy walk in, then look back at Shams expectantly.

“It’s perfectly safe,” the boy smiles again, and there’s something comforting about the way he says it, like he’s been afraid—truly afraid—before, and knows what it’s like to crave safety. It makes Shams trust him, almost instantly. He carefully steps into the big glass box and leans against the nearest wall. A series of loud dings! echoes through the box and the door closes so suddenly it startles all three passengers.

“You’re pressing all the buttons!” exclaims the man, gently but firmly pulling Shams away from the wall.

“Sorry,” Shams pants, looking up to see rows and rows of buttons covering every wall and even the ceiling of the box.

The boy hurriedly presses a few buttons and the thing whirrs and buzzes and jerks to life. Before Shams knows what’s happening they’re lifted off the ground and the box is flying through the air like a rogue elevator. The experience would’ve been magical, but the world is still spinning and everything feels too tight, too tense, too much, and Shams is shaking uncontrollably…

“What’s wrong?” the little boy asks with a frown of concern.

Shams swallows heavily. “Panic attack,” he manages. “Happens to me a lot… I have… panic disorder…”

The man looks slightly uncomfortable. The boy doesn’t seem to understand, but he places a comforting hand on Shams’s elbow. “What would make you feel better?”

The answer, embarrassing as it is, rushes past Shams’ lips before he has the presence of mind to stop it. “A hug.”

The man and the boy exchange a look. For a moment it looks like the kid is about to take a step forward, but then the man darts past him and wraps both his arms around Shams in what has to be the world’s most awkward hug.

It takes Shams completely by surprise, and at first he tenses up. Then, too tired to fight it any longer, he closes his eyes and melts into the embrace—awkward as it is. He presses his cheek to the man’s shoulder, breathing in the rich scent of chocolate and cologne. Wonka. That’s the name. Willy Wonka. Owner of the largest chocolate factory in the world. The fire-breathing dragon itself. Clumsily, Shams brings his hands up, letting them hover over the chocolatier’s back self-consciously. He doesn’t quite dare hug the man back, but the feeling of those gloved palms against his shoulder blades is exactly what he needs. Cocooned in this famous stranger’s arms, Shams takes a deep, steadying breath. He can practically feel the panic leaving his body. This improbable kindness makes him feel safe, sheltered from the internal storm. Impossibly soft hair tickles the top of his ear, grazing his cheek as Wonka moves away.

“Oh good,” the chocolatier says excitedly. “Here we are!”

Shams opens his eyes. The elevator is now inside what can only be the factory. It hangs in the air, in the middle of a dark tunnel, right in front of an odd looking red door. Something rumbles in the distance. Wonka steps out of the elevator and unlocks the door.

“Welcome to the factory,” he says, flashing an enigmatic smile.

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#my writing #willy wonka #charlie bucket #original character #shams and the chocolate factory

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whatshockey · 5 years

Text

lua - w.n.

in which two people find that their worlds aren’t as simple in the morning as they’d left them the night before

song used *loosely* for inspiration: “lua” by bright eyes

warnings: mentions of alcohol, cursing, light smut? is that a thing? pretty angsty, but that’s nothing new.

word count: 2.5k+

a/n: none of my writing has to do with any players’ actual personal lives, so if william’s still with penny (or anyone), this is all completely unrelated! nothing but love and respect here, folks. this is a very ~fake~ concept. [EDIT: fun fact! just found out that the girl in the photo is @madds-hay in case anyone wants to give a follow or ask her what willy’s like in person!]

Tempestuous honey laced in her sighs, with sweet amber dripping down and embracing them in the midst of the setting sun and tangled bedsheets. Her lips bit swollen, drunk off of his heavy exhales upon them, and she found herself swimming in the pale pools of blue and ice that bore into her own line of sight. His smirk drenched her in gasoline while his fingertips held the lighter, and it was no question that her skin was set ablaze. Yet nothing compared to the pain of knowing that this fire would soon be extinguished once again.

The first spark lit on a haunting October evening, a thunderstorm stumbling into their lives and banging on their windows, begging to sweep them away. The season had just begun, and she’d found herself wrapped in the arms of a large cable knit sweater she’d patiently waited to return to as the winds blew without rest. A nature documentary illuminated her apartment’s walls alongside the occasional flash of lightning to blind, and served as background noise as her eyes focused on her phone screen in front of her, mindlessly scrolling through viral videos and gossip threads with a now empty glass of Merlot resting on her coffee table.

A harsh knock at her door broke her from her daze, causing her to scramble to her tiptoes and look through the peephole of her front door. What she saw, however, had sent her stumbling back, clambering to unlock her door to the sight of a man clad in an expensive suit, running his hands through his silky hair and resting a frown across his face.

“She’s been sleeping with someone else this whole time.” He stormed in, throwing himself onto her sectional and resting his head in his hands, bouquet of flowers now a mess on her living room floor, no doubt for the woman he’d been referring to.

It was overwhelming. The two could barely count as friends, meeting by chance at private events here and there. They’d come from two very different worlds, with hers found mostly out of the limelight and his not quite the same.

“And he’s a fucking accountant, probably has the personality of a thumb.”

She hadn’t moved from her spot by her door, still shocked and now closing it quietly, padding her way into her kitchen and leaving him to rub feverish circles at his eyes, but only after punching the throw pillow placed next to him.

The situation was ironic - the two had met in similar situations, with her shedding a few tears of an ex lover and him offering the most comfort that a stranger, or perhaps acquaintances at best, could provide. The party was left roaring behind them, shut away by a sliding door as she perched herself on the balcony of the apartment, wondering why she even attended in the first place. She attempted to distract herself with the skyline surrounding her, but after feeling an unfamiliar presence by her, all that she could focus on were the ocean eyes shining under the city lights, sending her a friendly smile and sheepishly shoving a beer in her direction.

“You look like you could use one.”

The same boy was having a mental breakdown of his own now, except this time it was in her own apartment that did not have the luxury of an attractive view or breeze to cool a hot head down. There was one thing that, however as toxic as it may be, always seemed to numb their pain.

“I can’t believe she did it,” he laughed, and for the first time, she noticed it felt soulless. “More than once too.”

Hearing her return, and she doubted he noticed she was away to begin with, he looked up from his palms, eyebrows furrowed at what she was doing. Wordlessly, she poured him a glass, sat down next to him and crossed her legs, and urged him to go on. And he did.

Eventually their talks had become routine, occurring weekly and topics ranged from everything and anything in between. Yet as alcohol continued to replace their blood and lust covered their conscience, he began punctuating his sentences with his lips on her own. And neither could find it in themselves to stop.

Since then, her mind was constantly clouded with images of his lips grazing her thighs and mouthing promises meant to last solely for the night. However, it had soon become clear that roulette wasn’t a game for the faint at heart. That there was no time to prepare, nor dwell on a past move as another is made. Still she balanced on a tightrope, with her heart in one hand and regret in another, playing into the tiring game of charades and deceit as he continued to pull her strings tight, mercilessly suffocating her. And she never asked him to stop, even when she knew he was going to.

How pitiful it was that she missed things that were never hers to begin with.

She cursed herself for not stopping it all to begin with. Had the two just relied on each other for a sense of escape, and it was her fault that she fell harder than intended? That as he crept out her bed at dawn and dressed for practice, she relished in the warmth that remained after he’d left. Only once her bones had ached and her sheets grew cold could she find the strength to stretch her feet to the hardwood floors beneath her bed, the same she wished to stay in with him.

It had been about a month since they’d started this, well, whatever it was. They’d been laying in bed, his smooth skin blanketing hers, and his palms resting on the swell of her hips. Her phone was connected to the speakers, drowning out the noise of his heartbeat matching her own, and a familiar melody strummed out and echoed across the room. One that she’d attached with many fond memories, but with another man she’d once been equally as fond of.

When she attempted to bring it all up, about how it happened and whether he was genuinely okay, he’d respond with a shrug and a “it gave me an excuse to break up with her, I guess”, sitting up on his elbows and bringing a gentle finger to her face. Once he pushed hair out of her eyes and behind her ear, and she knew that would be the end of the conversation.

She hadn’t known how much time had passed, yet the conversation continued to replay in her mind, although her stomach twisted due to another unwelcome guest. She’d indulged in the only other constant in her life, licking her lips as the poison cascaded down her throat, and her phone rang a familiar tune.

She heard her own voice stammer as he answered her phone, knowing what he’d be calling for at this hour anyways. But her fingers instinctively answered the call, and she could already feel her body crave for his touch.

“Come over?”

She shifted her weight on her feet, biting the inside of her cheek

“I’m busy tonight,” and she knew that he was aware that wasn’t a true statement, as every other week she’d spend her evenings curled in bed binge-watching the latest docu-series she came across.

“I can wait up,” he insisted.

“I seriously can’t.”

“Please.”

“I said I can’t,” She took a deep breath, rubbing her forehead as she grew more irritated. “I’m on my period, Will.”

“Oh,” he stuttered, couging to clear his throat. “I was actually thinking, um, we could just hang out tonight.”

She could feel her throat run dry as she struggled to form a response. The thought frightened her, and she reached down to her thigh to pinch herself and make sure she wasn’t, in fact, in a strange dream. They’d never just hung out. In fact, there was always a motive behind each of their times spent together, whether that be one comforting the other, or the two of them finding comfort in each other’s bodies.

Perhaps he could sense her hesitation, as he quickly told her that he had already bought snacks and is waiting on his sofa with too much food he could finish on his own, nor should he be allowed to eat it in the midst of the hockey season. And not too long afterwards was she tucked into his side, curling her legs onto his lap and accepting his offer to relieve the pressure that built up during this time of month, his knuckles kneading out her knots and strains.

She wondered what the look he gave her that night, when he’d asked if she was sleeping with anyone else and she immediately shook her head no, had meant. How his eyes flickered with an emotion she never saw before, and how his fingers twitched across her waist before he turned his attention back to the screen before them. She even wondered had he scowled or smiled, but he’d brought his drink up to his own lips before she could see.

It wasn’t long before she was in his apartment again. However, this time in a number he’d cheekily sent to her office with a red ribbon and note that read, “Wear nothing but this tonight.”

What she hadn’t expected was a silk dress to be sitting inside, its expensive material slipping through her hands as she grabbed at it, and silking easily off of her body later that night.

She rolled her eyes as her neck grew warm, and quickly texted to let him know that she received his gift, to which he responded with only one message: “See you at 7.”

He’d picked her up from her apartment, and drove both of them to some high-end restaurant overlooking Lake Ontario, and if he had told her the plans beforehand, she would’ve declined. While he seemed to be keeping his cool, her chest tightened as the realization hit that they were going somewhere outside of the privacy of their own apartments, and somewhere together.

He hadn’t said anything to her as she knelt to pick up her heels, moving to sit down and put them on. He had, however, watched her with an unreadable expression.

“How’d you know my size?” she asked, tilting her head to the size as he drank in her figure.

He smirked, taking her heels from her hands and kneeling before her to slip them on her feet.

“I’d say I know your body pretty well.”

His response had left her cheeks flaming, and his remarks throughout the night continued to. The thought alone that she followed his orders to truly wear nothing but the dress he had given her was enough to cause the temperature to rise. But right now, as she stood bare in between his legs with a shy smile and uneasiness spreading throughout her bones, her skin was left burning under his igniting gaze, and she melted under his fingertips.

The fire grew unmanageable, however, once he uttered three words into the crevice of her neck, outlining her collarbone with hunger, beginning to devour her with every little taste. His voice was low, yet vehement. But she knew she’d heard him loud and clear.

“I love you,” he groaned, and she had no response except to her clenched her thighs and force an even more breathy statement from him. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Oh my god.

She wanted to push him off and hit him over and over, to scream and tell him that he can’t, and that it was a mistake. He loved her body, how she made him feel. He loved the momentary satisfaction he received wrapped in her, the state of bliss they’d reach together. He loved how easy it was to find this in her, and not worry about what she’d make of it, because she just didn’t know what to make of it.

She’d left his apartment particularly early that morning, before he could even wake up for practice and kiss her forehead as they parted. She hadn’t responded to his texts asking where she was in the morning or if she was okay.

She should’ve known, however, that he’d be back banging on her door as the moon returned, rushing in to embrace her with heavy breaths as she opened the door. She didn’t know what he expected her to look like, maybe he even thought she was dead, because his grip on her was tight and his face was buried in her hair. She moved her hand to run her fingers through his hair before he began to speak.

“Babe,” he sighed, rubbing his palms up and down her spine, causing shivers to follow. “I’m so glad you’re okay, I was so worried.”

Her eyes shot open and she began untangling herself with him, taking a deep breath and turned to look at him directly as she calmly spoke.

“You need to leave.”

Her heart swelled at the confused look on his face, eyebrows furrowed and an anxious lick at his lips.

“What’s wrong?”

She stepped away from him, asking him again although it pained her to no end.

“Let me help you,” he reached towards her, but she jumped even further back.

“You don’t get it, do you?” she raised her voice, rubbing her temples “I don’t want to see you anymore. Now, please, get out.”

“Is this about what I said earlier?” he asked softly, taking a slow step towards her. “Because if it was too early, if you weren’t ready, I-”

“What?” she almost laughed at how big of a deal it was for her, how embarrassing this whole thing was for her. “You don’t just throw around words like that.”

He moved forward again, but she stepped even further back, tailbone coming in contact with her countertop. “I wasn’t throwing them around, I swear. I meant-”

“I’m scared, Willy.” Her voice wavered, and she couldn’t look at him any longer. “I just don’t want this to change anything between us. Things can’t change between us.”

“Why not?” he questioned, grasping her arms in his own and forcing her to look up at him, eyes pooling with more emotion she thought she had towards him. “What’s so wrong about that? What are you scared of?”

He moved to tuck her hair behind her ear like he did before, except this time he brought his hand to rest at the back of her neck and rest his head against hers.

“Please,” she begged, but her body already gave away, “Just go.”

“I’m right here,” he whispered, as if he’d known that she’d run from his grasp before he could stop her. “I promise.”

She wanted to tell him that she knew that wasn’t true, that their lives were too different and far more complex than he made it out to be. That something could change in mere hours from now, and he could edge his feet away, slip from under her nose and never return.

But as their lips molded together and their bodies pressed into one, her own fears were left shattered at their feet. Time was put on hold, and the chaos that surrounded them outside of their homes’ walls seemed so much more simple when they were together.

And sometimes, things don’t look so different in the light.

#toronto maple leafs #william nylander #nhl #hockey #william nylander imagine #team sweden #maple leafs #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #hockey smut #nhl smut #hockey imagines #nhl imagines #hockey fanfic #hockey fanfiction #nhl fanfic #nhl fanfiction

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stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale · 5 years

Text

pillows and thunderstorms

Summary: A horrible thunderstorm is a perfect opportunity for another date, but Clementine had expected candlelight, or maybe some soft music, but this... is neither of those things. She’s definitely not complaining, though.

I had a really bad day so here’s a short little clouis thing that I wrote on my lunch break to calm myself down.

Read on AO3

---

The inky sky lit in a quick flash, breaking the blanket of darkness thrown over the school and surrounding woods mere moments before a mutter of thunder vibrates through the earth. The wind carries with it heavy, cold droplets and torn leaves from the trees, all beating down over the roof and echoing through the halls.

They knew this storm would come. The tempestuous clouds daunting above them at dinner time, the sudden increase of the whistling wind, and that distinct scent of cool, metallic earth were more than enough signs to get them moving; closing the windows, moving the tables under shelter, covering the woodpile, securing the gates.

This storm, so booming and chaotic, left a damper on the morale among the group that evening, each dispersing throughout the school.

Clementine, staring out the front windows at the thick, gray curtain of rain with a somber frown, breathes out a low, heavy sigh. Her breath fogs over the glass where she absently draws a little smiley face.

Thunderstorm or not, the day itself hadn’t been great.

In fact, she’d dare say it’d been shitty.

Real shitty.

“Hey.”

Louis’ warm hands grip her upper arms as he leans to peer over her shoulder. She presses back into him, letting out another sigh at the comfort his presence always provided.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

Clementine can feel his stare but keeps her eyes peered forward, forcing interest in the patterns and crossed paths of the droplets slipping over the glass.

“Yeah.”

Louis reaches over and adds a tongue to the smiley face she previously traced, saying, “AJ’s having a sleepover with Tenn and Willy tonight.”

She turns to glance up at him, brows raised.

Ever since they first came to Ericson’s, she and AJ always slept in the same room no matter what, especially in the beginning and right after they took down the delta. Some nights he’d go out on patrol, but AJ still came back to flop down on his bed to sleep.

The thought of him wanting to sleep somewhere else never occurred to her.

“Really?”

“Yeah, he, uh-” Louis frowns, “-Tenn doesn’t do too good with storms that’re bad like this. AJ thought he and Willy could help distract him from it, y’know?”

Clementine’s expression softens into a small grin.

Louis lets her go, moving to lean himself against the window pane with a mischievous grin adorning his full lips. She eyes him, brow perked curiously at the way he tugs on the flaps of his jacket and cocks his head at her.

“What?”

“Since the child’s out for the night, I planned a little surprise for you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep! Think of it like-” his smirk softens, becoming almost timid, “-a date, if you will.”

“A date, huh?” she smiles. “Haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“I think we’re due.”

She nods, reaching out to grab his hand, running her thumb over a scab on his knuckles, a small injury he acquired from hunting.

“A date does sound really nice.”

“I’ll see you up there, then?”

“Of course. I’ll be up in a minute.”

---

She had expected romantic candlelight, or perhaps ever a slow song from the gramophone to play for them to dance to.

But, this… is neither of those things.

Off-white sheets spread across from on bunk bed to the other, draping over the high stacks of pillows and covering more than half of the room. A soft glow repressed through the sheets reveals Louis’ silhouette within the extravagant pillow fort.

His fingers slip through the opening of the sheets as he peeks out at her with a grin.

“What have you done to our room?”

“Proving that we can, in fact, keep my entire collection in here.”

She laughs at that, approaching the pillow fort with crossed arms. “Is that right? Not very practical.”

“Maybe so, but you’ll change your mind once you’re inside.” He pushes the sheet open further, letting the yellow of the flashlight bleed out onto the wooden floors. “Won’t you join me?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“I have pretzels,” he offers in a tempting, sing-song voice, reaching behind to shake the wrinkly bag.

“Are they stale?”

“Oh, yeah. They taste like chunks of cardboard.”

Clementine smirks, shrugging off her jacket and taking off her hat, tossing them by the closet doors to join his coat.

“Just how I like ‘em.”

The pillows are soft and clean, and for a split second, she wonders where he found the time to bring all those pillowcases to the river to wash. They get comfortable, sitting close enough for their knees to touch with the flashlight pointing up between them.

A particularly hard roar of thunder vibrates through the earth, but instead of bringing any feeling of dread, it’s almost like a lull within the safety of the sheets and stacks of pillows.

“Pretty nice, huh?”

“Alright, I admit it,” Clementine reaches over to lace their fingers together, “this is cozy.”

“Cozy enough to keep it like this?”

“Let’s not get crazy.”

“Why not?” he asks. “It’s good to be a little crazy every once and a while! You can think of it as waking up every morning in your own little pillow castle.” Then, he nudges her, emphasizing, “Queen Clem.”

She rolls her eyes, giggling at the silly nickname. “Only if you’ll be my court jester, Belouga.”

Louis winks, saying, “Anything for the queen.”

They’re both laughing now as Clementine leans into him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. He shifts, the laughter slowing as he leans back, bringing her to lie down beside him. She allows herself to relax against the fluffy materials beneath them, sighing contently at the soothing thunderstorm still shaking the earth outside.

Louis pulls a blanket over them, careful to avoid knocking over the flashlight. The warmth envelops them.

They’re comfortably quiet, blinking up at the ceiling of the pillow fort and enjoying each other’s company. The exhaustion of the day hits her, and just as her eyes begin to droop, weariness beginning to take over.

“What a shitty day,” she murmurs with a sigh.

Louis’ hand squeezes hers, bringing them up to rest against his chest.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s not your fault.”

She doesn’t say anything, turning herself completely onto her side to snuggle closer into his shoulder.

“Violet’ll come around.”

She shakes her head. “So you say.”

“She will,” he insists. “Eventually.”

“I should’ve just stayed out of it.”

“You were worried about her. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Worried was a little of an understatement.

When Violet walked back through the gates with Aasim by her side and a bloodied arm, Clementine was the first one there with panic in her wide eyes.

Thankfully, it hadn’t been a bite. One of the traps malfunctioned and sliced Violet’s arm. When Clementine asked her if she was alright, all she got in return was a harsh glare. Then, when Clementine reached out- her first mistake- Violet took her good arm and shoved her to the ground.

“Get the fuck away from me!”

“Violet!”

Louis stepped in between them, turning a fuming Violet around and guiding her towards Ruby. Aasim helped her up as he explained what happened, but Clementine’s focus was solely on Violet as Ruby hurried her inside before Mitch came out to see what happened.

The fall hadn’t hurt nearly as much as the sting those harsh, furious words or the contempt still lingering in those eyes.

Damn near a year later, and still… Violet still looked at her like that.

“How’s her arm?” she asks.

“Ruby said it wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, so an easy fix. I’ll go check on her in the morning and-” he pauses, squeezing her hand again, ”I could try talking to her-”

“No,” she cuts him off. “Not after what happened last time.”

“That was different. More time has passed now. She might listen to me.”

“You can’t force her to be friends with me again, Lou.”

“...I know,” he sighs. “I just hate seeing you both like that. I... I know how much you miss her.”

She doesn’t respond.

The silence falls over them again, only interrupted with the frequent rumbling from outside. She tries to push those thoughts of Violet out of her mind, rather wanting to focus on the comfort of the boy beside her, on this fingers absently running along her back. She pulls the blanket up closer, allowing her eyes to drift shut. When it feels as though sleep might take her, Louis’ voice brings her back.

“Clementine?”

The use of her full name, the way it rolls off his tongue so smooth and natural, so soft, spreads a strange shot of warmth through her stomach.

Louis turns on his side, chin resting in his palm as he gazes down at her, chewing on his lip with hesitation in his eyes. Almost as if contemplating.

“I've decided something,” he finally says slowly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What have you decided?”

He tilts his head, studying her thoughtfully. His eyes fall to her lips.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

She blinks up at him, fully awake now, eyes widening at such a blunt statement. The pulse beating in her neck quickens with the fluttering of her belly and spreading heat through her face and down her neck.

She waits, expecting him to lean over, grip the back of her head and bring their lips together.

However, he does nothing.

She breathes out, “Well?”

“Oh, not right now,” he smiles. “But I will before our date’s over, so don’t fall asleep on me, yeah?”

She could smack him. She truly could. All she’d need to do is grab one of the many pillows surrounding them and give him a good wack for making her heart flutter like that.

When Louis begins to chuckle at her expression, her slightly agitated pout, Clementine moves to try and kiss him herself. However, even though the idea went smoothly in her head, the execution didn’t work so well. While trying to crawl over him, her leg knocks into the flashlight when it becomes tangled with another blanket, causing the fort to fall dark.

“Shit-”

“Ow!”

Clementine sits up, patting around for the fallen light within the blankets.

“Where’d it go?”

“Um, that’s my foot!”

“Are you sure?”

“Clem, I’m pretty sure I know the difference between a flashlight and my own foot, thank you.”

Louis moves beside her, helping in the search of the fallen light while chuckling lightly to himself.

She jerks the blanket up, hearing the light crash down against the bare wooden floors. The glow stutters, flashing twice before being covered again when a stack of pillows knocks over, caving in part of the fort.

“Oops.”

“Clementine, are you destroying my- hey hey hey!”

The sheets fall on top of them, bringing down the rest of the fort to crash around them in a fairly silent avalanche of pillows. They’re both stuck in a tangled mess of sheets, pillows, and blankets, trying to find an opening of escape.

Louis pulls the sheet off of her, exposing her to the fresh air of the room where they both burst out laughing. He managed to find the flashlight, beating it against his palm before it shines again, uncovering the disaster they sit in.

“What a mess.”

“I blame you.”

Clementine laughs, carefully bringing herself to her feet and offering him a hand. “C’mon, we gotta pick this up.”

“Says who? I say we leave it, sleep among the destruction, and rebuild tomorrow.”

“Nope,” she shakes her head. “Queen’s orders. These all go back to the jester’s quarters.”

“You’re a strict ruler, your majesty. Very commanding. I like that.”

She smiles.

With the light set on AJ’s desk to help illuminate the room, Clementine begins folding up the sheets into nice, smooth squares, setting them on the bed. She glances back at Louis’ reluctant frown at the mess.

“Can’t say this is where I thought our date would go. Any idea where the pretzels went- Oh-” there’s crunching beneath his foot, “-nevermind.”

She moves over to their bed with a grin still pulling at her lips as she reaches down to grab the blanket.

Something hits her shoulders and back.

Though it didn’t hurt, the suddenness of it causes an embarrassing noise to escape her throat as she whips around. A pillow rests at her feet, the obvious culprit for what struck her.

Her narrow gaze darts up at Louis, whose back is to her. Cheerfully humming to himself, he stacks his pillows into a neat pile oh so innocently.

“Did you just throw that at me?”

“Hm?”

Louis peers over his shoulder, brow raised with a small, knowing smirk pressing to his mouth.

“Louis.”

“What?”

“You hit me!”

“What?” he repeats, pressing a hand over his chest and producing a faux innocence in his expression. “Clem, I would never.”

She kicks the pillow at him. “Then, what’s this?”

“...A pillow from the pillow fort you elegantly destroyed?”

Her head leans back as she rolls her eyes. She turns, but before she can finish bending down to grab the blanket she dropped, Clementine’s hit again, this time against her bottom.

“Louis!”

He laughs, throwing the pillow at her, this time harder as he admits, “Okay, I lied.”

Clementine catches it against her chest, pausing to playfully glare at his challenging expression before darting forward. Louis blocks her attack, shielding himself with his arms as he grabs more pillows, swinging them at her.

Pillows fly everywhere, being thrown and swung around as the two continue to laugh and fight for several minutes, the room buzzing with delightful laughter and soft thuds knocking around.

Clementine manages to knock him down against the cushioned ground where he lays sprawled, chuckling breathlessly as his chest heaves.

Triumphant with hands on her hips, she towers over him, saying, “I win.”

“Oh, no,” he huffs, pointing up at her, “you don’t.”

Louis weakly throws another pillow at her, which she catches and tosses back at him. He lets it fall over his face, muffling his laughter. Maneuvering herself onto the floor to crawl above him, she yanks the pillow off and secures both his wrists beside his head with a victorious smirk.

He barely struggles, allowing her to overpower him with a slight pout on his lips.

“Say ‘Uncle!’”

“No!”

“Say it!”

“Never!”

Clementine’s in a fit of giggles, barely able to get out, “You’ve already lost, so just give up!”

“Oh-ho!” Louis gives a challenging grin. “But, my darling, I’ve got one last trick up my sleeve.”

“And what-”

He’s quick, forcing himself up to break his wrists free of her grasp, hands moving behind her head to bring her into a firm liplock. A soft noise vibrates in her throat at the sudden contact, but the shock is fleeting. Eyes flutter shut as her hands run over his shoulders and to his neck. She kisses him back, moving her lips with his in the soft, ardent way they always do.

Too focused on him, his lips and his hands, that she barely notices when her back presses against the comfortable mess of pillows. He tries to pull away, to end the kiss, but she brings him back to her lips. He grins, giving in and kissing her again.

Clementine lets him move away this time, both lightly panting and gazing at each other through loving, lidded eyes.

Louis smiles down at her.

“I win.”

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mybeautifuldecay · 5 years

Text

Private Tutor. Chapter Twenty-Six; Bad Weather.

Happy Saturday all. Mega thanks to @suhailauniverse who helped me to add a little bit onto the end when I couldn’t figure out where to take it next <3 you’re a true legend!

And to @gotham-ruaidh - without her, I wouldn’t be here writing now.

MASTER LIST: is HERE should you want/need it.

Sitting in the conservatory watching the rain cascade across the vaguely transparent roof, Claire let her mind wander. Jenny, Jamie’s sister, had arrived the day before with her two young children in tow. Her husband, Ian, had been required to attend a course in London and Ellen thought bringing her grandbabies up to the farm might occupy Claire’s mind. Wee Jamie and Maggie were, indeed, a clever distraction but as the clouds had settled overhead, so the morning sickness had quashed her playing for the time being. Instead of running around the garden, she’d made herself some herbal tea and hidden away whilst she allowed her belly to calm once more.

“Here,” Ellen said quietly, passing her the biscuit tin, “have something sweet.”

Although the nausea had abated somewhat, the idea of consuming anything solid made her head spin and she focused on the beating rain in an attempt to pacify her stomach.

Placing the tin on the table, Ellen sat next to Claire, putting her hand over hers where it rested on the arm of the chair. “Yer fretting?” She asked, her eyes full of sympathy.

“It’s just silliness.” She sighed, trying to brush off the fear that something would go wrong at any moment - shattering her momentary happiness.

“Nothing ye feel is silly, Claire. You just want to be content and until ye’ve that news in yer hands, everything will make you question yerself. We’ve all been there, aye? I ken Jamie feels the same way. He’s been nervous ever since ye sent off yer divorce papers, too.”

“He always seems so patient.” Claire whispered, turning her hand over so that she could take Ellen’s fingers in her own. “He’s so good at hiding his emotions and seeming calm that I can never tell when he’s worried. So I try not to panic and give him cause for concern, but I can never manage to stay as composed as he does.”

“He’s well practiced, lass. When we lost Willie he took it hard, ye ken? Ever since then he’s been good at keeping his emotions buried deep. He’s the Fraser rock. When we were all falling apart, it wasna that he wasn’t, but he kept us all upright. He’s strong, Claire, that’s all he knows. But inside, where it counts, he’s worrit I can see it in the way he hovers around ye.”

“It’s only been a few days, I know,” she said, using her free hand to rest over her belly, “but I just want to know whether everything is going as it should.”

“Of course ye do, my darling. Yer in the last stages of being free - ye can smell the fresh air but ye canna yet see the sunshine. It’s so close and yet cruelly out of reach. But, from what Ned said, I dinna think ye have much to be worried about in that sense. Frank doesna have the right to withhold the divorce from ye, Glenna has already made a statement to the solicitors and has promised that she’ll make a full and thorough report should he change his mind on signing the papers.” Pausing for just a second, Ellen held her breath before continuing. She didn’t want to bring up past painful events but she still wanted to make sure Claire was alright with the way things had turned out. “Just one question?”

“Sure.” Claire replied no hint of trepidation in her tone.

“Are you sure ye dinna want to press charges against the man? He assaulted ye, Claire. Ye’d be well within yer rights to do so.”

“And go up against him in court? No, I know Jamie is a little disappointed, but it would mean a lengthy trial which I don’t think I could face. Once I start to show, too, his lawyers would tear me apart. He doesn’t have to admit that he was unfaithful, but the baby will give me away. It would be all the ammunition he needed to ruin my reputation and solidify his own.”

Just then thunder rolled over head, the sky lightening significantly as lightning followed seconds behind. “I spoke to Glenna before we left.” Claire continued once the noise had subsided. “He hasn’t sacked her, in fact he apologised for his behaviour that night.”

“Though he hasn’t said that to you?”

“No, but I think he’s too scared to contact me - which is for the best, I don’t want an apology.” She said with no remorse. “I hope that the knowledge of what he’s capable of scared him enough to never do it again with anyone else.”

“Playing devil's advocate now,” Ellen continued somewhat meekly, “could ye live with yerself if he did. If, in years to come, ye opened the papers to find yerself face to face with the image of the man being held up on charges similar but to another lassie. Would ye be regretful that ye didna press charges and possibly stop it happening to someone else?”

A heavy silence filled the room as both women sat quietly next to one another for a time. Claire mulled over Ellen’s question with a heavy heart. The sick feeling she’d managed to tamper rose up once more and she tasted bile in the back of her throat.

“I don’t know.” She returned at last. “I think I’d always feel some manner of guilt if that happened - but, even with that thought, I don’t think I want to pursue it. Does that make me a horrid person?”

“No,” Ellen said, smiling softly, “not at all, Claire. I think it just makes ye human. Ye’ve been through a lot - it’s natural to just want to move on wi’ yer life. Hundreds of others have done just the same. I just hope, for both of your sakes, and the bairns, that yer right. Ye dinna want that hovering over ye.”

“Are ye alright in here?” Jamie asked, holding Maggie on his hip as he came in search of Claire. “I felt my ears burning and thought I’d better come and see if ye were talking about me behind my back.” Tickling wee Maggie’s sides, he watched as she giggled, throwing her head back so that her think, long hair tickled his bare arms.

Smiling at the scene in front of her Claire cupped her hands around the still pleasantly warm mug and cocked her head to the left.

“We’ve better things to discuss that ye, son.” Ellen chirped back as she stood to take Maggie from Jamie, kissing him on the cheek as she lifted her grandaughter up in the air. “Remember, Claire,” she said as she turned and stepped backwards into the shelter of the main house, “deep breaths and all will be well.”

“What was that about?” He asked as his mother disappeared with his young niece. Coming to sit on the arm of the chair, he let his arm wrap around Claire’s shoulders, bringing her against his side as the clouds began to part overhead.

“Your mother was just being kind.”

“Yer worrit something will go wrong wi’ the divorce, aye?”

Nodding, she turned her head up to look at Jamie, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “It’s just like this bad weather though, eh? A bit of thunder and an ill wind before the sky clears and the sun comes out again.”

Glancing up out of the conservatory roof they both sighed before turning back to one another.

“Still talking about the divorce?”

“Maybe,” she replied, “maybe not.”

“Am I the sun?”

“Always.” She muttered, her mouth creeping steadily closer to his as she pushed herself up on the arms of the chair. “You never fail to chase away the storm. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Placing a delicate kiss at the corner of his mouth, she closed her eyes as she felt the pleasant flood of endorphins - the taste of him calming the less palatable disquiet that had rocked her only moments before.

“I feel the same, my sassenach. When ye came into the library, timid yet wi’ the air of unkempt fearlessness eager to escape, ye chased away the mist surrounding me. I didna even ken I was in darkness until you showed me the light. And now we’re about to have a baby.” He leaned down then, placing his hand over her belly whilst placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“I’m so lucky to have found you.” She whispered, her hand coming to rest over his. “All of you. You saved my life, James Fraser.”

“As you did mine, Claire Beauchamp.”

#gotham's writing workshop #private tutor au #Jamie X Claire

157 notes · View notes

please-dont-starve · 6 years

Text

Day 15: Downpour

The rain continues to fall against the walls of Mount Wilson, but it has eased up enough to venture out. I went down the slopes to try and corral some food, only to find the earth had turned to a muddy slush. It feels like a hurricane without the wind.

Despite the ruined earth, I was able to find some food in the form of a dead mega-buffalo. It was small, so it must only have been a baby, but small is all relative. With this much meat, I should have plenty of food to wait out the storm. It was irritating to get it up the mountain, but I can only imagine how much harder it would have been if I had not had my sled.

On a related note, I must build my next sled out of stronger materials than tree bark and vines. As I was bringing it up the slope, the reins snapped and almost cost me the meat. Nonetheless, I have the food tucked away in the back of this cave, ready for later consumption.

I take it you're feeling better?

Not talking to you. You are a voice in my head, lalalalala.

I don't think sticking your fingers in your ears works with writing.

Just the crazy opinion of a voice in my head which I do not have to listen to.

Hah! You are voice in head!

Oi, if I am, you are too y'know.

Wolfgang not understand.

Why bother understanding when nothing is worth understanding? It's all going to end one day, and all that understanding dies with us.

You are just the life of the party aintcha?

There is no party, this is only the many parts of myself bickering with each other because I am going mad.

Oh stop it willy, you're going to drive yourself crazy talking like that. Well, crazier I suppose.

Bah! I need to walk, clear my head.

Where too exactly? It's raining cats and those other things out there.

The word you're looking for is 'wolves'. And I am not scared of any rain.

Wilson A Percival. A man.

Sorry, I'm new to this narrator gig.

A-hem.

Wilson A Percival stood up from his notebook. It looked far older now, tattered, worn and browning. The pen that lay next to it was in better condition, but that's not to say much. Trapped inside were the only words Wilson had heard from another "human being" in over two weeks. During this time, he had taken to muttering things to himself.

Comments about the weather, his clothes, or about the time of day. If he had to define it, he might call it small talk. Like most introverts, Wilson had never had much use for small talk with other people, much less himself. In fact, he'd never been a particularly chatty man at all. He had prided himself in saying only what needed to be said.

This practice made him come across as rude in social gatherings and a know it all at work. Lord knows how he found friends, let alone a wife. But I suppose that's what certain people can do to you, bring you out of whatever box you put yourself in. It's a pleasant thing more often than not. If Wilson was in his right mind, he might wonder if this small talk was his fault, or if it was another one of his errant personalities, albeit one with less written skill.

He looked out of the cave and saw what might as well have been a waterfall. Water came from the sky in the hundreds of liters, pulverizing the ground. Wilson could not even see the clouds or the forest when he looked out. Instead, he turned inwards. Stalactites and stalagmites littered the corners of the cave. They looked almost decorative for their haphazard placement, like squat stone conversation pieces. The smoldering embers sat in the middle of the room, set into a divot in the floor.

His small pile of berries, firewood, and one dead animal were clustered to the back of the room, near his sled. He wondered if it was wise to store food this way. It was all he could do for now. The sled was looking far worse for wear than the dead animal. It was full of holes, with loose twine wrapped around it and bits of berry juice and blood mingling together. Grabbing a handful of leaves, Wilson stooped down to try and clean some of the runoff. The leaves weren't that absorbent, but he got the job done. The thin liquid mix drained off the sled and slipped backward, into the cave wall.

More specifically, into a crack in the cave wall. This crack wasn't very thick, but it was long, stretching in one continuous run all the way up to the ceiling some four meters above Wilson. Wilson tapped the rock and heard an echo behind it. A clear echo, like the other side was close.

Wilson looked around for something to hit the crack with, but he couldn't see anything. He searched for a few more moments before he realized what he had to try. Taking a few steps back, he braced himself as he charged forward, shoulder first, into the wall. He collided with the stone, and chips flew backward. The echo was loud and reverberated on both sides. His shoulder sung with pain, but it was more shock than anything else. He stepped back again and charged once more.

The wall crumbled beneath his weight, and his momentum carried him into the new cave. It's rather miraculous he managed that. I mean, he's what, 130 pounds? That wall's got to be made of tissue paper! The inside of this back room was dark, and Wilson stood still a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they didn't, he pressed his hands to the wall and began to slide across it.

Unfortunately for Wilson, his nostrils weren't affected by the dark so he could smell the awful stink that permeated the cave air. Imagine the smell of blood-soaked saliva mixed with a burnt, wet, and salted dog, garnished with a hint of something unspeakable. After Wilson had finished throwing up, he decided to leave the cave alone for a few hours to let the smell disperse.

This would've been a smart move, if the smell didn't seep out into the entire cave, forcing Wilson to stand outside to avoid throwing up again. Luckily, the smell did not seem to want to interact with the rain. Of course, Wilson now had to get back in. He had only been standing there mere moments, and his entire body was already drenched. The rain, like everything else, was about as forgiving as a brick to the teeth. As Wilson's hair began to lose its shape, Wolfgang took over.

Wolfgang, having no idea what was going on, turned around and walked into the cave. He would've thrown up too, had it not been for his rule against such things. So, like any self-respecting man, he swallowed his pride with his food and carried on into the cave. By the time he had reached the hole, he was doing his best to hold in every one of his bodily fluids, with positive results. Makes you wonder how Wilson is such a ponce when his body can do all this.

Anyway, Wolfgang stepped through the hole, with the not incorrect reasoning that there might be some smelly beast hiding behind the cave. He faced the same problem as Wilson in this new room, in that he could see nothing. Instead of taking the cautious approach, he proceeded to charge into the darkness with a strange gargling noise emitting from his lips.

He would later call this a "battle cry", but it was far more akin to a frog mating session gone terribly, terribly wrong. Wolfgang was now a ways into the back area of the cave, and the smell seemed to have gone stale. This should have made it even worse, but instead, it became mellower and not quite as vomit inducing. It was here that Wolfgang switched into Willow, who took one look at the fact she couldn't see and started panicking.

Not many people know this, not even Willow herself, but she is not fond of dark, enclosed spaces. In fact, I have heard these kinds of things called Fo-bee-yah's. Which is strange, as this situation doesn't have anything resembling bees. I suppose a dislike of enclosed spaces could stem from a fear of being in a beehive, but that seems awfully specific. Anyway, Willow was freaking out the moment she had gotten her bearings, and this was in no way helped by the muffled, but still awful smell emanating from everywhere.

So she did the only sensible thing and began trying to light a fire. She fell to the floor, grasping to try and find a suitable rock. She ripped off a bit of Wilson's pants, got her rock, and struck the ground underneath the pants. There was a click, and the pants caught. For a moment, her breathing evened out, the tiny flame on the fabric providing immediate comfort. However, with this comfort came a flickering memory. Whether it was from Wilson or from Willow, she did not know, but it told her what this smell was.

She dropped the fabric, leaving it to flicker in the darkness, and began to run as fast as she could. The flame burnt, swished, and then caught. It billowed outwards, igniting the disgusting air in a great ball of flame. The entire cavern was lit up for the split second before the fireball filled the space. Willow kept running, wanting to look back when she swapped to Wilson. Wilson did not know what was going on, and looked back.

If he'd been able to process what was happening, he might've wet himself, but it all happened too fast. He flew backward, riding the explosion like a wave. He flailed his limbs about as the fire licked at his body, cutting painful burns into his skin. All until the force of the explosion carried him off the edge of the cavern. He fell, down, down, down. The shock of the cold water slamming against him brought all his adrenaline out at once. He flailed, kicking up a lot of waves, but not swimming. He began to sink, which only fueled his panicked flailing, which in turn cost him a lot of oxygen. Blackness crept across the edges of his vision and became all he could see.

#wendy #willow #wilson higgsbury #wilson percival #text post #fanfiction #story #don't starve #wolfgang #narrator

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amthoughtsintowords · 3 years

Text

One Shot At Forever

We’re counting down to a crossroads in hoop history; a collision of the present and the past; a Monday night drive in the ol’ time machine. Gonzaga 2021 and Indiana 1976. Unbeaten to this point against unbeaten forever.

Sure, tonight’s game is Gonzaga against Baylor in what should be a great matchup. But it’s the outcome of this contest that has the implications. Nothing against Baylor – it’s their first men’s Final Four since 1948 – but they carry not only the weight of that 73 years of nada, but also of the most cherished jewel in the proud history of Indiana basketball.

+++++

I can still see the April 5, 1976 cover of Sports Illustrated: Great Scott, It’s Indiana! Admittedly, that issue contains one of my favorite articles, John Underwood’s profile of Missouri’s Jim Kennedy. Kennedy and the Tigers had surprised everyone that season and clawed their way to the regional finals, where despite 43 points from guard Willie Smith they fell short against Michigan. Underwood painted a portrait of the juggling act a student-athlete had in that time; a really nice bit of reporting in what S-I called their ”takeout” piece. But those Hoosiers were the cover story for a reason – unbeaten, unrivaled and unfazed by achieving perfection. Coached by the enfant terrible Bobby Knight, they capped a 32-0 season by beating that very same Michigan team in the championship game. Several teams had come close to perfection in later years but didn’t get there. It is a mark that has grown in stature and risen in its unreachability. In today’s age of one-and-done players, the notion of a group of 18-year-olds melding into a championship team and not just catching regular season lightning in a bottle was becoming less and less likely to ever happen again.

Gonzaga has now reached the precipice; and wouldn’t you know it? The Zags are beating the odds in this unprecedented COVID cloud we’re all living under. It is a program that has grown from the quiet 152 acres in Spokane, Washington, from the cute underdog to the perennial tournament participant to annually among the elite.

Mark Few’s team has practically run the table – picked as number one to begin the season, they haven’t had a slip up. 45 years ago, Indiana began the year at the top and marched into the final without a stumble. A year earlier, Knight’s team was in the process of doing the same thing; they were even deeper and more formidable than the team that followed. Leading scorer May broke his arm late in the regular season, tried to come back in the regional final against Kentucky, but wasn’t the same and with the chemistry off just a tick the Wildcats won by two. With May and three other starters returning, Knight set the tone right from the get-go; he told his squad on the first day of practice that the bar certainly wasn’t the Big Ten title, it wasn’t even the championship that had slipped away seven months earlier – it was perfection.

+++++

Few hasn’t disclosed what the message was to his team, but the Bulldogs have been just that going through the season. In fact, they have won virtually all of their games by double digits. As we saw on Saturday night, it took a surface-to-air missile from Jalen Suggs to avoid a second overtime against UCLA. Otherwise, they trampled their other four opponents by an average of 24 points. Conversely, the Hoosiers had to pass through a gauntlet to get to the finals in ’76. The NCAA built their bracket much differently then as opposed to now, where saving the best matchups for the end is the priority. To win their regional, Indiana had to beat 23-5 St. John’s, 23-4 Alabama, 27-1 Marquette, and then defending champion UCLA, 28-3 in the first year after the retirement of John Wooden; St. John’s and UCLA were repeat victims, but the average margin of victory in the tournament for Indiana to that point was 12 points.

Gonzaga has won with a trio of All-Americans: senior Corey Kispert was a first teamer, while Suggs and sophomore Drew Timme made the second team. Indiana featured two All-Americans in May and center Kent Benson but the unsung heroes of that team were senior guards Quinn Buckner and Bobby Wilkerson. Wilkerson was nicknamed “Spiderman” for his long arms and ability to guard anyone on the floor – from the post to the point. Buckner was athletic enough to lead the football Hoosiers in interceptions as a freshman and sophomore. It was Buckner’s leadership abilities that made him an essential component for the basketball Hoosiers; Knight used Buckner’s example to define leadership for every Indiana team after he graduated.

So while the Zags are now set up to face the “other” number one team in the land, Baylor – the Bears weathered their own COVID storm to go 27-2 – Indiana had to beat Michigan in the finals. The Wolverines had lost twice to Indiana in the conference season by a combined eleven points – once in overtime. The adage remains that it is hard to beat a team a third time in a season, and that seemed to be the case at the Spectrum in Philadelphia on Monday, March 29, 1976. One of the reasons is familiarity but another is unknown adversity. Early in the game Wilkerson was toppled over and landed on his head; he was taken to a hospital with a concussion and subsequently Michigan had Indiana in dire straits, leading by six at the half. At that point, Knight told his now-suddenly vulnerable team if they wanted to be considered one of the greatest in basketball history they had twenty minutes to prove it. Otherwise, they had wasted what they had spent six months working toward.

Sixth man Jim Crews, who later coached at Saint Louis U., put it more succinctly: “We had one shot at forever.”

+++++

Gonzaga seemed to be in that spot against UCLA. The Bruins played a sensational game, never letting the Zags get out of sight and responding with a grit and determination of their own. It took Suggs and his 40-footer to pull his team out of the fire. A freshman had shown them the way.

Back in Philadelphia it was a group of seniors – May, Buckner, Crews, Tom Abernethy – and junior center Kent Benson that took their coach’s words back on to the court. Even without Wilkerson it was as dominating a second half as you might ever see. The Hoosiers set a record by scoring 57 points in the second twenty minutes, winning the game by 18. As Knight and his captains, Buckner and May, stood on the podium to accept the championship trophy, the coach was certainly relieved and gratified – but this was Bobby Knight – he reminded everyone listening that “it should have been two (titles).”

Indiana made good on their one shot at forever. Since then, even the great Larry Bird and his ’79 Indiana State team couldn’t finish the job, losing in the finals. UNLV, Kentucky, Wichita State – they all had shots, too, but lost in the semifinals. And now Gonzaga takes their shot.

Unlike the 1972 Miami Dolphins, unmatched in their perfection for a half-century now and very public in drinking a toast when the last undefeated NFL team goes down each season, the ’76 Hoosiers are much more sedate but just as proud of their achievement.

Perfection happened in college basketball six times in a 17-year span, from the San Franciso Dons in 1956 to UCLA in 1973; the Bruins did it three times under Wooden. Now, with a span of nearly fifty years gone by since the last time, can Gonzaga make history?

If so, “One Shining Moment” takes on special meaning tonight in Indianapolis.

#marchmadness #gonzaga #perfection #Indiana NCAATournament #bobby knight #1976 #oneshotatforever

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dukech · 5 years

Text

Spring 2018

1/19 - Lord RAJA // DJ Bitchcraft

1/27 - Tashi Dorji + Crowmeat Bob / Jil C. / Ginger Wagg / Reptile Room

2/16 - Alright // Naked Naps // TBA

2/22 - Wailin Storms / Vincas / Night Battles

2/24 - Drag Sounds, Sunny Slopes, North by North (CHI), Poor Pie

3/6 - Combo Chimbita // Chócala

3/19 - Yamantaka // Sonic Titan | Tundrastomper

3/28 - Susan Alcorn // Sandy Ewen

3/24 - Daniel Bachman // Will Csorba & Cameron Knowler

3/31 - Loamlands // Nana Grizol

+ ++ +

Fall 2016

SEPTEMBER 16: Darkmatter Poetry Night

SEPTEMBER 27: SIGNALS MIDWEST w/ TIGERDOG

SEPTEMBER 28: XENIA RUBINOS w/ LUXE POSH

SEPTEMBER 30: HECTORINA w/ THE WYRMS and BRETT HARRIS

OCTOBER 4: BUENO w/ EVEL ARC

OCTOBER 5: WHITNEY w/ HOOPS

OCTOBER 6: NOTS w/ THE WORLD

+ ++ +

Spring 2016

Monday, Jan 18: ORCHID SUN AND SEA GHOST

Friday, Jan. 22 LONNIE HOLLEY

Feb. 16: SUN SEEKER with CRUSHED OUT

Feb. 17: LOONE and PAPER BEE

Feb. 18: Sendolo Diaminah “Abolition, Strategy and the Practice of Freedom”

Feb. 20: THE KNEADS with STRAY OWLS

Feb. 29: RICK MAGUIRE (PILE) w/ LOOK A GHOST

March 4: Eric and Erica ::: Del Sur ::: Cottontail

March 9: Duke Coffeehouse presents: WARM WOMEN

March 21: Duke Coffeehouse presents THIN LIPS

March 25:Hanz, housefire, Matt Stevenson, GNØER : presented by Moogfest and WXDU

MARCH 28: CROWN LARKS with KNIVES OF SPAIN

APRIL 2: Maple Stave / The Powder Room / City of Medicine

+ ++ +

Fall 2015

Thurs 9/24 HEMLINES with PATOIS COUNSELORS

Mon 10/05 BIKE COPS with LOOK A GHOST https://www.facebook.com/events/495504043958287/

Thurs 10/08 WILLIS EARL BEAL and CRATER https://www.facebook.com/events/452790994905523/

Thurs 10/15 Global Brazil Lab Presents: Caique Vidal & Batuque

Fri 10/16: Duke Coffeehouse presents: THE STORYTELLERS BAND

Sun 10/18: PIE FACE GIRLS + FISH DAD + SPACE CHUMPY + HERMIT PAPESS

Sun 10/25 talk on THE MUSIC & WORK PROJECT

Wed 10/28 EXPLORING CLASS AND CLASSISM WORKSHOP (MOVED TO WHITE LECTURE HALL) https://www.facebook.com/events/1598418537087321/

Wed 10/28 VERY HAUNTED HOUSE PARTY

Frid 10/30 Duke Coffeehouse Presents… LIVE! ON STAGE: JONATHAN RICHMAN featuring TOMMY LARKINS

Sun 11/1 FREE PIZZA (the band) with BAND & THE BEAT

11/3 FEVER THE GHOST with *** JENNY BESETZT ***

11/7 YOUNG MAMMALS with ALRIGHT

11/14 wxdu presents; BODYKIT // DRIPPY INPUTS // HOUSEFIRE // LIQUID ASSET // SPONGE BATH

11/18 FLORIST and HELLO SHARK

+ ++ +

Spring 2015

January 24: TURQUOISE JEEP with PROFESSOR TOON and BARF TROOP

January 25: ET AL. with STRAY OWLS

January 29: Almost People EP Release Show W/ WolvesX4, Invaluable, A Bottle Volcanic, Sunnydale

January 30: PAINTED ZEROS W/ WOOL

February 10: INTO IT OVER IT + KEVIN DEVINE + LAURA STEVENSON

February 18: RIVERGAZER + SMALL WONDER

March 25: DEERHOOF + PERFECT PUSSY + SEE GULLS

March 28: BRICKSIDE FESTIVAL 2015

April 5: THE NERVOUS TICKS with NATURAL CAUSES and WAHYAS

April 16: BELLOWS and SHARPLESS

Fall 2014

September 1: PART TIME + SEA LIONS + DADDY ISSUES

September 9: TEEN SUICIDE and ELVIS DEPRESSEDLY

October 3: EMPTY DISCO with MADEYLN JOHNSON

October 6: QUILLA with ENGLAND IN 1819

October 7: KRILL with LAST YEAR’S MEN and BUTTERCUP

October 15: FRANKIE COSMOS + PORCHES.

October 18: J FERNANDEZ with THE LOWEST PAIR

October 27: WALTER MITTY & HIS MAKESHIFT ORCHESTRA with CHUMPED and MICHAEL CASEY

October 30: SAUNA HEAT with WAHYA’S

November 4: SPOONBOY with EMILYN BRODSKY and COTTONTAIL

November 10: GUANTANAMO BAYWATCH plus SILENT LUNCH with DEL VENICCI

+ ++ +

Spring 2014

January 22: MYKKI BLANCO + QUILLA at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

January 25: LEE BAINS III & THE GLORY FIRES + TURF WAR at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

February 10: NOBUNNY + The HUSSY + FRUIT at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

February 16: BLEEDING RAINBOW + WOOL + SILENT LUNCH at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

March 5: SEAN NICHOLAS SAVAGE + JENNY BESETZT

March 7: WXDU Local Music Series: SOLAR HALOS, MOUNTAIN THROWER, RUSCHA

March 22: LIQUOR STORE + BOHICA at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

March 28: WXDU Local Music Series: HEADS ON STICKS and DRAG SOUNDS

March 29: DOLFISH + MAX STERN (of Signals Midwest, Meridian) at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

March 30: SLAM FOR SYRIA

April 3: WOODSMAN at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

April 5: NANA GRIZOL + JASON ANDERSON + COTTONTAIL at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

April 10: MAC DEMARCO + JUAN WAUTERS + SEE GULLS at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

April 11: MIRACLES OF MODERN SCIENCE at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

April 13: HORSE FEATHERS at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

+ ++ +

Fall 2013

September 14: MARISSA NADLER + ORGANOS at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

September 16: NESEY GALLONS + REAL LIVE TIGERS + GOLD LIGHT at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

September 23: Duke Coffeehouse & WXDU Present: CALVIN JOHNSON + BANANA LAZULI at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

October 6: DENT MAY + DEAD GAZE at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

October 7: BURGERAMA: GAP DREAM + TOGETHER PANGEA + COSMONAUTS + HABIBI at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

October 18: KOOL A.D. + DAY JOB at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

October 20: Duke Coffeehouse & WXDU Present: WILLIAM TYLER + WOWOLFOL at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

October 23: YIP DECEIVER + WILD MOCCASINS at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

November 1: EROS AND THE ESCHATON + PINK FLAG at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

November 3: JETZT COLLECTIVE + CREEPOID + NAKED NAPS

November 4: DIARRHEA PLANET + THE LOVELY BAD THINGS + MUSEUM MOUTH + REBUILDER at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

November 13: SAINT RICH + ARROWS OUT at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

November 16: NETHERFRIENDS + AISHA BURNS + HOLY BOATS at DUKE COFFEEHOUSE

December 5: MARIA MINERVA + SEE GULLS + FRUIT + ++ + Spring 2013 January Friday 1.18: Bleeding Rainbow + Jenny Besetz

Saturday 1.19: The Growlers + The Coathangers

Tuesday 1.29: The Music Tapes Present: The Traveling Imaginary February

Friday 2.15: Psychic Ills

Friday 2.22: Beloved Binge + Ponchos + Ellertronic

Friday 2.25: Lobo Marino

March Sunday 3.3: Waxahatchee + Museum Mouth

Wednesday 3.19: Londi, free!

Monday 3.25: Austin Vaughn, Christopher Pierce, William Darity

Wednesday 3.27: Auburn Kettle, Blanko Basnet, Prypyat, Lowland Hum + ++ + Fall 2012 August Thursday 8.30: The Bronzed Chorus, The Winter Sounds, Crystal Bright and the Silver Hands

September Saturday 9.1: O’Death, Joy In Red, $5Wednesday 9.12: Cheap Time, Last Year’s Men, Johnny Staxx and the Durty Boyz

Wednesday 9.12: Cheap Time, Last Year’s Men, Johnny Staxx and the Durty Boyz

Friday 9.14: Blues Control, Judson Claiborne, My Empty Phantom

Wednesday 9.19: Mount Eerie, Ghost to Falco, Hungry Cloud Darkening

Friday 9.28: Shy Hunters, Twilighter

Saturday 9.29: Paleface, Luego

October Friday 10.5: The Yawpers, Sinners & Saints, Sam Lee

Friday 10.19: Dastardly, Jared Bartman

Sunday 10.21: Turbo Fruits, Dignan Porch

Wednesday 10.24: King Tuff, The Intelligence, Whatever Brains

Friday 10.26: Margot & the Nuclear So and So’s, Gentleman Caller

Sunday 10.28: Jeffrey Lewis & the Junkyard, Dolfish, Cottontail

Tuesday 10.30: Hop Along, Celebrity Jeopardy

Fall 2012 November Friday 11.30: Wooden Wand

December Saturday 12.1: Party: HYSTERIA

Monday 12.3: Razia Said + ++ + Spring 2012

February Wednesday 2.1: Liturgy, Kolyma

Saturday 2.11: Dex Romweber Duo, Spider Bags

Saturday 2.18: Ted Leo, Mac McCaughan

Friday and Saturday 2.24-25: Local Music Festival March Saturday 3.17: Mipso Trio

Friday 3.23: The Golden Boys, John Wesley Coleman, Spider Bags

Saturday 3.24: Brickside Music Festival ft. Kurt Vile, Mark Kozelek, Horse Feathers, the Postelles, etc.

April Friday 4.6: Alex Kotch

Thursday 4.19: Blabbermouth (a poetic sing-song-type bonanza)

Saturday 4.21: Free Energy w/ Deleted Scenes & Cigarette + ++ + Fall 2011 September Friday 9.16: Two Gallants, The Mumlers, Bloodroots Barter

Saturday 9.24: WXDU presents Ty Segall, Mikal Cronin

October Saturday 10.1: WXDU’s Annual Record Fair, 11AM-4PM

Saturday 10.1: Soft Company with Jews and Catholics

Friday 10.14: Ground Up, Toon

Saturday 10.15: Holiday Shores

Thursday 10.27: Duke Islamic Studies Center & the Duke University Middle Eastern Studies Center presents Omar Offendum

November Friday 11:4: Small Town Records Release Party

Saturday 11.5: The Beets, Christmas

Sunday 11.6: BDU Presents… F to eMbody- Athens Boys Choir and Katastrophe

Friday 11.11: Fanghole, Bronzed Chorus, Man Ray

Thursday 11.17 Duke University Improv

Friday 11.19: Jeffrey Lewis & The Junkyard, Matt Northrup December

Thursday 12.1 DJ /rupture, Lemonade

Friday 12:2: Cotton Jones, Some Army

++ + Spring 2011

January Tuesday 1.25: Duke Performances presents “Listening with The Bad Plus,”

Friday 1.28: Turbo Fruits, The Mercators, Tea & Tempests

February Thursday 2.10: Baths, BRAIDS, Blackbird Blackbird

Saturday 2.19: Michael & His Garden, Tea & Tempests, Fanghole

Friday 2.25: PILE, Screaming Crayons

Saturday 2.26: WXDU presents: Bomb the Music Industry!, Ascetic Parade March

Friday 3.18: Duke Performances presents “Listening with The Kronos Quartet”

Saturday 3.19: The Huguenots, Bright Young Things

Thursday 3.24: The Joy Formidable, The Lonely Forest, Mona

April Friday 4.1: WXDU presents: Jeffrey Lewis & The Junkyard, The Wigg Report, Billy Sugarfix

Friday 4.15: WXDU presents: An Evening with Southern Culture on the Skids

Saturday 4.16: Ghost to Falco, Aan, Prisms

Monday 4.18: Hunx and his Punx, Shannon and the Clams, Last Year’s Men

Saturday 4.23: Oh No! Oh My!, LAKE, AgesandAges + ++ + Fall 2010

September Friday 9.17: Embarrassing Fruits CD Release ft. sets from Midtown Dickens and Lonnie Walker

Monday 9.20: Andrew Jackson Jihad, Blunt Mechanic

Tuesday 9.21: Titus Andronicus, Free Energy

Friday 9.25: Tera Melos, Trash Crusade

October Friday 10.1: A Place to Bury Strangers, Carol Cleveland Sings, ROAR, $10

Friday 10.8: Wovenhand, Serena Maneesh

Saturday 10.16: Veelee Future Sight Bash! with Cassis Orange and Old Bricks

Saturday 10.23: Spider Bags and Last Year’s Men Double Release Party! with Americans in France

Wednesday 10.27: Cheap Girls, Carpenter, Laura Stevenson and the Cans

Thursday 10.28: Bars of Gold, IMPORTANT CHANGE: THIS SHOW WILL INSTEAD BE COFFEEHOUSE SPONSORED AT THE PINHOOK, with Come Hell or High Water, and Pinche Gringo

Friday 10.29: Asimina Chremos, Khristian Weeks, Andrew Weathers, Secret Boyfriend

Saturday 10.30: WXDU Who’s Got the Cuckoo??! 5-year Garage Rock celebration!

#archive

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owlish-peacock36 · 7 years

Text

Alla Prima- Chapter 1

Prologue

Find my master list here.

It was unseasonably warm and bright for an early March morning. Jamie relished these days; the days when the light was at its peak and the world was basked in the brightness of new life.

He sat on the old wooden stool, looking out of the large windows that dominated his back wall. This was his favorite place on days like today. Brush in hand and guarding his easel, he stared out into the wooded yard. He enjoyed nature; its lively greens, its cracked browns. He was inspired by it; alive even when winter stole its breath.

But perhaps it wasn’t just nature that caused his brush to sway. He thought back to the pretty stranger in the park. The books she carried: intelligent. The wrinkle in her brow: determined. Her long fingers: the conductor of his passions.

His hands moved of their own accord, mixing. The gold that haloed her head. The brown that curled under her chin. The black that hid under her ears. He was creating her hair, the wild locks that swirled, mesmerizing him. Born of trees and grass and all things untamed, she was a mythical creature, and he was under her spell.

The demands of life interrupted fantasies, as they so often do. Jamie stood, bones creaking, and shuffled towards the sink. The process of cleaning brushes could be hypnotizing, the way the colors danced and swirled before disappearing. Usually it was satisfying, watching the day’s work washed away ready to begin anew. But, now, it vexed him to see this new chocolate color diluted by water. He didn’t want it to vanish. He wanted to be engulfed by it.

Jamie was late, and he was not particularly looking forward to the verbal beating he would receive from his brother. Willie was five years older than Jamie, and his complete opposite, despite their appearances. They both carried the red hair, the imposing height. Willie had a softer face, though. A kinder face, with rounded cheeks and a curious brow shadowing his wide gray eyes.

But the biggest difference was their minds. Willie had a scientific mind, all logic and numbers and straight lines. Black and white. Jamie’s mind was filled with images and colors and ‘what ifs.’ They worked well this way, playing to the other’s strengths.

Jamie pulled up in front of Fraser Designs, the bright red ‘FD’ of the sign echoing the flaming hair of the man standing underneath it.

“Yer late.” Willie’s narrowed eyes caught Jamie’s. A storm meeting the sea.

“Aye, good to see ye too, brother.”

“Ye’ll get no pleasantries from me. Perhaps if ye were on time… Jesus Jamie!” Willie half whispered, exasperation pouring out of those soft-spoken words. “Ye’ve got paint all over ye! Do ye no have a mirror?”

Then, like the practiced father he was, Willie licked his thumb and began to wipe Jamie’s cheek.

“Uck!” Jamie swatted his hand away. “Stop! I’ll go to the toilet and clean up. Get off!”

“Be in the conference room in 5 minutes. And wash yer hands while yer in there! They’re spotted!”

The conference room was bright and industrial, florescent lights lining the ceiling. Jamie didn’t understand why they didn’t put in any windows.

The enormous table in the center swallowed its two occupants; Willie and their client, Robert MacLeod.

Rob was a small, older gentleman, with big ambitions. Ever since he was a lad, Rob had dreams to open a brewery. ‘Beer makes everyone happy,’ he told them once. And these dreams were finally coming to fruition in his late 60s. He had amassed money, time, and employees into the venture that was Anchored Sea Brewery. Now, he just needed customers, which was when the Frasers decided to step in, creating a logo and website for the man. This was their fifth meeting.

“Jamie, lad! What have ye got fer me, son?” Rob was a jovial man, spritely even though he carried 67 years.

“I’ve got a logo for ye, Rob, and I think ye’ll like it. Care to see?” Jamie stepped over to the table, and plopped down beside him.

“Weel, I’m not here fer my health,” Rob teased. Jamie chuckled, and started rummaging through his portfolio briefcase. He could hear the quiet, annoyed sigh of Willie coming from across the table.

“Here we are!” Jamie waved his victory flag, and placed it in front of Rob.

The design was fairly simple, but with the practiced precision that only Jamie could accomplish: A black anchor just under the surface of the sea. Above it, the dark turquoise waves thrashed, spelling out ‘Anchored Sea’, in cursive.

Rob was calculating it, looking it over with shrewd eyes. It was his business, after all. Jamie’s proudly puffed chest was slowly deflating with each passing second. This was always the hard part: the anticipation of approval. Would the client like it? Would Jamie have to start over? Each minute felt like days, the ticking clock deafening.

Finally, the smallest of sounds, a hum of appreciation.

“Clever, lad. I’m impressed. Ye took all my ideas, and made them better!” Jamie slid his eyes to Willie, who nodded infinitesimally. “All right, Willie, now. What have ye got fer me?”

All attention was focused on the elder Fraser now, and his presentation screen.

“Okay, this is the outline I want fer yer site, Rob. O’ course, we’ll be using the colors from the logo. We’ll have to put information, pictures…” Jamie could only take so much of his brother drone on about ‘WordPress’ and ‘CPUs.’ Now that the spotlight was of him, he let himself daydream, gold clouding his eyes.

“Excellent work, Jamie. Truly. I was afraid I’d have to whip ye after yer lateness, but since Rob loved it, I suppose that can wait. Fer all yer unreliability, yer a talented bastard.” Willie winked. “Shall we celebrate tonight?”

“Aye, sounds good. At 8? The usual place?”

“Dinna be late this time!” Willie bellowed after Jamie as he started for the door. Jamie responded by flashing a particularly unkind finger and heading to his car. It was 3:30; right on schedule for his daily park visit.

She was late. She was a constant, appearing at 4 every day. Except today. At 5, her bench was still empty, save for a small white dove perched on the edge. Her presence was something he could rely on, and he found the lack of her brought on an odd emptiness within him.

#outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #alla prima #chapter 1 #artist au #jamie fraser #willie fraser #artist jamie

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thewritersintent-blog · 6 years

Text

13 Ghosts 2: The Torso

Trigger Warnings: depiction of mental illness (schizophrenia), racism, swearing, graphic depiction of death & dead body/graphic depiction of violence, attempted suicide (not carried out), & slurs.

Word Count: 8,676

Quick Note: I am not a black man no am I schizophrenic. This story has not been read by a sensitivity reader, and therefor may contain inaccuracies. If I offended - if anything is off, please let me know. I want to learn. I am trying to figure out how to use - how to find sensitivity readers.

There are a few rules city pedestrians can agree upon. Do not look like a tourist; avoid taking out maps, looking lost, and taking pictures of famous locations. Be vigilant: keep your bag in front of you or your hand on your bag, watch where you’re going and who you are with. Don’t make eye contact with the homeless.

“How you doin’, man? Need help or somethin’?”

The last one was a bit harder to follow when one ran into the large, gap-tooth grinned Bernard Torrance - Torry to his friends - Wright.

A young man looked up from where he had been fidgeting with the parking meter. He had to crane his neck up to look Torry in the eye. He blinked, more than a little thrown off by the man’s cheerful demeanor. “N-no,” he mumbled, looking back down again. He hit the parking meter with a closed fist, hoping it would finally just take his quarter and let him go.

“Hate to bother you, man, but, uh, that’s a bitch right there.” Torry took a step forward and raised his fist. The smaller man violently flinched. He didn’t look at him as he brought his fist down with a loud thunk! onto the side of the old green parking meter. It made a strange noise like it was starting up, and then spit out his ticket. Torry ripped the ticket off and handed it to the man, who gazed at it in shock and awe, like he was handed Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered.

Torry shrugged. “No problem. Dis meter not always workin’, but nobody come out to fix it. I try to tell ‘em, but most just tell me to fuck off, ya know? Ain’t nobody want to listen to some homeless dude.” He patted the man on the back, seeming to snap him out of whatever awe-inspired state he was in. He quickly smiled and ran off to his car. Torry grinned after him, nodded to something off to the side, before turning and heading down the street to the library.

***

Torry stood outside the library, grinning up at it. He loved it here, loved it since he was a kid. He made a point of coming here once a day, every day, just to look around at everything. Maybe check out a book or two. It was a lot harder when he had a job. Guess that’s one of the benefits of not having a place to work - you can do what you want, when you want. Usually. He still made a point to go home every night - a homeless man with a home, heh, funny - go to his sister’s house, have a meal, take his meds, a shower, and sleep. He was lucky to have her. Hated relying on her and her husband, but lucky all the same. Torry fixed his green beanie more tightly onto his head. Now if only he had enough sense, some focus, to apply - fill out job applications. His grin widened a little. It wasn’t focus he needed; he needed someone just to hire him, warts and all. Torry laughed a little, startling a small woman walking into the library. He flashed her his toothy grin, which she shakily returned. He put his hands into his baggy jean pockets, sighed - an action which pushed his large chest out, raised his shoulders, lifted him onto the balls of his feet before settling back down, relaxed. He continued to stare, a little dreamily at the building, just as he did every day.

The library was a beautiful building. It might not have been the most glamourous, but there was no denying that the architect put a lot of thought into the design. It’s basic shape was a cube - no point in fixing what ain’t broke, that’s what his mama always said - held together with brick, mortar, and a little granite. There were thirteen steps to the top, thirteen regular sized, smaller steps, and one large one, a landing. Can’t have thirteen of anything, that’s bad luck. Very bad luck, mama. The architect was smart enough to add that landing, but not smart enough to add a ramp - that had to come later, some fifty or so years after the building had first been constructed. They had tried to match the aesthetic of the stairs, but it looked too new. They should have roughed it up a bit before opening it up to everyone.

The building had two levels available to the public and one that was strictly offices. Windows - big and clear despite that number of hands that touched them - looked out onto the streets below. The doors were large - big enough for giants to walk through, small giants, though. Torry liked to think giants were over ten feet. Twenty feet was scarier than ten. Imagine Jack looking up at a twenty foot tall giant versus a ten footer. Scared shitless no matter what, but the hand on the twenty footer would be way more intimidating, all encompassing, deadly. Fee fi fo fum.

The only unique thing about this building were the statues, the little busts, that lined the steps. The architect had decided to add a bust on either side of the staircase, each representing a famous author and their corresponding genre. Thirteen steps plus a landing made for twenty-eight busts plus one large one in the entryway of the architect himself, some old white guy named Bartholomew Winterhouse. Well, his bust wasn’t white - it was copper or some other red material. He just looked white. And that name, pretty damn white sounding. Torry thought he once read a book about Mr. Winterhouse, but he couldn’t remember. If he had it was before the accident, and he couldn’t remember much before the accident.

Torry climbed the steps to the library, slowly, methodically. He greeted each bust with a “Hey, how you doin’, man, good to see you. No bird shit on ya, I see!” and “Ma’am, you look lovely today, yes, lookin’ good. Fine little golden statue you are.” The busts made no reply. In the back of his mind, he knew it was strange, greeting inanimate objects, just as he knew whenever he did so, he received odd looks from passerbys. He didn’t care. God would judge him. No one here had the ability to do so.

He reached the top of the steps and pushed passed the doors. They were open, wide open, like the arms of a friend. He smiled at the female security officer - Dana Blechman, nice lady - who returned his smile. Still good with the ladies. Always good. Torry walked up to the information booth, just inside the doors. He didn’t need anything; he practically lived at this library - hell, they should hire him he was here so often, knew so much about the place. That would help him. He once asked about it, if there were any openings. The woman behind the counter - she had been a cute thing, reminded him of his niece, Sharkeisha - no, that was his cousin - niece’s name started with an A...Alayah? No. Allyson? Shit, he’d remember it eventually. Yeah, the cute woman behind the counter, she had told him unfortunately the library only hires those with a MA in library sciences. He had laughed and asked her what kind of a degree that was. He had started talking about book nerds in lab coats, reading Shakespeare and pouring chemicals into vials, someone shouting that this concoction would prove that Poe was writing some racist shit in that orangutan story. The lady librarian had laughed at that. He liked her. Kara, her name was. Why did that name come easier to him than his own goddamn niece? Ariel? Alexis? Fuck, what white girl name did his sister give that girl?

He liked Kara and all of them at the library because they were cool. That’s how he would say it. An academic or one of those Freud doctors - psychologists? Psychiatrists? - would probably have phrased it as “Mr. Wright was ostracized as a semi-homeless man, stereotyped to be unclean, insane, and grossly uneducated. The library offered him a safe space off the streets, a place where his idle brain and hands could find some use, while the librarians looked passed his old clothes and slight smell and saw the intellectual that he was, a well-read man in an unfortunate circumstance.” Maybe a little duller; scientists had a tendency to not use language to their advantage, choosing form over function in their writings.

Torry approached the booth and quickly scanned the line of people behind the desk. Kara was here today, all right. So was...Jimmy Gambino, Gracelle, and...he squinted at the end of the line. Someone new. He didn’t recognize that shock of blue - turquoise - hair or those ugly-ass white framed glasses. He needed to introduce himself. Proper.

He waited in line. There weren’t too many people there. Most who came to the library knew what they wanted and didn’t bother with the information booth. Torry smiled at those walking by; they often returned the smiles or stopped to say hi before going left - science fiction and fantasy - right - children and young adult - or upstairs - everything under the sun. A couple small kids - looked to be about three and five - ran up to him. Their mama followed a couple feet behind, bags under her eyes, and hair up in a haphazard bun. Her stomach and chest were swollen.

Torry crouched down and grinned. “How you doin’, there?” he asked the three year old.

The kid didn’t answer, instead yammering about their morning, getting dressed, eating breakfast, coming here. A whole lot of nothing. Torry kept grinning, nodding along with the kid. A couple of “ah yeah,” and “I know that,” and the kid was grinning along with him. Kids liked that. It didn’t matter if you had any clue what they were saying, as long as you pretended, they were on cloud freaking nine. His niece and nephew were a lot like that. Especially his nephew, always talking up a storm. Mitchell? No, no? What was his daddy’s name? Mishawn? No - that’s way off. Michael! Yeah, Michael. Sweet kid, like this little guy here.

He looked at the older kid - two boys, mama must have her hands full - and said, “What are you here for, man? Spider-man or somethin’?”

The bigger boy kept his eyes down, shaking his head. Shy little guy, huh. Torry kept his distance - shy people liked their space - and tried again. “Nah, you wouldn’t like him. You don’t look like the Spidey type, though - ya know, Spidey’s black now!” The kid glanced up, eyes wide. “Yeah, Miles Something. Some M sounded name. Not good with names, here. But yeah, he’s a black kid. Might wanna check him out. My nephew - his name’s Michael. Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - MJ - he likes the spider-kid. But you -” Torry looked the kid up and down, pursing his lips for a second before breaking into a megawatt smile - “you like that magic shit - shoot, crap, right?” The kid finally looked up, into Torry’s face. Jackpot. “Harry Potter, that kid’s more your style, yeah?” He nodded, cautious and unsure. “Now I never read no Harry Potter, but my sister’s kids love him. And I seem them movies, great stuff, great stuff. Books probably better.” He nodded again, a little more sure. “You know, my shit - crap, don’t you start swearing, no copying me - my favorite was uh...Tol...Tolkien. That guy with the hobbits and shi - stuff. I liked that. Tolkien and Beagle and, uh, Christ what was his name...Pullman and Pratchett. Ya read their stuff?” The kid shook his head. His eyes were wide, absorbing everything Torry said. Their mom stood behind him, a hand on her enormous belly, rubbing gently. She looked cautious but had a strained sense of calm around her, like she was trying to appear relaxed around this big guy talking to her young boys. Torry couldn’t blame her. “You should, you should. Hobbit, and uh, Last Unicorn by Beagle, and...Discworld by Pratchett. They the best. Go and check them out and let me know what you think.” The boy nodded, his little brother nodding along with him, and they took off.

Torry laughed. He smiled at the mom and stood up. The line had all but disappeared. He watched the mom follow after her boys in the children’s section. They should find all those books there, if not...he might have to talk. Actually…

He approached the last person at the information booth. Blue hair. It was pretty. They were pretty. Pale skin, no zits or anything, a little soft looking, like a chubby Bambi, cute little deer with round cheeks and bright eyes. Torry grinned and leaned on the counter.

“Are you here?” he asked.

Blue Hair looked a little confused. Torry leaned in - not too close, don’t wanna appear like a creep - and read the name tag. Charlotte. Pretty name.

“Miss Bronte - that what your mama and daddy have in mind? Or was they thinking about E.B. White?”

Charlotte blinked, stunned. “Uh, no, no. It’s my grandmother’s name.” Her voice was soft, light. “She passed shortly before I was born. I uh, never really thought about it, but yeah, Charlotte Bronte and, uh Charlotte’s Web. Usually I, uh, get one or the other. Can I help you with anything today, sir?”

‘Sir.’ He liked that. Not in a weird way. He had been calling people sir and ma’am his entire life; felt nice to have it turned on him. Being treated with respect. “Well, I got a couple things. First, is you really here?”

“Yes?”

“Gonna sound rude here, Miss Bronte, but the question makes me suspicious.”

“I don’t know, uh, what you mean by that question.”

Torry laughed a little. Course she wouldn’t understand. Well, he shouldn’t judge. Man don’t judge - that’s God’s job. His sister understood to an extent, but she didn’t really understand. Sympathy versus empathy. Something like that. “Sometimes I see people that I saw passing by on the street,” he explained. “I see some guy with a pretty red bird and suddenly I’m seeing him all over - the diner, this here library, the train tracks. And he ain’t really there. Everybody around me say so.”

“Oh. Oh, no I’m, uh, I’m here. Just started today.”

“Well, alright, good.” He turned behind him. No one was in line behind him. And Eamon wasn’t there either. Good. Just once today, after he helped that nervous kid at the meter. Once is good. More than that...not so good. And he was having a good day. “Gonna be a good day,” he mumbled, more to himself.

“Is there anything else I can help you with…?”

He turned his famous gap-toothed grin on her. “Bernard Torrance Wright Junior. Everyone calls me Torry.”

“Torry,” she said, lips quirking a little. “Parents name you after, uh, Jack and Danny Torrance from The Shining?”

He laughed, loud and deep. Man, she was funny. Like his sister and niece - they were quick. “Nah, but you’d think that, wouldn’t you? No offence. That was smart. Nah, it’s my daddy’s name - don’t know where Torrance came from except his mama. Funny thing is my sister’s name, her name’s Susannah.”

“Like Susannah Dean?”

“Yes and no. Coincidence. Funny, though, right?”

“Very funny.” She was smiling. Torry looked again behind him. Still no one.

“Her middle name...my mama’s name was Cairo, like the city in Egypt.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and, uh, she liked to say - my mama liked to say that she was descended from the queens, the pharaohs you know? I think if my daddy woulda let her, she woulda named me Osiris or some shit. ‘Scuse me, crap. He let her do what she wanted with Susannah, though, so mama named her Seshat.”

“I can’t remember that one.”

“Iss okay. Seshat was uh, a librarian and scribe. Focused her talents mostly on accounting, math, history, and astronomy. Think that’s why my sister is a - a teacher.”

“Makes sense.”

“She got two kids, my sister. Her and her husband. He also a teacher, a math one, I think. Her kids...she got a boy named Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - common to name your boys after their daddy - and a girl...shoot, can’t remember her name.”

“That’s all right. Is there anything book-related I can help you with?”

He jerked his head. Shit, maybe he wasn’t gonna have such a good day. Jerking was never a good sign. Did he take his meds? Torry looked down at his hands. They were shaking. No, no, he took them. Susannah always made sure he did - she was good to him. Why was he shaking, jerking? He clenched them into fists and put them in his pockets. He looked around. More people were in the library, but there was no line behind him. Jimmy was helping a kind-looking old lady, but that was about it. Torry held down another jerk, and looked back at Charlotte.

“Yeah, sorry. Get distracted easily. Uh, just wanted to make sure you got some books in the children’s section and not the fantasy.”

“Which ones?” She sat up a little straighter, looking eager to please, and typed something into her computer.

“I shoulda checked, but I don’t go into the children’s section that much.”

“That’s okay.”

“Uh, The Hobbit, Last Unicorn by uh, Peter S. Beagle -” she was typing into her computer, eyes focused completely on the screen - “Discworld by Pratchett - can’t remember his first name - and uh, Golden Compass by Mr. Philip Pullman.” He waited a second. “Last one might also be under Northern Lights - they changed the name in America for some reason. Maybe they think we don’t know about the lights.”

“They do that a lot,” Charlotte said. “At least often enough. Harry Potter is The Sorcerer’s Stone here but The Philosopher’s Stone everywhere else. Publishers were afraid Americans wouldn’t understand the book was about magic, so they changed the title.”

“Thinkin’ we idiots when we beat their butts in the war.”

Charlotte grinned at him. “Right? Looks like we have all of those in -”

“Excuse me.”

A man appeared next to Torry. He squinted at the man - no, he was a white dude. Nothing like Eamon. Shorter than Torry - most men were, mama used to say Torry was built like a damn bull, he was so huge - with a crop of gelled over dark blonde hair. He looked professional, in a nice pair of navy trousers, white collared shirt, and a beige cardigan. Looked like he was a librarian, though Torry couldn’t recognize him. He squinted harder. Shit, was this another faker?

Charlotte looked between the man and Torry. “I’m sorry, sir. I was helping him -”

“I need your help.”

Charlotte looked down the information booth, slowly. Torry followed her gaze. Kara, Jimmy, and Gracelle were all at their spots, smiling at the incommers. No one was in front of them. “I’m sure one of my colleagues would be able to help you, Mr.”

Torry snorted. He shouldn’t have, but it was funny. The man gave him a dirty look, before turning back to Charlotte.

She ignored him and turned her body a little more firmly towards Torry. “Sorry, uh. All those books are in the children’s section, except for, well, most of Discworld. We have a few copies of The Shepherd's Crown checked out -”

“I have a meeting in Room 192,” the man looked pissed. Not as pissed as Charlotte, who quickly tired to school her face into a kind expression, but still pretty pissed. Middle aged, white woman about to ask for the manager pissed. “I need to know where Room 192 is.”

“Sir, we have maps right over there by my colleague, Jimmy. Jim - can you -”

“I don’t want a map. I want you to tell me.”

Torry scowled down at him. He knew he was no faker - even in his fucked-up mind Torry couldn’t come up with a dickhead like this guy. He shook his head. Susannah told him he shouldn’t say that. He wasn’t fucked-up. He had a condition. Million had it, she had told him. When mama died, Susannah took over everything - including Torry. She insisted - hell, begged him to get help, and he accepted it. Anything for her. He felt better too. The fakers disappeared - mostly, Eamon still popped up, but the doctors - she even got him doctors, Susannah, she really was good to him - said it might be something else. Maybe he had PTSD or something. He had laughed because that’s what he needed, two things wrong with him. Everything had gone well until he forgot to take his meds, and then it was like a snowball. An avalanche. Susannah and Michael Senior opened their home - he was lucky, so lucky. Michael offered to help get him a job, but Torry declined. He was stubborn, too much like their mama and daddy to accept that. He could take help from his little sister, but...not when it came to a job. That he had to get on his own. He just had to.

He snorted and the man glared at him. “What?” he asked angrily.

Torry shouldn’t have said anything. He should have shaken his head and let Charlotte deal with the dickhead. But he was his parent’s child, silly as that sounded. And just like Bernard Torrance Wright Senior and Ciaro Norman Wright, he did not have a filter when it came to assholes.

“You’re just being a dick, man. You need to wait your turn. Plenty a people will help ya. Kara, Jimmy, and, uh, Gracie. They’re just sittin’ there. You wanna pick a fight, kick the black guy outta line.”

“Are you calling me a racist?” The man looked like he was gonna start foaming at the mouth. Jesus. Torry looked around at the library. People stopped and were staring. Some had taken out their phones and were recording this. Everybody gets interested when a white person looks to be fighting with a black one, especially when that “R” word gets thrown about.

“I didn’t say nothing about that.” Torry said. “I just said you wanna pick a fight, otherwise you woulda gone to someone else, not Miss Bronte over here.”

“Why did you bring race into it? I’m not racist!”

Torry snorted. The man’s eyes started bugging out of his head. A faint snicker coursed through their growing audience. Dana Blechman slowly made her way into the room, hand going towards her walkie-talkie. He laughed a little. Shit.

“Sure you ain’t, man. Sorry I offended. Look, I’ll just step aside -”

“Do you know who I am?”

Ah fuck. Why couldn’t this white dude drop shit? Torry raised his eyebrows. The man pushed up on his tiptoes - any other time that would have been funny, had he not been on the receiving end - and got into Torry’s face. He looked deranged, eyes wide, a sneer curling his mouth.

“I am Ryan Pollick, the youngest lawyer to ever make it to Richmond and Kaymuk’s Law Firm - the youngest lawyer in the city, hell, the state! I have friends in high places, pal, black friends too. You need to show some respect!”

Torry looked down at him. Pollick was breathing heavily. Torry nodded once, then turned to Charlotte. “The Wee Free Men is in stock? Color of Magic,too?”

Charlotte’s mouth opened. She shut it quickly then looked at her screen. “N-no,” she said. “Wee Free Men is in stock in the children’s section - we have about two copies, but The Color of Magic is - well, it’s in stock, but it’s in the fantasy section. We only have -”

“Tiffany Aching in the children’s section,” Torry finished. Charlotte nodded. Torry smiled at her. “Thank you, Miss Bronte.” He turned back to Pollick. The man had sunk back to his feet, but looked no less ferocious. Like a chihuahua in a purse. Torry pointed up the stairs. “Room 192 is up the stairs. Landing you can see splits off into two sections - you’ll wanna take the one on the left and stay left. Those take you to conferences and offices. Even numbers on left, odd on right. There a couple breaks, but keep goin;’ those are just bathrooms and closets. Have a nice day, Bollock.”

Torry waved goodbye to the information booth and started to walk out. The room rumbled quietly as people started to discuss what they just witnessed. Torry raised his hand to Blechman, who nodded, looking relieved.

He hopped down the steps, now going down the right side, quietly saying hi to each of the statues before turning down the street.

***

Torrance ended up spending most of the day in the park, reading an old copy of Wyrd Sisters. He had read it before - hell, he had read all of Pratchett’s books at least a dozen times - and the pages were falling out. Might have to ask Susannah to a new copy. All his books were starting to look like they belonged in the trash.

He held the book in his hand, tracing over the cartoonish depictions of Pratchett’s characters. He hoped that boy checked him out. It was a good series. Good themes and shit.

Torry cracked his neck, and tossed his bag over his shoulder. He began making his way to the train tracks.

***

The sun had gone down when he had finished Wyrd Sisters. He smiled to himself and put the book back into his backpack. He didn’t usually finish things. TV shows, food, books; getting ready was like revving up an old car - a lot of stop and go. It was part of his condition. Least that’s what Susannah said.

He sat back on the grassy space next to the tracks. It was his favorite spot next to the library. Besides the library. The tracks were nowhere near the library. He had always liked trains, more so as a kid. They felt like the start of something. What? Anything. They could - would if you had paid the price - take you anywhere, take you away from everything. After Eamon...Torry shook his head. Before Eamon. Before.

He never was good with time. Past time. Backwards clocks. They were difficult to remember. Moving forwards - when the library opened, when his sister and brother-in-law went to work, when the kids went to school - those times were clear as day. A good day with lots of sun and shine.

It had to be before the accident, though. He was always like this, always a little off. He saw things that weren’t there, heard things no one else could. They were never malignant - no, that’s a tumor. What’s the word? Malicious. That’s it, malicious - they were never malicious, so he had never thought they were a problem. Until mama and daddy found out. Then it was a problem. He was too old for them to pass it off as imaginary friends - since when is too old too old for imaginary friends? Who decides this shit? - and that’s when it became an issue. That’s when he knew he was fu - messed up. He had a condition.

It wasn’t given a name until after - was it after? Yeah, it was after. Ambulance had taken him to the hospital to check and see if he had a concussion. No concussion. A few broken ribs, a broken nose, and a mind that had been broken forever. Didn’t know why. Well, knew why his body was broken, but not his mind. Nobody knows that.

He remembered the doctors - not the ones that fixed his body, other ones. Ones that asked him lots of questions about things he’s seen and heard. The doctors told his parents and Susannah. Why had she been there? Cause of Eamon. Eamon was gone. And then, shit, then he said those bad things. “E didn’t fit so God took him out. Shoulda named him John Coffrey or Ben Hanscom. Christian names. Names that fit us. He wouldn’t have died if he had the right name.” Mama broke down and cried. Daddy didn’t know what to say, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Susannah just looked sad. When the doctors told them - “we think your son had schizophrenia” - they hadn’t said a thing. They had looked relieved. There was a word for it.

And what a word. Torry shifted in the grass and stared over the tracks. Schizophrenia. Starts with a snake noise. Hisss. Then a sharp C, like cookie. Piercing like thoughts and images, like Eamon broken and bloody, flying out the car windshield.. A soft I, sounding kinda like when you don’t know how to reply. “Eh.” But with an I. “Phren” like saying “friends,” which is funny ‘cause when you have the diagnosis of schizophrenia, ain’t no one wanna be your friend; you just have your sister, if that. Susannah’s a good friend, good sister. She don’t think so but she is; she just got a stubborn older brother, that’s it. Then - where was he? - ah. A soft sound to round the whole thing out. It was pretty. A pretty word for something he couldn’t explain.

Torry looked at his backpack. Maybe...maybe he’ll go home tonight. Go to Susannah and Michael’s home. Have dinner. Sleep. Take a shower. Oh, nice long shower. Nothing out of the ordinary. Take his meds. Ask Susannah if he took them this morning. Then...and yeah, maybe he’ll take Michael up on that offer. Get that janitorial job. Then...then move out and be a man again. Susannah would still insist on paying for his meds and doctor visits - making sure he took everything. That would be okay. So long as he was taking in his own, wasn’t crowding their space.

He looked up at the hill across the tracks and the bridge above. There was some graffiti up there. How did anyone get up there? They got stilts or something? Stand on top of the train and spray a design before it goes? Gotta be Flash to do that shit. God...God would be there. Maybe that’s what this morning was all about. God telling him to go ask Michael. That’s what mama would say. God is reaching out to you, boy. That’s what she’d say.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Torry turned. Some guy was stumbling towards him. Looked drunk, his shirt pulled out of his trousers, cardigan askew. Ass-cue. Funny. Torry took a deep breath. Smelled drunk too. Nasty beer. Nothing fancy, just...nasty. He looked familiar. Wrong, though. Like deja vu, but you know something’s wrong. Torry squinted. The man came closer. Ah, shit.

“You, fuck, you got me fired you, shit fuck!”

Torry started to stand up. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything to that white guy. What was his name? Bollocks? Weird name.

“Look, man, I didn’t do nothing. Sorry you looked bad -”

“I did nothing wrong! You can’t even - you don’t - I needed to know where to go, and you made a scene!” There was spittle coming out of Bollock’s mouth. A bit landed on Torry’s cheek. Nasty. Nasty beer leads to spit and nasty attitude. Torry didn’t wipe it off. Might piss off Bolly; anything can piss off a drunk, and a pissed off drunk is worse than an angry drunk.

He backed up. No one’s coming. He could cross the hill and start to Susannah’s house. He turned his back, and made his way down his hill. Jack and Jill.

“I’m fucking talking to you!”

He ignored him. Something shattered - beer bottle - next to him. He started walking faster.

“Hey! Hey, shit fuck, come back here!”

What kind of a name is shit fuck? Your name is Bollocks. You have no room to call anyone a shit fuck, whatever that was. Can’t even come up with good nicknames, why are you scared? Torry - he wasn’t scared of him hurting him. Being hurt. He didn’t want conflict. Not alone, not with a drunk.

Heavy footsteps behind him. Torry thought he should turn back and say something. What? No. No that wouldn’t do anything. Don’t need the cops called. Don’t need to be hurt. Does he have a gun? A weapon? Doesn’t matter. Drunks will do anything, use anything. There was another noise getting louder, rumbling. Rumble. Rumble. Like a lion. Purring. Lions don’t purr, though. Rocks, pebbles, really, chattered at his feet. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit -

“Fuck! I said -”

Torry turned around. What a sight! Two bugged-eyed men, mouths wide. One short, semi-polished white guy, looking like a vase someone knocked off a shelf. The other a big black dude in mixed-matched clothes, alternative style. Mirrors. Carnival mirrors.

“Man, we gotta go somewhere else. Train’s coming!”

“You think I give a fuck about the train?”

“You will when it kill you. Come on, let’s go!”

He shouldn’t have said that. Drunks don’t like to be told what to do. Not angry drunks. The man’s eyes got wide and he stomped over to Torry. He tried to side step him, but the guy got in his space. “Don’t. You. Fucking. Tell. Me. What. To. Do. You. Shit. Fucking. Ni -.” Each word punctuated with a shovel or a jab in the chest. Noises getting louder, so louder. Harder to hear the white guy, though he knew what he said. The word on so many white guy’s tongues, in the back of their throats. A word ready to spill over, be thrown out like a boomerang; but they don’t want that to come back. They want it to be like one of those shitty boomerangs on TV. They fly and hit something, and don’t ever come back. But they do. Maybe not a minute later, maybe only a little later, maybe years - but it comes back and strikes them on the back of the head. And they cry asking what happened. Cause they forgot. But he didn’t. Black folks don’t. You remember. You remember.

What Torry remembered suddenly, as he was pushed into the tracks, as the train sounded, loud and violent, no longer like a lion, but something man made, piercing and sudden, no preamble, was her name. Annaleise. A searing pain. Bright light. Loud. Annaleise was louder, though. Annaleise Anut Templeton. The warrior.

***

The police, ambulance, and fire arrived half an hour later. They had received a frantic call from the condoctor about a man falling in front of his train. “I couldn’t stop”, the conductor had said, his voice hoarse from crying. They had assured him it wasn’t his fault.

It was gross - there was no other word for it. The body lay in two pieces. A big man, maybe seven feet tall when pieced together. The conductor had said he fell into the tracks and stumbled backward, tried to get his footing to jump off. He didn’t make it. The man had turned enough to where his torso was off the tracks - and that’s where it hit him. His lower half still lay on the tracks, a bloody mess. The clothes mashed with the meat and bone. Blood was everywhere.

The torso wasn’t clean, just...cleaner. Blood and entrails fell around the torso. Some still connected it to the pile that had been his lower half. His backpack was open slightly, torn book pages flying around him and those at the scene. Some pages framed his head and upper back, like a warped halo.

The worst part was his face. Bulging eyes and mouth, opened wide at the horror. As though he knew the train was coming. As though he wasn’t supposed to be there.

***

2 Years Later.

Pete Sampson stood at the edge of the railroad tracks. He swallowed and checked his watch. Five minutes. He straightened his back and rocked on the balls of his feet. It would be quick. It was quick for that one guy - Benjamin or whatever his name was. Guy made the news for how graphic it was. Pete swallowed again. Best to focus on the quickness rather than...the aftermath.

“Whatcha doin’ here, man?”

Pete turned his head. A young black man stood just a few feet away from him. He hadn’t heard him come up. Pete looked him up and down, taking in his Stanford hoodie, army jacket, and ripped jeans. Dude didn’t look like he belonged here; clothes were too nice, too clean. He shrugged in response.

The man came closer. He kept his space, a couple feet to Pete’s left, and mirrored him - hands in his jean pockets, arms pressed to his sides, shoulders hunched, and facing the tracks. Pete watched him out of the corner of his eye before glancing at his watch. Four minutes.

“Always liked it here,” the man said. He was still looking at the tracks. Or maybe the little hill across from them. “It was away from everyone without being away, you know? And...I could think about leavin’.”

Pete said nothing. He swallowed again, his throat dry and eyes suddenly itchy. He rubbed at them, tears collecting and sliding down his worn cheeks. Damn cold weather.

“Your mama loves you.”

“What?”

Pete looked at the man. The guy’s eyes were on him, large eyebrows furrowed in concern. Why did he care? He didn’t know him.

“Your mama,” the man repeated, “she loves you. She’s tired, but she loves you. Mamas are like that. They get tired - workin’, cleanin’, takin’ care of their babies - but they don’t stop lovin’ their kids.”

“She’s got my brother. She’s fine.” Pete had no idea why he was telling him this. He let out a shaky breath and checked his watch. Three minutes and thirty seconds. The pebbles on the tracks started to shake. He took another breath and started forward. Then hesitated. He swayed for a moment.

“Yeah, she does.” The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t reached out to stop him. “She has - what’s his name? Chad? Thad? -”

“Tad.” He didn’t ask how he knew.

The man nodded. “She has Tad but she also has you. Her babies. Probably sees you as a set. Salt and pepper shakers. Corn and - and - shit, I dunno, what goes with corn? Peas?” He shook his head. “Whatever. Your her boys, her boy.” Pete looked up at him. The man reached out and gently, slowly, put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. There was a loud noise to their right. Neither moved. “Go home and talk to her. Give your mama a hug. Betcha she’s sittin’ there in her chair, cryin’ and wonderin’ where her boy is.”

Pete stared for a moment. The pebbles rattled violently below; a loud horn sounded. It vibrated in his bones. He shifted...and nodded. Pete turned away from the tacks and made his way up the hill.

He should have said something. Thank you? He glanced back, wondering what he could possibly say. The man was gone. A small smile curled his mouth and he kept walking up the hill.

***

A lot could happen in two years. Graduation, a new job, new relationship, the ending of a relationship - the possibilities were endless. For Ryan Pollick, the last two years felt endless.

He wasn’t sure what drove him to come back to the train tracks. If he had been smart, he would have stayed away. The cops didn’t trace anything to him. They probably could have if they wanted to. But no one cares about mentally ill guys, regardless of how friendly they seemed. Ryan scowled. Friendly. That was one word.

He pulled up to the hill next to the tracks. Nothing had changed. Little fence was still there, a sorry attempt to keep people away from the tracks. Lot of good that did. Teenagers and homeless fucks alike were hopping over that thing, the teenagers for the thrill, the homeless for...who the fuck cared? The only new thing - Ryan sneered - was a little white cross next to the fence. RIP Torry Wright.

Anger, red, burst in Ryan. Fucking Torry Wright. He shut off the engine and got out. For a moment, he just stared at the sign. Then, he kicked. The cross fell over - it wasn’t very deep in the ground - and he kicked again and again. It didn’t break, but now the pretty white thing was covered in dirt, gross, just like the man it honored.

Ryan snorted and looked down the hill. It was dark, and he couldn’t see much. He had thought about coming here in the day, but the dark feeling had swelled up inside and he decided to wait until night. It was difficult to explain the dark feeling. Many would have attributed it to guilt; he knew his wife, Emily, would have done so. But that wasn’t it. It was...fear. Cold and dark. It pierced his bones and mind, caused his teeth to rattle. The fear of being caught and losing what little he had gained in these last two years.

His sneer deepened, and he climbed over the fence. He walked down the hill, hands in his suit pockets, before stopping a few yards from the pebbles, the tracks.

He remembered everything. How video of him at the library, being talked to like some idiot by that fucker, went viral. How people saw him as some antagonistic racist - him, racist! - messing with some idiot homeless guy. People scouted him out, listened to that audio. If there was one regret he had, it was stating his name and place of work. Those viral videos should have taught him better. SJWs would hunt you down if you so much as looked at a black dude; didn’t need to give them a hand.

Ryan remembered coming into the office after the meeting. James Richmond and Carrie Dean Kaymuck Richmond themselves had called him into their office. He had been elated, thinking about his Emily and their baby girl. He had been certain he was getting a promotion - he had done so well on the Himmolt case - hell, he had done fucking supreme on every case, every client given to him. Instead, he was met with fury. Cold and hot. Two sides of the same emotion, emitting from the husband and wife owners, as they showed his the viral video. How he had been nicknamed Line-cutting Larry. Carrie Dean’s eyes burned as she told him to pack his things. Ryan had turned to James, and that fucker just stared, eyes cold.

He had done what they asked. He grabbed his shit and went to another law firm. And another. And another. Each and everyone of them denied him, pointing at that goddamn video. He had graduated top of his class at Stanford, and he couldn’t get a job in the city. If it hadn’t been for Stephen Pollick giving his only son a job at his tech company...Ryan didn’t like to think about it. He glared at the tracks.

There was not an ounce of regret in him. Not when he shoved that nigger. Not now. And there would never be regret. He ran his hand through his hair. He had no idea why he came here. To show off? He smirked. Two years and he was finally back where he belonged. It may not have been Richmond and Kaymuck, but it was a firm, nonetheless. He had another girl; three beautiful girls - Emily, Cassia, and Violet. He was still in the backroom, but soon, soon he would be out in front, publically getting people off.

Ryan laughed a little. Raking in the money while that fuck who ruined his life was dead. Smushed. Mashed. He laughed harder.

“What’s so funny?”

Ryan grinned and looked. A tall black man stood off to the side of him. He hadn’t heard him approach. Ryan looked at the lights framing the tracks, then back at the man. He looked familiar; it felt like a senior looking through the freshmen section of the yearbook. Ryan pointed to the man’s hoodie. “What year?” he asked.

The man didn’t respond. He took a step closer, and Ryan’s smile fell. There was something off about him.

“Why you here?” the man asked.

Ryan stared before shrugging, his back straightening and jaw tightening. He shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t make conversation with some dude, let alone a black dude you meet at the tracks.

“Two years.”

It was wrong, off. Something changed. Ryan stiffened, not out of superiority but out of that dark feeling quickly seeping into his body like an oil slick.

The man stared at Ryan, eyes burning brightly. “Two years ago, Bernard Torrance Wright Junior decided to take his brother-in-law up on his offer, get a job. He never even made it home.”

“No, he didn’t.” That wasn’t incriminating. Ryan knew the law. It was just a fact. Wright didn’t make it home.

“He had a family. Sister, brother-in-law, two great nieces and nephews.” The man held up two fingers. “One of each.”

“It was sad.”

“Not to you, you shit fuck.”

The dark feeling started to gnaw at Ryan. Get away - get away. He started to leave, when the man pushed him in the chest. Ryan stumbled backwards. The pebbles were starting to shake. A horn blazed in the distance. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck -

The man stood in front of him.

“Listen,” Ryan started. “I - I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about -”

“Yes you do,” the man said quietly. It was getting harder to hear him. The man straightened. He shimmered. There was no other word for it. His body shimmered and gleamed like some gossamer fabric had been in front of him. His youthful face faded away into something older, worn. A gray and black beard framing deep laugh lines. A dusty green beanie on a graying hair. His legs - oh, Jesus - his legs vanished. At his pelvis was a mass of intestines, hanging out of his body, dripping something, like a leaky faucet.

Ryan looked up in horror. The man’s face was set.

“Oh fuck -”

“Fuck you, you shit fuck!”

The man shoved him and Ryan screamed. The train came, loud, not stopping. The pebbles bounced, jittered. He watched. Ryan was there, and then he wasn’t, caught under the wheels of the train. There was a thump, but nothing else. The horn’s screams continued on, man-made screams muffaling man-made screams. He closed his eyes. A weight lifted itself off his shoulders.

“What do you think happens now?”

Torry opened his eyes. There was a man in a nice black suit. Man in Black. It looked a little too tight on him, too modern. Torry’s body shimmered, but the man held up a hand.

“Don’t change on my account,” he said. Torry froze, his body remaining as it had been when he died.

“You ain’t scared.”

“Not really.” The man came closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’re a good man, Bernard.”

“I don’t know you.” It sounded childish coming from his mouth. The train was still going by.

The man smiled. “Carleton Ruscoe,” he said. “I’m a paranormal investigator.”

“Carlton Bank’s doin’ ‘Ghost Hunters’, now?”

His smile widened. “You know your pop culture references, don’t you?” Torry shrugged. Carleton’s face sombered. “You still didn’t answer my question. What happens now? You’ve fulfilled your purpose of staying here.” He gestured to the train. “Where do you go?”

Carleton wasn’t wearing any paranormal gear. Maybe things had changed. Two years is a long time. Surprisingly longer once you’re dead and don’t have a calendar. They should fix that. Calendars for ghosts. Maybe Steve Jobs can make a phone for ghosts. Dead obviously can’t read Living folks’ calendars or there’d be a lot few hauntings.

Torry watched the train for a moment. “Guess I go up now,” he finally said.

“Go up where?”

Was this man dumb? Torry pulled a face. “Up. Heaven. Chill with my bro Jesus over a cold one.”

“You think He’ll let you up?”

Torry’s eyes widened. He had to let him up, right? He stared at Carleton. “Everybody told me God lets good people into Heaven. Believers get a really special place, but all good people go to Heaven. Like dogs but only some people.”

Carleton nodded. “What makes you a good person?” He pointed to the tracks. The train finally passed by. There was a lump where Ryan had been standing, unidentifiable as anything remotely human. Maybe a microscope or some CSI detectives could see a person, but most would see...gunk. Did he look like that? Torry glanced down at his body. Just his legs. He didn’t remember his legs, but they must have looked like a squashed bug on a windshield.

“I been helpin’ people,” he said. He looked at the other man. The man stared back, his lips quirked. “I’ve been helping.”

“One bad deed overwhelms them all. It’s true that you’ve saved fifty, maybe a hundred lives. But you have also taken a life. Not out of mercy, but out of vengeance.” He paused. Torry’s eyes widened impossibly. No. No. This man - he doesn’t know God. He doesn’t know the Bible. The Bible says - “The fifth commandment: Thou shalt not kill.”

Torry started to rock back and forth, his intestines swinging. His breathing was ragged. “No. No you wrong. Thou shalt not murder. That’s - that’s what it says. Killin’ is takin’ an innocent, but murder is takin’ - takin’ a not-innocent.”

“Do you really think that matters to God?” Carleton took a step closer. “We interpret His commands however we want them, but we don’t really know what He meant...what He means. The church says one thing - He could have very well meant something a little different.” Carleton looked at the tracks. Torry couldn’t look. He couldn’t. He was good. He had been good. Life and death. He had to go up. Why wasn’t he going up? “And, to be quite frank, Bernard...how do you know this man was not innocent? He pushed you, yes, and for that he will suffer. But he was also a devoted father and husband. A loyal son. Attended church every week. God...God would judge him. That’s His role. And you did it for Him.”

He couldn’t. No. No. That’s not what - God judges, He is the Judge. But Torry did the judging. He tried him - he had been the court, the jury, judge, and executer. No defence. God had a defence attorney - He looked at everything, the whole of someone’s life. He was Judge - and Torry...Torry...

Carleton reached into his pocket. “Why do you think you’re still here?”

Torry screamed. He grabbed onto his beanie and pulled. No. No. No. No.

“I’m sorry, Bernard.”

Torry bent over, still screaming. Carleton threw something at him, small and square. It hit him in the head. He couldn’t think. He...he was good. He was...There was a sucking noise and then nothing. Silence.

Carleton strode over to the box and picked it up. He put it in his pocket and, with one last look at Ryan’s remains, walked up the hill.

2001 13 GHOSTS VS 2018 13 GHOSTS

The Torso: a man missing his limbs; could be a result of how he died or a birth defect.

Jimmy “The Gambler” Gambino loved to make bets. He had been making them since he was a child. Unfortunately, his last bet would prove deadly. He gambled against the wrong man, and as a result, he was chopped up, wrapped in cellophane, and thrown into the ocean. He is still looking for his head.

Bernard Torrance “Torry” Wright was a homeless man with schizophrenia. He was loved by many, but not all. One of those men ended up taking his life, pushing Torry in front of a moving train, severing his body in half. Unlike Jimmy, Torry was a relatively benevolent ghost, a gentle giant in life and death.

Taurus, the Bull: With the First Born Son being Aires, The Torso would align with the zodiac Taurus, the bull. Torry was a large man, built like a bull, according to his mom.

#writeober #13ghostsrewrite #13 ghosts rewrite #tw: racism #tw: racial slur #tw: attempted suicide #tw: graphic content #tw: death #tw: swearing

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