when brothers dwell together, it is good. [trigger #23]

Freddie couldn’t believe how quickly things felt normal with Marco. There were a few awkward conversations, several moments where they were forced to talk about things they’d rather have skipped, but far less of all that than he had expected.

He found the fact that he could remember so little of what had caused their rift in the first place depressing.

How did it get to be three years?

That afternoon feels like a lifetime ago; they came so close to blows, screaming face to face, nearly touching noses. Freddie wanted to call, even later that day, to clarify, backtrack, apologize, plead. He was still too angry, and too embarrassed. Each day the anger gave way, but the embarrassment grew. Every day he didn’t call made it harder to think about calling the next.

Now, he was just happy to have spent the last three weeks knowing he could call his big brother again.

It was amazing how similar they had stayed, even without talking. They discovered and loved so many of the same bands, cherished so many of the same movies, it was a wonder they hadn’t run into each other at concert venues and movie theaters.

Whenever he gets a text from Marco that makes him laugh, or they share the same thought at the same moment, he think about how stupid it had been to let bullshit get between them for three full years, especially when things could have been resolved and made right so much more easily than either man had anticipated.

**midnight, time’s up, gotta stop writing. them’s my self imposed rules.**

wine. [trigger #22]

Marco sat down across the table from his brother.

They hadn’t spoken in three years, and before arriving he wasn’t sure his brother would even show up, but here they were.

Their father had left them little when he died, but for one remarkable thing: a bottle of 1947 Château Cheval Blanc. It is one of the rarest and most valuable wines in the world, praised by many as the greatest wine ever bottled.

Since he’d left it to both of them, they’d decided that on the ten year anniversary of their father’s death, they would get together and share the bottle, just the two of them. They picked a restaurant they hoped would survive the ten years, even picked a time.

Much had happened since then. That was before the betrayals and infidelities, before the words that couldn’t be taken back, before the screaming match the finally resulted in Freddie storming out the door and out of Marco’s life for the last three years.

There had been no contact. Not a single phone call or email, no birthday cards or messages through a friend. It had been complete silence.

So, Marco didn’t know whether or not to expect Freddie to show. Marco had the bottle of wine, and while he warred with himself for the last few months, he had decided to honor the memory of their father and keep the date they’d made ten years earlier.

When he arrived, Freddie was already there, seated at what had been their regular table. As Marco sat down across from Freddie, he was surprised. He’d expected that upon seeing his brother the anger of past hurts would flare up again, but instead he felt only sadness. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed Freddie’s face until this moment. He blinked back tears before Freddie might notice the moisture and nodded to his brother.

There were a few moments of awkward silence, neither being sure what to say after all this time. Freddie’s face was unreadable, Marco couldn’t tell if his feelings were of hatred or remorse, or something else altogether.

Marco called the waiter over to uncork their bottle, and they waited in silence for the wine to breathe. Minutes passed, and each stared awkwardly at the table, their silverware, other diners, anywhere but at each other. It was agony.

“Well, shall we?” As Marco spoke, his voice cracked from so long in silence.

Freddie just nodded.

Marco poured them each a glass, slid one across the table to Freddie and took his own.

Freddie raised his glass, “To Papa.”

Marco took a moment to respond, it was the first he’d heard Freddie’s voice in so long and he felt the sadness return. “To Papa.”

Marco sipped the wine. His eyelids closed as his eyes rolled back into his head involuntarily. Nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming beauty he was tasting. It was otherworldly. Full and strong and smooth, lacking any hint of acid or harshness. It tasted divine, miraculous. He took another sip, drawing in more this time.

So many flavors sang in harmony on Marco’s tongue. Chocolate and caramel, earth and leather, pepper and… was that mint? It was overwhelming. Marco looked across the table, Freddie seemed to be experiencing much the same thing. He returned Marco’s stare, their eyes met for the first time before Freddie looked down at his glass. Yet, before their brief gaze broke Marco was sure he saw a smirk on Freddie’s face. Not just any smirk, that trademark Freddie smirk that meant he was trying to keep from laughing, the one he always wore when he was trying and failing miserably to keep a straight face while lying.

Freddie held his glass up to the light, stared for a moment, and then turned his face back to Marco. “Holy shit, man.” He smiled for a moment, then both men burst into laughter. They laughed until they cried, and when they finally stopped each man knew that not all of the tears were from the laughter. There were nuances of other feelings in that moment, relief and intimacy and love and thankfulness. Some of the anger stayed on the tongue as well, but tempered as it was by all these other flavors it took on a new character.

Marco took another long taste of the wine. He was amazed how varied the flavor of wine can be, full of so many things. A moment and a vintage each have the ability to take on flavor from their surroundings, from their aging, from their care, and still each has the power to surprise.

Marco marveled at how this strange process of death and fermentation and rest can create flavors of spice and sweetness, fruit and candy and chocolate, can draw in the nuance of the earth and the sunshine that nurtured the grapes, and can give off a taste of beauty and redemption, salvation and reconciliation.

He took the bottle, and poured them each another glass.

there the mountain sat, happy and personified. [trigger #21]

There the mountain sat, happy and personified.

Centuries ago, the people believed that the mountain was a giant who had been sleeping so long in the same place that the earth itself had formed around his massive form.

The giant had been tricked into sleep by a great sorceress. She did this to save a small village of farmers from the giant’s wrath. Now, that village had become a city that bustles in the shadow of the mountain.

The sorceress was kind, and lacked any hint of vengeance, so she was sure to give the giant peaceful, pleasant dreams while he slumbered beneath the rock. The sorceress was also very wise, so she gave the giant dreams of the goodness of the people who lived in his sleeping shadow. If ever the giant awoke, he would look with love on the people he discovered and would defend them from any danger.

Thus, the people had seen the mountain as their guardian, ready to awaken whenever danger became great enough to rouse him.

Now, the people laugh at the foolishness and superstition of their ancestors. And on the giant sleeps, snoring gently beneath the layer upon layer of rock.

wolverine takes a job as a telemarketer. [trigger #20]

Things had been tough in this economy, even for mutant vigilantes.

Xavier’s had seen a significant drop in funding, and Wolverine had agreed to take a temporary job as a telemarketer in order to contribute a small amount. He wanted to take a more rewarding, satisfying job. Protection, cage fighting, bounty hunting; anything that would let him crack some skulls. Sadly, the professor convinced him it would be bad for mutant relations at the moment, so here he was calling strangers in the attempt to sell them insurance against termite damage.

He sat leaning back in his chair, drinking a beer. His supervisor had come by earlier to tell him he couldn’t drink on the job. Wolverine had stared at him silently until the squirrelly pencil neck had made some excuse as to why he’d allow it this time and hurried away.

Four hours into his shift, Wolvie hadn’t made a sale yet today. He was getting angrier and further into his twelve pack by the minute. Normally, he just sounded bored as he rattled off the lines on his sales script. This particular customer had made the glorious mistake of being belligerent on the phone. Logan revelled in the opportunity to display some much needed agression.

They’d been arguing for several minutes when the high pitched squawk of the man on the other end of the line came through, “Who do you think you are, calling me up at my house and talking to me like this? Put your supervisor on the line.”

Wolverine took a long swig of his beer, then, in a voice that was clearly 100% serious he whispered, “Listen, Bub. You have two options right now. Either you buy insurance to make sure you never have to pay for holes termites make in your house, or I’ll come down there to… what is it… ah, 313 Lexington Ave. and put three new holes in your body for you, free of charge. Honestly, I’m hoping you go with door #2.”

Minutes later, Logan’s squirrelly manager came around to congratulate him on his first sale of the day.

love wins. [trigger #19]

Harry is tired. Work never seems to end these days.

Used to be, back in the times of Voldemort, that all darkness was attracted to the man like a magnet. There was no random violence, because anyone with even the most remote violent tendencies was pulled toward the most powerful and evil wizard in history like a moth to a flame.

Now, without the gravitational pull of Voldemort, the violent and deranged are scattered throughout every shadow and crack in the wizarding world. It keeps aurors like Harry busy, to say the least.

He apparated at the scene of the crime to see there were no muggle officers yet. He’d hoped this would be the case. Muggle deaths called for interdepartmental cooperation, but he’d hoped to arrive at the scene first, so he could have his way with the place without showing anything that wasn’t meant to be seen by muggle eyes.

Several aurors were already on the scene, and as he would be taking lead on the case they filled him in on the details. Two muggle victims, mid-forties, both professors at Durham in the philosophy department. One wizard victim, apparently mid-twenties, identity still unknown. Signs indicate the Cruciatus Curse had been used on the victims for some time before their deaths. Neither muggle victim was physically mutilated, but the wizard had been touched up quite a bit.

Written on the wall, presumably in the wizard’s blood, was two words: Love Wins.

Other than that, there was no remaining sign of who might have carried out the violence. Without thinking, and even though it hadn’t tingled in nearly two decades, he fingered the scar on his forehead. He needed to get a message to Ginny, he wouldn’t be home for dinner tonight.

kiwi. [trigger #18]

She stared at this odd bird, wondering what on earth to make of it. It seemed a living incarnation of proof that God has a sense of humor. It had grown heavier than its kind was meant to be, softened by its life of ease in the preserve where it could rest without fear of predators. It’s fat, round body looked like a chipmunk that had swallowed a softball, but in truth she knew that if seen close up it was larger than a softball.

It’s long pointed beak brought to her mind the masks doctors would wear during the bubonic plague to ward off ‘bad air.’ She laughed at the idea of this flightless, chicken sized bird as a doctor, making a living checking the health of the many petrels. The idea was especially enjoyable when her imagination added the cape and hat of a 14th century doctor. If she knew how to draw, she’d like to get it down on paper to share with her children when she went back to the states.

aliens. [trigger #17]

Czal’s pod rematerialized on the far side of the moon. Fluid seeped from this three eyes, giving his face the appearance of weeping. In reality, the closest equivalent we’d have in our own physiology would be that of vomiting. He felt miserable. The process of de- and rematerialization was a trying one, impossible for anything larger than a two-body pod. Yet, as terrible as the experience was, it allowed his people to travel over vast distances of the galaxy with near instantaneous speed.

Anywhere in the galaxy where they had travelled to build a receiving station became mere seconds away. Two by two they could move large numbers in a small amount of time.

This was far better than the painfully slow process of light speed travel. When an expedition took off for a long light speed trip they knew that they’d never see anyone they left behind again. Also, so much would change during the journey that it made communication with other civilizations moot. The ability to travel instantaneously allowed for fruitful relational, commercial, and political interaction to be had with civilizations which had previously been out of reach for anything but the vaguest introductions.

Czal was the only one on his current mission. It was a mere fact-finding run, checking on the development of the population of earth as the Intergalactic Union had been doing for centuries, with the aid of a receiving station which sank below the moon’s surface and would be utterly invisible to the searching earther, even by one standing on top of it.

Every 75 years someone else made this trip, slipping down to the earth’s moon in order to spy from above on a species which was still too warlike and primitive for first contact to be considered. At this point, the result of earthers gaining access to confirmed knowledge of other species in the universe would be disastrous to this young planet. Still, it was important to keep an eye on the people of Sol’s third planet so that one day, when they’d evolved to readiness, contact would be made and the earther’s could be brought into the great intergalactic family.

As Czal recovered from the painful remat, he began to rediscover his excitement at the chance to encounter so odd and youthful a species, far more violent and angry than any he’d encounter anywhere else. The prospect was fascinating.

a hope fulfilled is already half a disappointment. [trigger #16]

He’d been dreaming of this day for so long.

He’d planned out what he would wear to inspire the most confidence in himself; he’d imagined what he would say and how she would respond; he’d come up with topics of conversation that were in his wheelhouse and could show off his best side; he’d even imagined the way the steamed half and half would bring sweet notes out of the well balanced bitterness of his espresso. He imagined looking across the table at her, exchanging thoughts and ideas, telling stories of their dreams. The fact that he was really on his first date with Jenny was almost too good to be true.

Yet, something was wrong.

He adored her from afar for so long, saying hello every day at the indie video store where she worked, returning movies he hadn’t even watched just for the excuse to go back in and see her on the days she had a shift.

He thought she was adorable the very first time he saw her, her hipster style made him swoon; her hoodies and cardigans and plaid shirts and skinny jeans were like something right out of the store window of an American Apparel. She was always wearing her Wayfarer shades inside, even on the cloudy days; a trait he found annoying in most people, but in her it drove him crazy with affection. What had really pushed him over the edge was when it started to become clear that they were into the same movies and music. She liked the same obscure bands and directors he liked, she brought up the same scenes he would have when they talked about his favorite movies. It was true love.

It took months for him to get up the nerve to ask her out. He was certain she’d say no. He even practiced how he’d gracefully accept the rejection to save face. He almost plowed right into the rejection speech anyway before he realized she was saying yes, that she was telling him she’d been hoping he’d ask her out for some time.

It was all perfect, except that it wasn’t. Something wasn’t right. He’d been sure how he’d feel, how euphoric and exciting this day would be if the gods of romance ever smiled on him and allowed it to happen. Yet, he felt none of the things he thought he’d feel. Actually, he felt nothing at all. Just a slight emptiness and a vague anxiety he couldn’t quite describe.

He started thinking about what he would do later that evening, his mind wandering into the realm of what movies he’d watch, and whether or not the newest episode of The Killing would be available onDemand yet.

He snapped back to the moment. This isn’t right. His mind shouldn’t be wandering. He’s on a date with Jenny, his dream girl over the last 3 months. What the hell was the matter with him?

He couldn’t even place what was wrong, there’d been nothing particularly disappointing about the conversation so far.

He just knew that he felt a huge part of himself wishing for the excitement and anticipation he’d been feeling these past few months. That thrill had felt wonderful, where was it now?

He smiled at the cute barista behind the counter briefly, and wondered what sorts of movies she liked.

**(trigger is a quote from Michael Chabon’s Yiddish Policemen’s Union. You should read it.)**

the queen of hearts. [trigger #15]

“Oh, look, you’re awake again.

“Does it hurt, darling? Don’t worry, your wounds are superficial so far. Wouldn’t want you dying before I’m done with you, now would I?

“Mm, how sweet, look at the surprise on your face, even after several hours. I’m won’t pretend it’s not gratifying.

“Do you remember me from the other day, sweetie? I know we’ve never met officially, but we bumped into each other at the coffee shop. You were ahead of me in line and you paid for my drink. It might have even been a sweet thing to do if it weren’t for that creepy, perverted, and condescending smile on your face. What is it with guys like you? You think that just because you do something polite for a woman you’re attracted to they’re just going to drop down and blow you right there. Fucking creep.

“Now, don’t worry, your creepy smile isn’t the reason your about to die… What? I can’t hear you through the gag, but if you were trying to say that I think you are, then the answer is, yes, you are going to die.

“Where was I? Oh, right, the reason you’re going to die. So, being a misogynistic prick wasn’t enough, that just brought you to my attention. The reason you’re going to die is because of what happened at the bar the next night. You were out with your little frat boy gang of friends, the one’s who still think their the kings of their college even though you’re all nearly 40. It’s so clichhé and pathetic, darling. I watched as the lot of you got drunk and harassed that poor waitress until she went into the bathroom and wept. That was what sent me over the edge, and sealed your fate.

“Granted, there were other things you did along the way as I’ve followed you these last few days. You’re just not a very nice person. And, this is what I do. I just got so tired of seeing assholes like you spreading their bullshit all over the world. Dicks like you always win, they treat everyone they feel is beneath them – which, let’s be honest, is just about everyone – like shit.

“Well, this time, you lose. I’ve seen to that. You’re going to feel pain tonight. You’re going to feel sorry for what you’ve done, even if it is out of purely selfish motives. You’re going to beg me for life and feel what it feels like to see someone else with all the power. Then, you’re going to die, and you won’t die well, my sweet. It’s going to hurt, you’re going to suffer, and I’m going to savor this memory for the rest of my life, just like I’ve savored the memories of the men who’ve come before you.

“I’m like Dexter, but without that silly code, and without all those daddy issues, and with really great tits. Ha, I knew that would surprise you. You think that a woman can’t appreciate her own sexuality without wanting to fuck everyone who looks at her. Well, fuckwad, no, that’s not how it works. I know I’m beautiful, I love sex, and I wouldn’t go near you for anything. You’re disgusting.

“Blech, such a dirtbag.

“Oh, I almost forgot, look at this! This is new, an idea that struck me just the other day. I’ve been trying to decide what my serial killer calling card would be, when it struck me: why not a real card? See, it’s the queen of hearts! That’ll be me, I’ll be the ‘Queen of Hearts’ in the newspapers and such. Like the red queen in Alice in Wonderland. ‘Off with their heads!’

“Hm, but I can’t cut off your actual head, that would end our fun. I’ll just have to cut off your other head instead.

“Oh, now don’t hyperventilate, you’ll only make yourself feel worse. Let’s see, this pocket knife should be perfect for this part. Off with your head, darling. Off with your head.

the boy who could stop time. [trigger #14]

He was nearly immortal, but no one knew.

He’d been stopping time before he knew what he was doing. Everyone would stop, time would stop, inanimate objects would still be usable, dvd players would still play, as long as he was operating them cars and bikes still worked while the rest were frozen, computers would work but the internet wasn’t operable. There didn’t seem to be any physics or science to it, not even of the silly comic book variety. It seemed to be genuine magic.

He’d done all the various experiments he could think of, he didn’t seem to age physically while time was frozen, he’d even frozen time for three months once, taking pictures of himself every day. It was in the midst of a growth spurt when he was twelve, the spurt stopped as soon as he froze time and resumed as soon as he he restarted it.

He was 16 now, but only physically mind you, he was much older in truth. People marveled at the way he was ‘wise beyond his years’, they had no idea how many years he really had. He didn’t keep track of that, but he figured he was at least 45 in actual lived time.

He’d read thousands of books, seen more movies than he could admit to anyone. He would sit and think for hours and hours without losing any time in everyone else’s world. He would have been a smart man anyway, his brain worked quickly and synthesized well, but this ability he had made him virtually limitless in the things he could learn and understand.

Time was no object to him.

He was introverted but never lost time with others because he could recharge as much as he liked in his own frozen world.

He’d abused his power, especially in his teenage years, teenage in his lived sense, since obviously he was still a teenager physically. He’d stolen, snooped, satisfied youthful curiosities of girl’s locker rooms and showers. This made him feel guilty much of the time, and guilt has a quite a bit of space to roam when you have endless hours by yourself.

He wondered often what his life would have been like if he didn’t have this power. If he’d never been able to shut out the pain of his childhood, the absurdity of high school, the awkwardness and anxiety of another’s presence. The thought made him shudder, it sounded terrifying. How does the rest of the world get by without everyone losing their minds?