apartment therapy. [trigger #133]

There was a time when many of those who put a particularly high amount of care into the look and decor of their home tended dreams of getting featured in Good Housekeeping. Now, the hip young folks who design their dwellings with care dream of being featured on Apartment Therapy instead.

Amy is one of those who share this dream.

Each new piece of furniture she buys, each re-imagined accessory, every few weeks when she rearranges a room in the hopes of getting the optimal effect; all of these things are done in the hopes that she might be able to show the internet her prowess as an interior design artist.

Sadly, she is quickly realizing that there is one thing that will always come between her and apartment bliss: her husband Larry. What troubles her, and yet somehow also relieves her, is that she is coming to the understanding that in a battle between staying with her husband on one hand, and having the perfect apartment on the other, the perfect apartment wins every time.

who’d punch a horse? [trigger #109]

Detective Brothers was a brilliant sleuth, perhaps the finest in the world. Yet, if there was one thing that Detective Brothers didn’t have, it was a sense of humor. Thus, whenever people made a joke about the fact that his name sounded like it was referring to two sibling investigators who went by ‘The Detective Brothers”, he would just shrug, always flatly replying, “Nope, it’s just me.”

That made him the perfect detective to be handling the Carnival Killer case. A man had been traveling to various California carnivals and killing people in odd ways. The methods of murder were so odd that at first no one had seen a link in the rash of carnival deaths. In fact, until Detective Brothers was tasked to start a state-wide investigation, many of the killings had been written off as accidents. That is, until Brothers was on the case, puzzling out details others would have missed.

This time, a horse had gone on a rampage, bucking its way through a crowd, kicking 13 people, killing one from a head injury.

Brothers had been taking in the scene for over 30 minutes by the time his partner arrived. Detective Spaulding was that partner, and his relationship to the world of detecting and humor were in a directly inverse relationship to that of Detective Brothers. Brothers often wondered to himself how Spaulding had gotten to be a Detective; whereas Spaulding often wondered to himself how Brothers kept from killing himself out of misery at his joyless existence. Oddly, the two seemed to work well together more often than not.

Spaulding knew that by now Brothers would have figured out a great deal about what had taken place. “So, is it just a case of a crazy horse or what?”

“No, I believe someone punched the horse, to enrage and panic the animal, causing the unfortunate outburst by the poor animal.”

“C’mon, Brothers. Who’d punch a horse?”

“Clearly, our killer would.”

“Maybe he’s just seen Blazing Saddles one too many times, right?”

“I would tend to believe it is far more complex a motive than that. Yet, I will take your hypothesis into consideration.”

“I was just kidding, Sherlock. No need to go about considering any hypotheses. Whaddya say, is this our guy again?”

“Well, we can’t be certain of anything. Yet, I am almost positive this is our Carnival Killer, again. No one saw who might have punched the poor beast in the mouth, and our killer was able to slip away in all the commotion.”

“If we’re damned lucky, perhaps our guy was one of the victims.”

“Unlikely, the animal reportedly kicked backwards before rearing up. Even if the horse had reared up right away, our killer would have been prepared for such, backing away into the crush of people immediately after delivering the inciting blow.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say something like that. Any chance we’ll be able to identify the guy from the clues your finding?”

“Again, unlikely. I think it’s probable the killer will elude us yet again.”

pigeon shit on their fedoras. [trigger #77]

Their night of debauchery was clearly in evidence. All four of them were unconscious: passed out drunk, propped in various positions against the side of the fountain, pigeon shit covering their fedoras to a remarkable degree. They’d been slumped there for some time. Lou had two black eyes. Herm was missing pants and had tissues jammed into his nostrils in what had clearly been a bloody nose at some point. Lowell was wearing three different ladies garters over his pants. Thurman, all 275 lbs of him, was dressed as a ballerina, all aside from the shit covered fedora that is.

As the sixteenth months ‘Dad’s Night Out,’ it was thus far at once the greatest success and the most remarkable failure.

love as a verb. [trigger #75]

It was hard for Nick to adjust to this new understanding of love that was coming over him. He’d grown up thinking of himself as a ‘hopeless romantic.’ Unlike his other guy friends, he was always interested in romantic comedies and love stories. He thought this meant he was sensitive and well-prepared for the world of love.

Instead, having been in several relationships that ended in remarkable failure, he was starting to understand that what he thought was love was nothing more than infatuation. It was fun, nice, and he really enjoyed it, but it was untrustworthy and went away far faster than he would like. It also didn’t seem to do much to actually care for a woman. He came to understand that much of what he’d  been learning in his romantic comedies, which he thought would help him be a great boyfriend someday, were actually just emotional falsehoods that enabled one to avoid the real work of a relationship.

What the women he’d failed in relationship really needed wasn’t someone to think about them constantly and write poetry about how much he missed them when they weren’t around, although that was nice. They needed someone who was going to listen, for real, even when he felt like shit. They had needed someone who was going to go to bat for them when they were being their greatest enemy. They had needed someone who was going to get up every morning and be on their side, even when the lovey dovey feelings weren’t there that day, even when a woman was letting him down because the ideal he’d invented in place of truly knowing them was falling to pieces.

Love was a doing, not a feeling. He was coming to know that, but it was hard to unlearn all that bullshit from before. There wasn’t anyone out there to complete him; some perfect counterpoint to his personality. There wasn’t a ‘one.’ There was simply people worth loving, with whom you throw your lot in; someone you love with all your strength, no matter the cost.

The task now was letting go of the idea finding a soulmate who made him feel a certain way about himself, and instead wondering if he might find an ally to partner with so that each could become better versions of themselves through growth and fight. It was not by some magical process that happens when he finds that one person who was made for him, with whom we could live happily ever after. There is no happily ever after, there is simply folks worth fighting the pain and injustice of life alongside, and who we can laugh and dream and imagine with.

wisdom comes easily after the fact. [trigger #61]

As it would turn out, it had been a bad idea for Duncan to hold the cat upside down with his hands around its belly. It started out as fun, the cat started getting more and more frustrated, it began making angry sounds. Duncan found the whole thing amusing.

That was when the cat started swiping angrily at Duncan’s face.

The large cat had huge claws, much more formidable than most other house cats. Still, even then he continued to dangle the cat, moving the cat away from his face when it swiped.

The cat had the last laugh though, timing its swipe to wait until Duncan was moving it closer to his face, then lashing with the sort of swiftness that spawned the adjective ‘catlike.’ It quite literally tore a chunk from the bridge of Duncan’s nose, stealing a piece of his face he would never get back.

He screamed and dropped the cat to the floor, moving his hands to his nose to catch the blood. In that moment he wondered why he’d thought it wise to hold the cat upside down to begin with. Wisdom comes easily after the fact.

sharpies. [trigger #41]

He showed up for the meeting ten minutes early. He knew he’d need the time to take a deep breath before getting started.

The reason for the meeting was that he’d lost his temper at work and thrown an empty filing cabinet out of a closed fifth story window. It had been a myriad of things that caused the outrage. A bad morning at home and a fight with his wife, a ticket on the way to work, several hours on the phone with customers angry over someone else’s mistake. He’d managed to keep his cool on the phone with the guy verbally abusing him for 35 minutes, but immediately afterward he’d flown into a rage and now there was cardboard where a window used to be on the fifth floor, and one less undented filing cabinet in the company’s possession. After explaining it to his boss and promising it would never happen again, she’d told him that she understood, and that while she was still furious with him she didn’t want him to lose his job over it. She wasn’t going to fire him, but that didn’t mean he was in the clear. The cost of the window would come out of his pay, and he would probably need to meet with a shrink appointed by Corporate for a mental health check.

The ‘mental health professional’ who would be evaluating him said she wanted to keep things informal, so she suggested they meet at Caffe Fiore in Ballard as opposed to her office.

She had the photo from his ID to recognize him, and she came into the caffe and introduced herself while he was ordering his coffee. He pointed out the table where he’d put his stuff, and left her to order.

She came and sat across from him with her hot tea, and proceeded to empty her bag of everything she’d be using for the evaluation. This included his personell file, a stack of yellow Post-It notes, a notebook, and seven Sharpies covering the entire gamut of Roy G. Biv.

After a few introductory pleasantries, she sat back, pushed her glasses up her nose, crossed her legs, placed the folder in her lap where he wouldn’t see the notes she made, and proceeded to ask him about how he felt about a long list of topics for the next two hours.

She made notes, lots and lots of notes, both in the notebook and on Post-Its that she stuck in his folder. In some code he couldn’t discern, his answers prompted her to continually change the color of Sharpie she was using. This note was in blue, another in purple, then one in green.

It was driving him crazy. What did the colors mean? Why was that note in yellow? What the fuck did yellow mean? And why was that one in red? Is red bad?

Needless to say, it felt like the longest two hours of his life.

candle in the wind. [trigger #39]

**continuation of triggers #29, #37, and #38**

Rowan followed the path for what felt like days. Perhaps it was days, because there didn’t seem to be a true day or night in the Winter Wood. He walked until his legs, feet and back ached; then walked until they went numb with exhaustion; then walked until his legs started to give out under him.

Finally, in the distance, there was a clearing in the trees where the path widened out into a large space. As he got closer, he saw a short pillar in the middle of the clearing with a candle at the top. The candle flickered, apparently always on the verge of being snuffed out. The nearer he was to the candle, the less he could believe that the candle stayed lit. The wind gusted through with a fierceness that would have put out a small fire, so this small candle flame should have been extinguished many times over.

Yet, the candle stayed lit. It flickered, bordered on death, but kept on burning in between the gusts of wind.

Rowan moved close to the flame, and then, as instructed, he pulled out the orange feather from one of his cloak’s many pockets. The moment the feather was in the open air, it seemed as if the candle flame bent toward the feather. Rowan walked around the candle, and sure enough the flame followed the feather, bent sideways, reaching for it.

He looked down at the feather. The only thing he could think to do was give the feather to the flame. What else could he do with the feather in this place? There was nothing else for the feather to interact with. So, he took the feather, held it above the candle, and dropped it into the flame.

The flame hungrily gobbled it up. It consumed it, the fire quickly growing to three times the size it had been before. The flame grew hotter, burning down the wick and melting the candle beneath it. In minutes, the candle was gone, but the flame remained. Where the candle had been there was now a ball of flame, the size of a melon, hovering above the pillar. The heat given off by the flame was intense, Rowan had to shield his face from it when he got within three feet of the flame.

Already, the snow on the trees surrounding the clearing was melting, dirt could be seen on the ground by the pillar. The Winter Wood had begun to thaw.

It was then that the man with the bright red beard stepped into the clearing from an adjoining path. He held a bundle of cloth to his right side, where he seemed to be bleeding. He limped into the clearing and looked at Rowan.

“Well, friend, it seems we’re one step closer, aren’t we?”

bacon. [trigger #28]

He came through the door for the interview, and it was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping. Were it not for the fact that this looked promising from an entertainment standpoint, she’d have ended the interview before it began.

He had long brown hair, unkempt and tangled. The hair was matted and sporadically covered with tiny knots, as if it hadn’t seen a brush in years, perhaps decades. He was wearing a faded blue and red cardigan, with holes at the wrists through which he had pushed his thumbs. Under the cardigan was a black t-shirt that said ‘Give Me Head Not Headaches’ in big white letters. His pants were an odd plaid color, so old and faded it was impossible to tell what the original color scheme may have been. Now the color of the pants resembled perhaps gray, orange and yellow? That was her best guess, she was trying not to stare. His shoes were apparently stolen bowling alley rentals; the red, blue and white variety, they were by far the best kept article on his person.

He approached her desk and extended his hand for her to shake, thumbs still through the wrist of his cardigan. His handshake was limp and noncommittal, as if he were as unsure of touching her as she was of touching him.

Once he’d gotten closer it became apparent that he gave off the distinct odor of frying bacon. It would have been a pleasant smell to wake up to from the kitchen, but emanating from a person she found it nauseating. As she sat she reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a piece of gum to help keep from gagging at the bacon scent that only seemed to be growing stronger.

She was seated behind the desk, but he was still standing where he had been when they shook hands.

“Please, have a seat.” She gestured to the two chairs on the other side of her desk.

“Hm?” He looked down his nose at her, as if he were the one interviewing her and he’d already found her lacking. “Yes, yes. Let’s get on with it then, shall we?”

He buttoned his cardigan like a suit jacket and sat down in the chair with an air of superiority, crossing one leg over the other before again looking down his nose at her from across the desk.

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.

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.