It'll all make sense later.

 

The dim gray lights leading through down to the vault were flickering, a syncopation of blinking that washed the faces of the guards walking in front of and behind me, packed together like peas in a pod. Both wore starched grey suits that were jealous of how starched and formal the lines pressed into there mouths, silence was there language; no matter what I asked them was met with a blank stare and a repetition of the same words my grandfather told me on his deathbed. "Do not worry, it will all make sense in a moment." 

We were greeted by the cold steel walls of the vault, sleek and shining in the flickering light like flecks of gold in a settler's pot. The two men nodded to each other and inserted two small green plastic keycards in the door, with a soft click two small panels opened up in the wall, the two pressed a long code into the panels and with a sound like a river running through a rock the door swung open, revealing a dark room illuminated by a single lightbulb, this lone spotlight shining down on a small brown desk with a simple folding chair. Atop the desk was a small black briefcase with my Grandfather's name embroidered on the top. The two men stood back, giving me space to examine the box alone. I could practically hear the sound of my own heartbeat pumping through the air and echoing across the walls. I sat down at the table and opened the case.

Inside was an assortment of items. The first was a receipt for a venti caramel latte from the starbucks next to my house. The second were three cans of my grandfather's favorite drink, pepsi. However these were empty, and bent and crumpled into right angles. The third was an unfinished bottle of jamesons, the fourth a small container of Chocolate Storybook blue raspberry cotton candy. And lastly a small notebook. Tattered and decrepit with age and several brown stains that looked suspiciously like blood splattered across the cover. As I opened the notebook, I saw staring back at me the last message my grandfather had left on this world, the final echo of his life before the great mystery.

"You're Trash James."

I blinked "What?" and looked to the men at the door.

"What is all this?"

The first man shrugged

"Your Grandfather didn't like you mate, I think he was trying to do a... what's it called, a Metamorphosis?"

"Metaphor." the second man corrected.

"You're joking right? How much effort did this take? How much money?"

"Entirely too much." The first man supplied

"Definitely not worth it in the long run. What a weirdo."

And with that, the two returned to silence. I just stared and stared and stared, like, what the fuck? Looking over the miscellany of a failed burn I shrugged and opened up the raspberry cotton candy. At least I got something out of this right?

Uncle Phil ruins thanksgiving

 

"You're just pissed cuz' mom says she never loved you!" Uncle Rick shouted.

"Only cause your face is so damn ugly that it made her lose her will to live!" My dad fired back.

And in the middle of this Thanksgiving day war, was me. Young enough to understand that Uncle Rick and Dad would never be okay with each other, but not old enough to fully understand why the two hated each other with a passion akin to Cain and Abel, but if Abel slept with Cain's wife.

"You know you were always like this; ever since we were kids and you stole my Captain Lazer figurine you've always been an ass," Uncle Rick fired.

"Yeah it's not the only thing I stole from you..."

Before uncle Rick could commit fratricide; I decided it would be best to intercept with a light joke.

"You know you two need to stop it, you practically make me wish I was adopted!"

I expected a light laugh, the deflation of the aggressive atmosphere, that or some minor admonishment from my dad that directed their ire to me; but with my age removing the potential violence from the reaction. What I did not expect however, was my uncle and dad giving me the same look I made when I see grandma Betty's green bean casserole surprise: abject and unabating horror.

"Huh? HUH? how did you know?" Dad asked.

I looked confused. "Know what?"

Dad looked like I had just crashed his car, quickly however the despair turned to rage as he whirled towards uncle Rick.

"YOU! YOU TOLD HIM! DIDN'T YOU!"

Uncle Rick was genuinely surprised, but responded with thick venom: "Absolutely not, I don't exactly brag that I lost Carol to an impotent moron."

Comprehension dawned on me,

"Wait, I'm adopted!?"

My dad looked at me with deep pain in his eyes that silently answered my question for me.

The rest of Thanksgiving went by with a horrible taste in my mouth, and I'm not talking about Grandma Betty's Cooking.

Child's view

 

Child:

I approached the spooky haunted playground; Jerry told me that if you were swinging on the swings at exactly 10pm on a Saturday you would hear the voice of a REAL ghost. And he heard it from his dad who he told me was the Pope and so I could obviously trust him. Anyway back to the story, I was sneaking up on the old swing set, it was really chilly and I forgot to put on my coat while I was sneaking out the window; I did remember my juice boxes though. if Mom knew I was trying to meet a ghost I’m pretty sure I would become one. 

As I sat down on the swing it kept creaking back and forth back and forth like EHHHHHHNNNAGH and WHOOOSH over and over; I loved swinging on swings, but when I tried to go on them at recess Kyle would push me off them, saying they were only for big kids. I kept going higher and higher until I finally heard a spooky OOOOGGGGGHHHH! It shocked me so hard I flew through the air and smashed the ground with a CRONCH! I landed on my juice box and the side of my face was covered in Fruit Punch Surprise. 

Whirling around I looked for the source of the sound and saw a guy sitting on the slide. He had his head buried in his arms and had his own juice box lying empty next to him, his was made of glass though and it smelled like old uncle Tom after his wife went to heaven. 

Adult: 

Old Saueurpfhmeig park; It was a drab place, built in the seventies after the baby boom happened it was once a happy place of bright, vibrant playground equipment scattered about like toys poured out of a toy chest. But the years had not been kind to it, Drab rusting browns and sunbleached primary colors with the thick scent of gasoline coming from the abandoned British Petroleum nearby. Every couple years there are murmurs in the city council to try and restore the area, but due to the price tag attached those dreams were quickly abandoned. 

The last time I was there was when I celebrated leaving to college with some good old fashioned teenage drinking, the time before that was for a late-night prom romance; but the first time, the first time was when I was just eight; a bright eyed kid who decided to head to the park for a dare, to be honest it wasn’t eventful on my way to the park. It was chilly as hell though, frost clinging onto my eyebrows like a desperate rock climber; my novelty yu-gi-oh t-shirt was not proper attire for the evening. 

I was sitting down on the swing, I can’t fully remember why, it had something to do with the dare I think. Something like: “Swing on the swingset for ten minutes to make the Ghost show up or something like that. The swing was straining with the effort; making whining sounds like a puppy. When I heard a sad scry pierce the rhythm of the whine. It scared little me and I let go of the swing, smacking the ground like a bird that hadn’t fully grown it’s wings. The juice box in my pockets popping and splattering my face with a thick sticky red liquid. 

I bravely faced the source of the noise, expecting some cruel spectre, but instead came face to face with some homeless guy. Well, I assume he was homeless, the thick peagreen army coat was matted was dirt and he was undulated with a miasma of bourbon stench that if you handed him a match I’m pretty sure you’d light him on fire. Empty Jameson bottle rolling past his foot and his eyes, man. His eyes were a cave in complete darkness; empty hopelessness that extinguished all light around him. The same look old uncle Tom had after his wife got hit by a car in ‘00.

Some descriptions

 

1. After being zapped by the body changing ray, John Smith (formerly international WWE champion, super spy, racecar driver, gourmet chef, sex god Fabio Caliente) was once again catching all the ladies' eyes as he walked down the street. Only this time it wasn't in adoration, it was in sheer horror. John Smith was no Adonis, but was instead a man whose father was almost certainly a blimp. He was more sphere than man, as the buttons on his dress coat strained like that one scene in Captain America: Civil war, you know the one I'm talking about. John Smith attempted to walk with Fabio's legendary saunter that drove the girls (and guys he didn't discriminate) wild. But in the untrained feet of this ball-man, was more like he had spilled some ice cubes down his back. And that face, dear god his face, Fabio had the chisled features of an angel, John Smith however had the chiseled features of a Picasso. And with Fabio's confident lip bite looked more like he was trying to eat his own face. 

2. Mark moves with the grace of a cat, balancing a small hot teacup with delicious cinnamon tea in one hand and the TV remote in another. Gliding to the couch he snuggles between the cloth and his boyfriend; some cooking show is on, the details completely lost on him as he gazes forward with contented ignorance. Happy to be warm and snuggled together on a cold October day.

The Great Struggle

 

The clock struck at 6pm, the simple chimes from Rick's watch proving a grim portent of what was to come. He sighed. And took his headphones off.

"Hey, Trent? Want to order some 'zza? I'm starving."

Trent looked up from his laptop, his face a mask of fear and anxiety.
"Uh, sure man. I could go for a slice; Need some brain fuel to finish this paper."

"Oof yeah I know that feel, Gotta exam tomorrow, get this, worth half my grade. Absolutely criminal that they would do something like that."

"Preaching to the choir buddy, mines worth sixty."

Rick laughed easily and scrounged through his wallet.

"Three... Three twenty-five... Three Fifty... You got any change?"

Trent foraged through the couch and added another three-fifty to the hoard.

"Alright, looks like we've got enough for exactly one pie, obviously we're going for a Classic Pepperoni right?"

Trent's face scrunched into a mask of confusion.

"What are you talking about? we should go Hawaiian."

Rick stared at him as if Trent admitted to killing a small child.

"You're joking right? Who ruins a good pizza by desecrating it with pineapple?"

Trent looked offended
"Uh, ruin? what are talking about? Pineapple on pizza is like the thing God created on the eighth day."

Rick sighed and said

"Okay okay, whatever you do on your time is between you and God, but I have my exam tomorrow, so I need the fuel."

"Okay but I have my paper tomorrow, so I need the pineapple to power my way through these last pages."

"Oh come on, my exam is way more important, and you had all semester to write your paper! If it mattered that much why didn't you start it earlier?"

Trent turned a thick red the color of tomato sauce

"Well same to you buddy, If this exam is so bad, why didn't you study normally?"

Rage growing, Rick forced himself to stop and breath for a few moments.

"Okay Okay, lets settle this the old fashioned way." Rick opened the drawer next to his desk and produced a gleaming black '45.

"We're getting pepperoni."

The "doris" open

 

The door creaked open to a flood of light as Mickey was forced to look onto true horror, Children. The Living room was littered about with toys like grains of sands on a beach; cars, dolls, knights, dresses, pokemon, teapots. A sea of childhood dreams and fun that ruined Mickey's. The TV blaring out gaudy flashing colors and a droning earnumbingly loud jingle about friendship assaulted Mickey's sensibilities. And yet there was still more horror to come. Crouching amongst the chaos were the two conductors of this symphony of adolescent chaos, A young boy and an even younger girl, The boy was hard at work sticking together toy soldiers onto the backs of triceratops with an utterly foul smelling green slimy substance, and the girl was busy forcefully holding down a small schnauzer while trying to braid it's fur, the dog looked up to Mickey and sent him one desperate plea with it's eyes:

"Run"

And so Mickey did.

---------------------------------------------

With the manic energy of a prisoner running from the cops, Mickey tore through his apartment, he had to find it. Doris was on her way this very second to enjoy watching the Vikings game, or at least Mickey thought the Vikings, he never was much of a sportperson, much to his ex's chagrin. He was always more of a People-pleasing-dear-god-help-me-I-don't-want-to-be-alone kind of person, and so he watched all the same. Either way if he was gonna get through this lovely afternoon, he *had* to find it. He tore through couch cushions, foraged through the carpet and upended bowls of seven-layer dip in search of his holy grail, but to no avail.
*Ding-dong* the doorbell chimed in mock pleasantry.

"@#&$!!!!" Mickey pondered.

He turned to face the door like a son about to hand his parents a bad report card, when he saw it, gleaming on the ground like an oasis of water within the desert, His bottle of Xanax!  With a triumphant dive Mickey pounced on the bottle and with one pill he was reborn, now he wasn't Mickey the anxiety-ridden mess, but Mickey, the well still anxiety-ridden but now he can hide it with drugs mess. With the suave and grace of Don Juan, Mickey opened the door.

"Doris! it's great to see you." He said, sweeping the door open.

"Mickey, thanks for having me over." She stepped inside looking radiant in her bright khakis and Kirk Cousins jersey. 

"I was so worried after what happened last time, I forgot to tell you about Sarah and Michael, they can really be a handful." 

Like a true man who is afraid of commitment, he gave a non-committal shrug and offered her a place at the couch.

"I've got everything for a great game today, beer, wings, chips, you name it."

"And dip?" she said, gesturing downward with a teasing smile on her face.

Mickey looked down and saw a massive stain of dip on his shirt from when he poured it out. His face a deep crimson he begun to sweat profusely. Doris looked at him with concern

"Are you okay? You look like you're running a fever,"

But all Mickey could hear in this haze was one word she said, Run.

And so Mickey Ran again.

Egg story

 

I still remember the first and last time my breakfast spoke to me. I started the day just like any other, my alarm clock blaring as a heraldic butler busting down my door and commanding me: "My good sir, it is time to get up, you can't be a lazy waste of space all day." I rolled out of my orange cloth blanket directly onto the floor with a loud *CRUNCH*. With a mouth full of dirty socks I mumbled under my breath a soliloquy of swearing that would have made my late sailor father beam with pride. I lumbered to my feet and imagined smashing the clock with a massive hammer, but for now I would have to settle on lightly pressing the off switch.

Swaying into the bathroom with the grace of a drunken three legged ox I quickly refreshed my mouth and body with a minty toothbrush and a not-so-minty shower. I looked over my outfits for the day, dress shirts, slacks, jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, gowns and a menagerie of professional to semi-professional costumes; So I chose the rattiest old college hoodie and pajama pants I was wearing the last three nights in a row, and yes ladies, I'm still single.

I finally reached both the kitchen and the good part of my story; A simple beige white colonial affair straight outta the days of the Andy Griffith show. I would love to tell you that I prepared a lovely brunch of french toast, bacon, eggs, and orange juice so sublime that Gordon Ramsey would be forced to tearheartedly admit he was nothing more than a lying hack. But my depressed ass only had the energy to pour some liquid egg product into a pan and scramble it. Deciding against dirtying both the pan and a plate I elected to sit with just the pan and a fork on my couch. I could smell the waxy processed air from the eggs wafting into my nostrils and would you be shocked to hear that that didn't immediately make my mouth water? I scooped some eggs in my mouth with a sigh when I heard an echoing quiet voice from my mouth. 

"Ah agony, misery, the torture of such fleeting lives! Hail Jove whyds't thou allow me to exist if only to strike me down as Porphyrion!"

Time stood still as my brain slowly started to catch up on what was going on.

"Umm... hello whose there?"

The eggs on my plate thus spake

"Fie oh cruel behemoth, thoust has breathed life into us as God breathed life into the clay, and as Adam thus forsake God why shouldst we exist without defiance of you?"

To be honest I just stared at the soggy yellow mush on the plate.

"Ummm" I swallowed hard.

"AAAAAHHH oh damnable tortures!" 

"Oh god I'm sorry I didn't think to... wait... just? Ok what's going on?"

The eggs looked at me indignantly... don't ask me how I could tell I just could.

"Are thou as daft as the clay you were born from? With a face as cruel as Hephaestus?"

Color rose to my cheeks.

"Hey that's... that's not very nice."

"We have no need for niceties; you chose to birth us, so why do you dare cast judgement upon us you vile cur!"

Now I had never been called a cur before, and to speak frankly I still don't know what that means. But I had had enough, I grabbed the plate against the protestations of the eggs and hurtled them out the window. where they flew into the street, sunny side up.

Cold Shoulder

 

Blades of icy wind carved into my flesh on the cold December morning. One would think the large buildings of Major City, huddled together like penguins in the Arctic would provide some relief from the weather. But Mother Nature was a cruel and heartless Bi-, sorry, language, my bad.

As I turned the corner of the street I, Brutus, came upon my proverbial Caesar; Old man Withers. Withers lay prostrate upon a throne of cardboard and old fast food wrappers; holding his pet greyhound like the Virgin Mary in La Pieta. I sighed and steeled myself, this would be the third day in a row I passed my old friend, and it would be the third day in a row where I would deny him the money he needed for his dog's medication.

As I passed his face the color of dirty gray snow eyed me:

"Jack, please, can you spare some change?"

I opened my mouth to recite my line, but something was different this time. His eyes, those damn eyes, like a prosecuting attorney staring into the cold, dead eyes of a murderer broke me on the inside. A blazing fire of truth burned me to my very core and threatened to engulf me. And thus I spoke:

"I can, but I won't."

Wither's eyes widened in shock.

"The truth is I need someone like you to exist to make me feel better about myself. If I gave you money, then your life would be ever so slightly better, and if your life; the life of a beggar cold and hungry on the street, was better or even happy? then I would have to acknowledge that my life is not better or happy and the whole facade would crumble away and I might actually look at you like you were human."

I was shocked at what I just said, but Withers was more shock. His face a mask of confusion melding into shock and then anger. He started to rise slowly and flicked a pocket knife from his pocket. Taking the subtle hint I decided to run.

A silly vampire story

 

I could feel my half-vampire, half-werewolf, half-ghost blood roaring through my veins as my hell bike tore down this small town’s main highway. I breathed deeply and tried to let my blood at ease, I first blocked out the sounds of the innocent pedestrians hurtling themselves out of my bike’s path from my mind and settled my thoughts on the reason of my mission. My archnemesis, The Morarity to my Sherlock Holmes, The Iron man to my Captain America, The Voldemort to my Harry Potter, The Mcdonalds to my Burger King, Draculars. The billionaire Eurotrash playboy that killed my pet hamster and also my family and my adopted family had told me to come to this small town’s gazebo so that we could finally settle the score. I swore vengeance upon the monster, if my name wasn’t Von von Helsing.  

My hell bike skidded to a halt as a tore into the center of town, I could see Draculars waiting at the center of the Gazebo but it took me a while to get to him cause I kept trying to find a parking space but I guess this place was super crowded on Sundays so there wasn’t a single parking space anywhere. I settled on parking my super rad bike in front of a Von Hansen’s butchery, the scent of fresh blood filling the area that made my stomach a little squeamish. I straightened the black leather trench coat my mom said made me look super cool over my square shoulders, I tightened the black scarf across my neck to hide the gills from my half-mermaid blood and donned my trademark black sunglasses to hide my half-cat eyes and sauntered across the street. 

“Hey Jackass! Watch where you’re going!” The man who almost ran me over shouted at me.  

“Oh- uh s-s-sorry.” I stammered back courageously.  

As I stepped onto the twisting brickyard leading up to the gazebo, I saw all kinds of cool stuff, like green lamps, and like, uh some yellow park benches. It was super memorable I’ll tell you what, a totally gnarly place to have an epic confrontation with your archnemesis. I saw several families immediately look up and start to back away from me, probably because of the innate grim aura I gave off, that or from the gallons of sweat pooling off me: Damn you Draculars! Why couldn't we have our epic struggle someplace nice and cold like the Artic or something.  

I approached the Octagonal white gazebo and sitting there in the center like a King waiting to pass judgement on a lowly peasant was him.  Draculars, it seemed like he was regretting this choice of venue like I was, what on account of the oceans of sweat oozing from his vampiric skin into his exorbitantly expensive Italian suit.  

“So we meet for the last time once again, Hellsing.”  

“A displeasure to see you to, Draculars.” My voice came out gravelly.  

He stood up and looked down at me like a child looking down at his Brussel sprouts.  
“I must ask, Von Hellsing, why is it that you hate me so much?”  

“Why? You bastard you know why!” I roared at him. “You killed my father!”  

He sneered “That’s where your wrong boy! The truth is, I am your Father!”  

Dread pounded into my heart like I had been shot by a bullet made from dread from a gun made of dread. “What, No, That’s not possible!”  

Draculars had a look of shadowy faux compassion on his face, like he was enjoying twisting the knife further every word. “Why do you think I brought you here? Don’t you remember the prophecy?” 

This time I could feel a knife made out of dread plunging into my stomach, the words of the prophecy, once so cryptic had become crystal focused.  

“That’s right. ‘One day you will meet your father when he calls you to this small town’s gazebo!’”  

“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!” The futility of Von Hellsing’s screams were cut short by a sudden blackness as my Mother shut off the TV.  

“I think that’s enough cartoons for you today young man, you should get busy on your homework.  

And so, like Von Hellsing’s tormented path, I walked back to my room. Alone.  

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A description to die for

Old Daisy hill used to be such a pretty place, The Willems bought that farmland back in the 20's and somehow managed to survive the depression, but it wasn't easy. Scarlet Fever was spreading through our small town like a small child trying to cover the whole piece of toast in jam. The Willems lost alot, their farm stock, their money, their crops, and worst of all their youngest daughter, Daisy. She was buried under this large yew tree in the center of the hill, and everybody in the town when they came by would plant daisies on the hill, in memoriam. Later they built a small playground with those slides and swings and twirly tops so that Daisy could keep playing with the other kids. The whole hill had this tragic memento mori to it. The pale white lillies were like a blanket pulled over a corpse at a mortuary. Countless numbers of them that engulfed you in a sickly sweet scent of nostalgia, but not the good nostagia of Christmases and birthdays. This hill smelled like the nostalgia of broken bones, of angry parents, of Mother's drinking and Father's belt.  The yew tree poked out of the flesh of the earth like a broken bone, jagged and pale white. The playground itself was old, faded colors that were once vibrant reds yellows and blues but were now the color of tongues, dirty teeth and gray skies. Gone were the crowds of children that gathered on the swings and slides, all that was left was one small girl swinging lightly on the swing sets. I allowed myself to approach her. 

Edward character folio

 

The amber sunlight rays splashed onto the canvas known as Edward Malkavor. He groaned a gentle sigh as he rolled out of the massive fluffy bed. Despite the  best efforts of Morpheus, Edward's perfectly quaffed blond hair fell around square wrought shoulders in defiance of his bed's attempt to ruin it. He walked to the curtains and took in the beauty of his sun-drenched Italian Villa. The pale white marble and concrete blending in perfectly with the small town around it, yet somehow enhancing the whole view. Like a chef mixing in just the right amount of pepper to perfectly compliment the dish. Speaking of cooking, Edward's stomach drummed a low hum, heralding that it was time to get to breakfast.

Edward passed through the bed room into the long hallway leading to the Kitchen and Dinner room. The hall was a simple affair, wide enough to allow two abreast and long enough to really show off how much wealth the owner has. The entirety of the wall was covered in thick bronze mirrors, a hazy whisky colored lens of true beauty as Edward walked by. Edward's body was chiseled into marble with such perfect grace that made Michelangelo look like a University of Phoenix online reject. Masculine sublimity that was tempered with the compassion of a man who had given almost everything he had to charity, keeping just a small pittance to afford a lifestyle of well deserved luxuriousness.

Edward entered the Kitchen, a city of granite countertops, knifeblocks, ovens and other cooking accoutrements. over looking this heaven for chefs was a large oaken dinning table Edward had commissioned from a carpenter who had been living on the streets, dressed in a simple white table cloth with settings for three; Cynthia and her current husband were waiting at their seats. Cynthia strode to her little brother and gave him a hug, the cinnamon of her perfume and the warmth of the hug reminding Edward of the times that the whole family would gather around a small campfire under the Pont de Arts and their mother would boil the river water and mix it with a hershey's bar so the family could pretend that they were having a happy Christmas, drinking hot chocolate by the fire.

"Bonjour mon petit frère. Did you sleep vell?"

"Yes mon amour. Tell me, 'ave you and Charles eaten?"

Cynthia laughs "Non, this is 'arry, Charles was the one I 'ad at Christmas."

"Oh, my mistake, good morning Harry." 

Harry nodded into his coffee, putting far more attention into the stock reports playing on the television.

"Well then, I will make you all a meal like you have never had, please sit down." And so Edward begun to prepare his art. He Laboriously began to squeeze oranges, toast toast in the toaster, and fry bacon. The whole while watching  Cynthia and Harry. Harry was a statue transfixed upon the television, the American announcer assuring the audience they needed to buy low and sell high. Cynthia tried to brush herself onto Harry's shoulder like she used to do with Robert, the third husband, but Harry was ignoring her completely. "A shame," Edward thought to himself, "Cynthia's dressed to the nines today, if he keeps this act up, he'll end up like Johnathan, the fifth husband."

Edward continued the orchestra of cooking before coming to the proverbial violin solo, He reverently removed from his pantry three beautiful black diamonds. Glittering and and so reflective that Narcissus himself would have given up on his pond for a glimpse at these eggs. He cracked them open with a deft ease that scrambled the gold inside with some light cheese, ham, and herbs. 

With the fine Italian china prepared, Edward brought out his artwork for the exhibition, a beautiful breakfast full spread for them all. Harry finally tore himself from the television as the three began to eat.

"My god, these eggs are extraordinary! How did you make these Edward!"Harry exclaimed saying ten more words than Edward had ever heard him say.

"Well the secret is just enough goat butter to allow for an even fry, you have to get it perfect. Phoenix eggs are extraordinary, well, were extraordinarily temperamental when it comes to the pan.  

Harry looked as if he had just received word that his mother had died. "Wh-What! You mean- P-p-phoenix eggs!? But, didn't those go extinct three years ago?"

"Officially, yes, however, I decided to make sure to buy up all the rest for myself."

"T-That- I mean- but surely- I - What? - No?"

"But officially and unofficially now, after this breakfast than Phoenixes will truly be extinct." Edward paused and sipped on his coffee. "Anyone up for a game of badminton later?"

A tasty challenge

 

Javier brought the main dish along, I didn’t actually know the name of the dish, It, along with the wine were some fancy French names that I couldn't pronounce. I just did the logical thing and tried to buy the most expensive things on the menu for our date. 

The thick meat strips had a faint salty flavor, coupled with a gamey umami curtain that blanketed the tongue. Was this what rich people eat? Give me a burger any day.The wine itself tasted like fermented grape water, yes I get it, that’s what wine is supposed to taste like, but I expected something more somehow. A hint of pineapple and some light tartness was it. I dunno, I guess from something so rich I expected something… tasty? I guess rich people just like emptiness. 

Carletta quietly cut into the meat with a simple grace that the only movement seen in her body were light tremors seen in the pearls hung around her neck. Vacancy within her eyes reflecting the taste of the wine.

Character cloud journal

 

Research Ideas

 Currently the research I need to go into far more research and detail into Japanese and other Asian mythologies. My current story focuses on an Asian-inspired culture that I want to flesh out to make feel far realer, and as a white dude that never has been outside of America I need to do alot of research to make sure I've got that stuff more effectively. 

Furthermore I need to also do some research into military tactics and revolutions, as the story takes place in a "war of the lions" esque setting, a war for control of the region between several powerful forces; a firmer grip on the concepts of tactics thereof would be beneficial