Realistic or Modern 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐰 — 𝐈𝐂

meathook

❝I dunno. Nostalgia, I guess. Don't have much to visit back home so I figured I'd try my luck somewhere else.❞

August 1986. The sun beats down just as hard in New York as it does any other old place, save for the tundra. Being smothered by the gnarled metallic husks of junker cars didn't help any - and Pierce wiped the sweat from his brow as he hauled up a primo carburetor. It was basically theft. A few more of these and he'd have a monopoly on 'em. All the fixer-uppers would have no choice but to buy his junk, not that they weren't really strangers to ripping others off already.

Luca Giovanni was a man that appeared to look far beyond his years. He owned this little chunk of industrial wasteland just outside of Westchester, and aside from falling asleep in his office and occasionally tossing scraps of meat to the dogs - he found entertainment in shadowing the scrappers that came through. Too cheap to hire somebody to make sure they didn't pocket a couple spark plugs, Pierce would guess.

❝Nostalgia...❞, Luca spoke as if he didn't really believe the answer he'd been handed, ❝Shit, kid. There's tons'a small towns Upstate you coulda dipped ya' wick in. Just as backwoods, too. I'll ask again, why Georgia?❞

Had it been anyone else, he'd have just shrugged and turned away. Being interrogated by his acquaintances only left him feeling slightly less pressured than being interrogated by the police. But he'd grown friendly with the guy, and even though his answer was honest, he'd accomodate.

Pierce balanced the carburetor on what was left of the car's hood. A small, pained groan sounded from rusted hinges as he leaned his weight back into it. He squinted against the sun. ❝Not sure what else I can say. My friends are goin' and I'm not sure I'm ready to devote another few years of my life to this major, so this is kinda like a last hurrah thing for me, I guess.❞ Not that they were clued in.

❝Well, what're ya' plannin' to do?❞

❝Not really 'planning' on doin' anything.❞

❝So, what? Ya' just gonna park ya' ass in Georgia and wait until someone throws ya' a bone?❞

A small smile spread out over Pierce's features, creasing the corners of his eyes as his gaze dropped, shaking his head. He answered after a short huff of a chuckle. ❝I'm headed West, actually. I've never been. Besides that? Who knows. Who the fuck knows...❞


September '86. The window was down, the humid wind blew his hair into sticky tendrils across his forehead, and he felt fine. A guilt-free road trip loaded up with good tunes, great weed and even better company. The people in these woods probably didn't even know what him 'em when they sped past, really. The best part about small towns is that the police force is usually too small to respond to your location before you have a chance to get the fuck out of there. Was the perfect opportunity for a bit of B&E. Why's that even a crime, anyway? He just wants to look around. Not like he was ever gonna pocket anything on his way out.

He was still busy playfully pouting at the Bird's swat when she rounded the truck to his side. She was right, of course. He'd come along. With any luck they'd find a nice diving hole somewhere along the way and he could strip-it-and-dip-it. Just for a few minutes.

A satisfactory little cloud of dust kicked up around his boots when his feet hit the ground, and he shouldered one of the packs of booze he brought along - not unlike how you'd see somebody shouldering a boombox.

❝One step ahead, Bird.❞ - He turned towards the treeline, seeking a footpath or something to mark this clearing as lived-in - ❝Tell Andy that if she comes I'll stop swiping her smokes. Er - for the day.❞

Diego's Derby Diner was a business trapped in a dated, nineteen-fifties aesthetic in a rundown part of New York City. The once vibrant, yellow walls were peeling and faded; a similar fate was bestowed to the cracked, leather booth chairs. A musty smell from the water-decayed ceiling battled with the heavenly scent wafting from the kitchen—or maybe that was just grease?

It wasn't much different from the other failing locally-owned businesses that littered the streets; one-by-one being plucked-up by a man with deep pockets. Diego's diner managed to float above the tide with loyal customers who came back for Diego's mouth-watering food, which was guaranteed to please and heighten your cholesterol.

Brown hair swayed rhythmically in the loose-fitting ponytail; her pink roller-skates gliding towards the kitchen window.

"Y'all really working me to the bone this morn, Marv." The southern drawl was evident in the young woman's voice, followed with a huff, "I'm clockin' out—"

"Check on table 5, then you're good to clock out, Tiff." Diego's burly son, Marv, called from the smoking kitchen, "fucking Crystal's car broke down. She'll be in soon."

Again? Like damn clockwork. I always picked up her slack.

"Tell her to make up a new excuse once in a while," Tiff sung as she smoothly skated towards the table; a sticky menu and pot of black, tar-like coffee in hand.

Sat at the table was an older gentlemen; face etched with deep wrinkles and thinning, grey-black hair. The crinkled suit wasn't doing him any favours either.

His beady eyes slowly dragged up Tiffany's short, pink waitress dress; piped with white trim and an apron over the top. Tiffany was used to the stares; she liked the attention to be fair. However, the attention from a man who had Death already sitting on his tombstone was not her cup of tea.

Think of the tips, Tiff, attempting to reassure herself.

A customer-service smiled spread across her face, revealing her gapped front teeth. "How can I help ya', sir?" His eyes spending more time on her chest than the menu placed in front of him.

After what seemed like an eternity, the man licked his dry lips and seedily grinned.

"I'll have the afternoon special, honey." Gross. Her papa used to call her that. The gravelly voice continued, "and uh, how much do I need to tip you to get a peek out back?" Tiffany and the other girls here and gotten quite good at guessing what guys would try shit like this. Frankly, most were big hat and no cattle.

Maybe if he hadn't one foot in the grave she would of taken him up on the request. Instead, Tiffany gave him a tight-lipped smile, spinning on the breaks of the roller-skates before she felt the cold, dead hand grasp her ass firmly. Without a second thought, Tiffany whipped around, spilling the hot coffee over the man's lap.

"You're old enough to be my paw, ya' perv!" The man howled and instinctively Tiffany's fast fingers swiped the man's wallet from the table.

Weaving through the mostly unsurprised customers, Tiffany skated towards the exit, stuffing the man's money into her bra.

"I'll see ya' when I get back from my trip, Marv!" The bubbly waitress sweetly sang, Marv offering a deep sigh and a wave from the kitchen.

Ah, shit! Gonna be late.

No time to spare, Tiffany hauled her rollerblades into the passenger seat of the 69' Pontiac GTO Judge convertible. A congratulatory present from Harrison after she was accepted into NYU; the two spent the summer of 76' refurbishing this bad boy.

He had lit the match for her keen interest in cars from then on—yet this car had always been her favourite. Usually they sold them and Harrison would give her a little cut but she had no idea why he had kept this one over the years. Only to give it to her. The thought made her cheeks burn.

The keys heavy in hand; chock full of memorabilia from over the years.

A broken friendship bracelet from Birdie is looped on the key ring. She hoped to fix it one day.

Zoe had given her a keychain that resembled some mathematical symbol for passing her exam in the first class they shared. Tiffany was sure it was the pi symbol but maybe it was the one they used for electrical resistance? My head hurts just thinking about it.

A faded theatre ticket from the time she indulged Chester in his famed interest was safety-pinned to the key ring. Let's just say Tiffany never went to another theatre production after that. Chester wasn't entirely please when she said it was boring.

One of Andy's silver nose-rings was looped into the keychain. She had accidently swiped it when in her dorm one day and didn't have the heart to return it. It was not stealing if she was wasn't consciously aware of it—right?

Another piece of "borrowed" jewellery was looped on the keyring, this time from Dani. The golden ring was fancy, like fancy-fancy, and was probably worth a pretty penny but Tiffany had never thought about that. It was not like Dani would notice she swiped this, she had more than enough jewellery. Okay, maybe I do have a small problem?

She was still on the hunt for something for Eli and Heritage. Then again anything that has to do with those damned computers or some rolled up joints did not sound too appealing on her prized keyring.

They keys jostled into place, the car roaring to life, loud enough to drown out the old man's complaining to Marv.


Thanks to some harmless speeding and her favourite R&B soul radio station, Tiffany was hot on her friends heels or rather Birdie's duck-taped Toyota FJ60. Tiffany reminded herself to give Gwen-Hilda a tune-up next time she was at the garage.

The hood of her convertible was down, the sun beating on her freckled skin. Tugging the hair-band from its place, she shook her hair free and let the wind do its job for the remainder of the ride. Her father's dog-tags jingled in the wind, tied on the rear-view mirror.

Tailgating Birdie as she entered the quaint town of Talon's Cross, Tiffany was instantly transported back to her home town. She could already feel suffocated and her mother's nagging in the back of her head.

Turning the music up louder, she ignored the stares from the locals and her inner thoughts.

Eventually Birdie's car came to a stop at their new abode; Tiffany watched her friends crawl out one-by-one as she shortly joined them, parking up behind.

"Now, y'all weren't thinkin' of starting this shindig without little, old me?" Tiffany grinned, a cherry-flavoured lollipop slotted in-between her lips.

Hopping out of the car, her hair sat in natural waves on her slender shoulders thanks to the wind. A bright blue hue was slap-sticked onto her eyelids, having shamelessly done them on drive over here. She was still adorned into her too-short waitress dress but had a change of clothes among her bags in the backseat. For now, this would do, plus all things considered, her uniform was mainly clean of any spills. All that had changed was some beat-up converses over the almost knee-high socks from work.

Birdie was already heading off into the forest and she surmised why when Heritage followed closely behind like a lost puppy.

Tiffany heard Zoe's hushed voice and while she typically didn't agree with the pragmatic choice, she wasn't a huge fan of smoking weed. In fact, Tiffany never partook in illicit drugs, as much as rumours back in high school suggested otherwise. She had seen first-hand what illicit drugs can do, her mother's crumpled body on the couch came into mind, a needle poking from her arm. If her chest hadn't been rising and falling, Tiffany would of thought she was dead.

Now if alcohol was involved? That would of been a different question all together but knowing Birdie and her affinity for smoking in the woods, she knew that wasn't the case.

"I think I'm with ya there, Zoe." Tiffany reached into the back of her car, grabbing a duffel bag, "plus I could use a rinse to wash this grease off me." Tiffany continued, "now, holler if you need any help with your bags. I definitely owe ya after the extra tutoring on that damned final exam. I was rode hard and put away wet after that one."

A week ago. 12:08 AM.


On the third floor of Wilf Hall, among rows and rows of dark offices and empty desks, a single lamp was on: a lone flame in the night. Its yellow light spilled over reports and articles, over the carefully manicured nails tracing over them, over warm brown skin, over the walls of the cubicle where a small plaque that read “Danielle J. Brown” was fixed.

The semester hadn’t started yet, but research never stopped. Danielle knew that there was always something to do; a new case to examine, a new piece of legislation to close-read, a new decision to be horrified at. What was the subject of her judgment now? The Comprehensive Crime Control Act of 1984.

It. Was. Horrendous.

Danielle had followed the act from its conception, during its journey through the Senate and the House, and watched with a bitter taste in her mouth as it was signed into law. It passed through both bodies of Congress with large majorities, which was predictable. It didn’t seem so horrible on the surface: codes to address hostage situations, methods for handling assets associated with organized crime, et cetera. But, tucked in among seemingly necessary things, was another tactical maneuver in the so-called “war on drugs:” legislation for increased federal penalties for cultivation, possession, or transfer of marijuana.

Danielle felt strongly that politicians didn’t know how to handle drugs with legislation. Every time they tried, they made everything worse.

It wasn’t just about this act; it was about the legislative and judicial trends as a whole. It was about the effects: the skyrocketing prison population, the complete absence of medical perspective, the insidious sentence minimums, the broken homes, the disproportionate effect on Black and Latino populations, the people suffering, the people dying—.

Danielle stopped and considered: the whole country was falling apart, and here she was looking at reports, cross-referencing articles, and analyzing graphs. Her face burned. Tears welled up in her eyes. She set her face down on her desk, and felt utterly, utterly useless.

She thought about the phone in the right corner of the cubicle. Who could she call? Birdie? Zoey? Maybe even Chester? She longed to talk to someone—feel close to someone—but what could she say? She could talk about the law or... talk about living in the unbearably heavy shadow of the universe. She could tell them about how lately she wants to do everything but what she's supposed to do. Though, what if she bored them? What if they didn’t pick up? What if they rejected her and it hurt? That was the conundrum; the dilemma of Schopenhauer’s spiny, lonely animal.

Utterly, utterly useless.

She could, however, comfort herself with the knowledge that their trip was soon.

-

The present.


Danielle was no stranger to long car trips. She was, however, not used to going on one with so many people in the car. She had been an only child and didn’t have much of an extended family. In the long car trips of her past, there had been only three people—and, before she knew it, only two people—in a car big enough for five.

With her friends, the economy of space was very different. When they pulled up to the cottage at last and she was able to step out, she became very aware of the dull ache in her rear side from sitting uncomfortably for so long. But she wouldn’t have traded that pain for the world. She had actually quite enjoyed the closeness of the car ride; it acted as an excuse for her to pick Birdie's brain, trade quips with Chester, and generally talk everyone's ears off. And, now that they were spilling out of the car doors and putting space between themselves again, she found herself experiencing a sort of withdrawal of proximity.

Birdie spoke, and then Heritage: they had plans to go smoke in the woods. Dani tensed involuntarily. Thoughts spilled into her head at an alarming rate, crashing violently across her psyche: the Comprehensive Crime Control Act of 1984, the reports, the rates, the graphs. In the forum in her head, some voices raised up in protest, citing the danger, while other voices raised to oppose them, insisting that unjust laws should be nullified on every level, including the personal. A third party of voices explained that the chances of them actually getting in trouble in this random ass town were near zero.

Danielle ran her hands through her hair, took a deep breath, and reminded herself that she was supposed to be on vacation. She was supposed to be having a fun time with her friends, not theorizing about the circumstances of their potential incarceration: stuff like… what their charges would look like, the possible demographics of the jury, if Birdie and the others could afford lawyers—because if they couldn’t she could talk to her dad and get—.

Zoey’s voice softly cut through her thoughts, and then TIff’s. Danielle grounded herself in the sound of them—Zoey's gentle tone and Tiff's sweet drawl—and stepped closer to them without realizing it. She couldn’t not think, so she simply thought about other things: the fresh smell of the grass, the light breeze blowing by and making the trees tilt slightly. She looked off into the forest and thought she caught sight of something moving—maybe an animal?

Facing Zoey and TIff with a smile, she said, “I’m with you two. It’d be good to get a head start on unpacking.” Turning to the others, she added, “Depending on how long that takes, we should try to do something all together before the day ends—to kick off the trip. That is, if we’re not too tired.”

Danielle took the keys, walked to the trunk of the car, and began unloading bags, efficient yet careful in her method. She was struggling with some of the heavier bags, but she didn't want to ask for help. She added over her shoulder, "There aren't any houses close to us, so we wouldn't be bothering anyone."

For a man who wrote for a living, it proved to be difficult to write an email. Constant revisions. Edits. Huffs of smoke and groans of frustration. The backspace key nearly launched off to the moon the last Chester pressed on it. It wasn't as if he was speechless. Chester Finch had so much to say to them yet couldn't gather a linear thought to do so. He wanted to cuss them out. Give updates. Tell them his plans. Both as long-term as his career and as short-term as his trip with his friends.

How would they know where to find him if they swallowed their pride and visited while he was away? Did he want them to come looking? Expect them to?

What started as an email intended to talk about a trip he was taking and the ambiguousness of not knowing when he'd return, soon crumbled into what every other email draft he had archived in his inbox became.

Absolutely nothing.

He figured it didn't really matter anyway. It was just a dumb trip.

—

❝Are we there yet? ❞

The tone of his own voice reminded him of the annoying kid-cousin who shouldn’t be invited on trips that destined long car rides. Good. He had every right to be insufferable, he was groggy; still recovering from the pleasant nap he was rudely awakened from moments ago. There were rules when planning a road trip in September. First, don’t forget to pack everything you need, tourist traps and convenience stores put in the middle of nowhere were meant to steal the money of underprepared tourists. Second, bring bug spray. A lot of it. And third—arguably the most important rule of all-don’t wake Chester up. It was like a bad omen, as serious as a black cat crossing your path or a mirror shattering at your hands. Bad luck.

And he’d be more grumpy than usual, and who really wanted that?

When his friends had approached him with the idea of a trip to dumbfuck nowhere, he was probably intoxicated beyond human thought because as Chester continued to glare at the passing greenery, there was no way he would’ve actually agreed to the trip while sober. That or his own sleep-sunken mind was clouding his own judgment and left him despising the idea of anything and everything. Most likely the latter.

A sharp turn and halt from Birdie’s blasted Toyota gave him the same rush as a cold bath. It was as if old Gwen-Hilda was both sentient and telepathic, giving Chester the opportunity to wake up as they approached their destination.

❝Does anyone feel like they just stepped onto the set of Snow White and the Seven fucks? ❞ The crude comparison rolled naturally off Chester’s silver tongue. It wasn’t like he was wrong. Stepping out of the truck and into the pasture grass, it was clear that they were far from his usual habitat of bustling cities with shit-wreaking streets. The cottage itself reminded him of ones painted onto shabby chic jars put up for a buck at the charity stores he and Tiff would frequent. And the grounds surrounding it reminded him of a garden someone's grandmother would tend to. All picture-perfect and dolled up for the gang’s temporary residence yet humble at the same time.

Perhaps inspiration will hit him like a New York yellow cab and he’d write up a play and finally get out of his contract with Steve—the deadbeat playwright. It’ll be about a farmer’s kid destined for greatness. A star-crossed romance between a redneck and a city boy. A musical from the point-of-view of barnyard animals. Maybe even his own spin-off of the ’37 Disney classic. Chester and the six imbeciles (ft. Zoey) didn’t have a bad ring to it.

Before he can envision his future masterpiece in shining lights, the voice of Birdie pulled him back to reality. The mention of a smoke, in particular, was quick to catch his attention. Hedonist at heart, he could do for a smoke. He could always do for a smoke.

However, the look Zoey gave him when the two met eyes made him reconsider. Her voice lacked the volume Birdie had, yet Chester found himself swayed to reconsider his initial response to the offer. Reconsider being a strong word as his decision had already been made from one look in the eyes. ❝I guess I’ll stay too. Can’t have you all manhandling my luggage. ❞ He did his best to feign reluctance. Call his sympathy for Zoey an Achille’s heel all you want; he’d flip you off either way.

Either way, following Danielle to the trunk and seeing the amount of luggage quickly turned his act of reluctance into a genuine performance. ❝Way to leave the dirty work for the mathletes, assholes. ❞ He bellowed to the backsides of Pierce and co., who had already begun to take their leave for the forest. Who even liked forestry anyway? Too many bugs and not enough repellant for his taste.

The thought of a thing to kick off the trip didn't sound too bad. It wasn't like there was anything else to do but arrange something while they were out in the rural countryside. ❝A little event to the entire trip would be fun,❞ He found himself agreeing to Danielle's words—a rare occurrence. ❝why don’t we start a bonfire and burn our degrees? ❞

The map in Eli Baker’s hands wrinkled as he fumbled with it, forming creases that ran deep through the town depicted on the pages, almost as though he were digging through it. He was gripping Talon’s Cross by the edges, his thumbs smudging the ink tattooed in winding lines across the map. As he folded the page, the corner of it sliced his finger in one quick swipe. It missed his callouses, parting the soft flesh of the print that named his fingertip. The cut stung sharply, and as he crumpled the state map between his palms, he left his blood in Georgia.

Eli tossed the wad of paper over the seat in front of him, aiming for the windshield so that it would bounce off the glass and land in Pierce’s lap. His crack at navigation had been futile for the majority of the trip, and the paper cut had been his last straw. He blew a long breath of air through his lips in a low whistle, and wrapped the hem of his shirt around his finger. A drop of blood soaked through the fabric, nearly invisible inside the maze pattern of his flannel.

They’d been on the road for what seemed like forever, flying past pastures and road signs with Birdie as their pilot. Eli had spent much of the day staring at the back of her head, catching glimpses of the tattoo etched across the nape of her neck, the curled dragon peeking out behind a veil of blazing red hair as though it were breathing fire.

His own neck ached by now, having been hunched over for the drive, his tall frame barely avoiding brushing the roof of Gwen-Hilda, whom Eli had begun to curse silently. He’d been haunted by car-sickness his whole life, and twice he’d had to beg Birdie to pull over and let him walk a few laps around the car to avoid vomiting between the seats. Now, the back of his legs were numb, and sweat had dampened his underarms, making the fabric of his shirt chafe and itch against his skin uncomfortably.

He was packed with his friends inside of a stuffed car somewhere in the south, and there was nowhere else in the world that he’d rather be. He’s been praying between potholes that the trip would never end, his stomach clenched while he dreaded the moment when the car would stop rolling and they’d all get out facing different directions, leaving the road they’d ridden together behind.

Eli shifted in his seat, his elbow bumping against Zoey’s. She was sitting beside him, gazing out the window, the glow from the sky outside shining through the glass lighting up the constellation of freckles splashed across her cheeks like fallen ash. She had a ring of her hair curled around her finger, her eyes wide, wearing a look of trepidation that Eli often recognized in her. His brow furrowed as he saw her expression, and he bumped his knee against hers in an attempt of reassurance. He ducked his head, peering through the window to spot whatever it was that she’d shied away from.

he chirped, swatting Zoey’s shoulder lightly with his knuckles as a rusted yellow Volkswagen Beetle rattled by. The people in this town seemed to move slower than others, their heads swiveling as if they were pulled by the breeze, their smiles curled at the ends as though they were tugged up by strings. Had Eli been paying attention, he would’ve thought that their faces could’ve been carved from the trees that loomed over the town.

Birdie guided Gwen-Hilda around a corner, leading her up the driveway to where the passengers would be staying for their trip. Eli craned his head over the seats in front of him to get a view of it from the windshield, and his eyebrows raised at the sight. The cottage sat before him, the forest surrounding it cupping it gently like warm palms. He’d never seen a place like this, not even when he’d been a kid away from New York, and it felt surreal, like something from a fairytale.

Gwen-Hilda rolled to a stop, and her doors finally popped open. Eli clambered out, stumbling a bit before his feet found solid ground. The fresh air poured into his lungs, cooling his throat, and he breathed it in graciously. His hands rested on his lower back, and when he stretched, his bones cracked with satisfaction.

Eli smirked at Chester’s remark, not surprised that he wasn’t pleased. The playwright’s personality was something that Eli considered to be likely an acquired taste. Moments with Chester felt to Eli like sipping white wine—sour, until you got used to it. His company had become more of a comfort now, and evenings spent with Chester were almost always better than the ones spent without.

Eli commented as he rounded the car to stand with the rest of the group.

Birdie seemed like she was still driving, steering the group with some directions. Eli stiffened, as he always did when faced with a choice, no matter how trivial. Whether there was a right answer or not didn’t matter, he always felt like he chose wrong regardless, so he’d gotten into the habit of letting others choose for him.

Smoking had never appealed to him, even with friends. It was all tight throats and red eyes, which was generally something that Eli tried to avoid in any context. He'd smoked plenty of times before. He was easily influenced, and whenever he was passed a blunt, he always took a hit regardless. It stung less than the possibility of ridicule, which was also something that he had an aversion to.

He had just begun to nod his head in agreement when Zoey spoke up. Through no fault of her own, Eli had found that her voice could be easily missed when she talked softly enough. He’d subconsciously trained himself to be especially attentive of it, and now there were times in which he knew that she was going to speak just before she did.

he said, giving Zoey a pat on the shoulder, nodding his head solemnly.

The slamming of a car door marked Tiffany’s arrival, and Eli spun around as she made her entrance. He crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a grin. Even from a distance, he could see the blue painted over her eyelids, like waves crashing above the curve of her cheeks when she blinked.

As the group decided their paths, Eli trotted over to the trunk of the vehicle, gravel crunching under his feet with each step. Chester huffed his complaints, and Eli shoved his own finger into his mouth before sticking it in the other man’s ear as he passed. Danielle was already there, carrying as much as she could, which Eli noted seemed to be ingrained in her nature. He skidded to a halt beside her.

he said as he pulled some bags out of the trunk, filling his arms with more things than necessary, his load barely manageable.

Tiffany’s car pulled up behind the group. Zoey’s shoulders relaxed with the sight; they were finally all together, no more worrying about whether the whole group would make it. Tiffany smiled as she stepped out, as bright as the sun, still in her waitress uniform. Did she choose not to take time to change to be with them all a little faster?

“Oh! It was your hard work,” Despite their years of friendship, Tiffany was still someone Zoey struggled to pin down. She hadn’t expected Tiff to stay and unpack, though she was grateful to hear her suggestion agreed with. Tiffany gave off an almost careless, easygoing attitude, but Zoey had spent much of her time studying for her final round of finals with Tiffany, and she was constantly impressed by how much effort she put in. Zoey thought they’d both helped each other through it; her explaining topics to someone really interested helped her just as much.

Dani voiced agreement next, her voice making each word sound certain and reasonable. Zoey nodded along, following her to the trunk.

”Does anyone feel like they just stepped onto the set of Snow White and the Seven fucks?”. When Zoey looked over at Chester, her eyes were wide with curiosity. It wasn’t an unfair comparison, but not one she would’ve chosen as an insult. A safe haven amidst dark woods, Snow White’s place of respite. Chester’s eyes– in the sunlight, she could just tell how grey they were– met hers. Eli snapped back with a just as apt remark, Zoey smiling at his speed, as easy and quick as always, as though it didn’t matter where his friends were, so long as they were present. They both seemed to hesitate, just momentarily, before making their decision.

Zoey had been happy, grateful, certain, with Tiffany and Dani’s support. But it wasn’t until ‘I’ll stay’ left Chester did the knots in her insides untwist, doubts evaporating like dew drops in the afternoon sun. His added snark did nothing to faze her; it had taken her some time, but she’d learned to see right through it. Eli touched her shoulder as he voiced his support, the warmth running down through her. It felt like sunlight, between the two of them, like she could breathe in forest stained air and belong in the strange summer world they’d landed in.

A suitcase lifted out of the trunk and landed on the ground with a soft thud as Zoey joined Danielle in unloading bags. She went for the lighter choices, knowing she wouldn’t be very effective with anything heavy, but when Dani grabbed a larger bag, she helped lift it on the other side so it was neatly unloaded.

“Thank you.” Zoey whispered loud enough for only Chester to hear when he joined beside her, chiding the group heading off into the woods. Eli started for the remaining, heavier bags, pulling at multiple at once, enough for Zoey to wonder how he expected to balance them all. He made quick work of them, and Zoey wasn't quite able to protest the load.

“A group activity would be really nice,” Zoey echoed. She wanted Danielle, someone she’d looked up to right from the start of their friendship, to know that she agreed with her on the best course of action for the second time today. She pulled a suitcase towards the door of the house, pausing just before reaching it, “That’s really smart. Start the trip off. We could have a campfire.”

The door of the cottage pushed open. Zoey stepped in, the suitcase bumping in beside her. Her breath caught as she took in the view. It was perfect. It hadn’t been some sort of scam, it wasn’t falling apart, it was a perfect destination home. She took in some of the framed pieces on the wall, depicting nature and scenery.

None of them compared to the real thing, the view just outside. With both the garden behind her and the rustic interior in front, every drop of color both dreamlike and precise, Zoey had intruded into a fairytale world.

”Wow. Snow White indeed. There’s, um,” The scent of cookies was thick in the air. Zoey rested the suitcase down against a wall. She wanted to go to the kitchen, or to just fall down on one of the couches, or find a room for her and Birdie to claim as theirs, but something pulled back at her. Snow White had invaded a cottage, too, and her sleep had almost been permanent. The air, still, tasted good, ”The owners must have left us a welcome gift.” She nodded, deciding that was what it had to be, and paused, waiting for her friends to fill the surrounding space.

meathook

"Y'know I could do with a little fire action. I'm probably the only one out of you city slickers that can start a fire." Tiffany offered her two cents as she entered the cottage and half expected to see her father sitting there; adorned in his army fatigues, arms outstretched for his little girl.

Eerily similar to the farmhouse they once owned, Tiffany felt seven years-old again and couldn't help as the memories came pouring in.


"Kath, I will not let you leave until you eat at least a piece of toast," Roy called, his faded jeans and boots already caked with mud. He was always up before the rest of them, especially during the harvest. A young Tiffany sat at the dining table, legs swinging in tandem. He always found the time to make them breakfast, stressing it was the most important meal to start your day.

"I'll eat when I get to the office, I promise, Roy. I'm already late!" Tiffany's mother multi-tasked walking down the wooden stairs and slipping on her heels. She had been working as an assistant for some fancy artist who lived in the city. Her mother was the best painter which confused Tiffany to why she had to be a helper for some old man. Upstairs was a room dedicated to her mother's artwork, the room was an explosion of colour and canvas.

"Mummy, please. Daddy made my favourite!" Half-eaten blueberry and choc-chip pancakes were in front of Tiffany, a distinctive bite-mark found in them from her missing front teeth.

"Why didn't you say so," a one-heeled Kath hobbled over to the dining table, and used Tiffany's fork to eat one of the pancakes. Tiffany giggled and both father and daughter cheered her on to down the freshly-squeezed orange juice.

"You both happy now?" Katherine wiped the residue from her red lips, following Tiffany to the door after slipping on her other heel.

"I'll take what I can get. Maybe if you got up as early as me you would make it to work on time." Roy teased his wife, as she approached him, pulling him in for a quick hug. He easily lifted her off the ground, being careful of the growing baby-bump. Tiffany couldn't wait to have a brother. Well, she hoped it was a brother but she would deal with a sister too.

"Roy I told you when I married you, I would never get up at the crack-ass of dawn." Katherine teased back.

Tiffany opened the door, watching as Gregory waddled down the long stretch of land to their front door, his bag full of mail wheeled behind him. Tiffany waved to him and ran down the pebbled path as usual. Gregory solemnly handed her the mail and she returned as Katherine and Roy stood in the doorway.

Rifling through the mail she found a letter addressed to her father, a letter that caused her stomach to drop and the pancakes threatened to come up.

It looked just like the one that a boy from school had shown her. A letter that was from the army. The letter took her friend's father away and now it wanted to take her father.

"What's wrong, Tiff?" Roy questioned, as the couple went to approach Tiffany.

Shaking her head, tears were already spilling.

"They can't take you away. I won't let them!" The rest of the mail dropped to the ground, Tiffany's bare feet sprinting towards the mailman.

"Tiffany Miller, come back here!" Her mother shouted.

"Take it back! We don't want it!" Tiffany pleaded but Gregory didn't turn back around.

He had most likely heard it all that week when handing out those damned letters. She was sure now that he couldn't turn around to see another crying child or else it might of finally broken him. She knew that now.


Pull it together, Tiff.

The idle conversation from her friends started to tune back in and Tiffany attempted to shake it off. Should of gone to the fuckin' forest.

”The owners must have left us a welcome gift.” Zoey called from the cottage's kitchen. Tiffany made her way there and only then did the mouth-watering scent of baked goods filled her senses.

"Well, bless their hearts." Tiffany commented, eyeing the freshly baked cookies, "now, don't be rude, y'all. It is rude to not to eat what is given to you." Tiffany took one of the cookies from the plate, winking to Zoey as she took a bite.

Somewhere along the way, Heritage cracked open a bottle against his teeth - a nasty little habit that would probably end up taking its toll on his dental health somewhere down the line, but that definitely sounded more like a problem for future him. It looked cool, at least. Even if he was yet to bleed from the mouth about it.

Where did everyone go, anyway? Bunch of lame-o’s (affectionate) who’d obviously much rather kick off their vacation hauling around other people’s luggage. He didn’t really expect anything different from Eli, Zo and Dani - but Richie Rich and Tiff seemed to be amongst the cooler ones, even if he’d never admit it to Ches’ face. And Tiff? Aw, well. He just liked her. More exciting than she seemed to give herself credit for. There was an initial tinge of disappointment at her absence, though it was quickly forgotten as he spent more time with the bottle to his lips - ducking under low-hanging branches and trying everything not to fall on his ass amidst tougher terrain.

At Birdie’s sneeze and odd little glance, he offered a returned look of faux disgust and an exaggerated eugh, only to be shortly followed by a smile. He could take some amount of comfort in the knowledge that if no one else came through, she always did. Two of the peasiest pods. Or whatever.

The wash of red was a sight to behold as he followed her out into the field, and he was well ready for the zen to overcome him. Only to be greeted by what looked to be the Children of the Corn themselves. He couldn’t quite put his finger on anything in particular. Was it their oddly matching outfits, their identical wide smiles, or the fact that they seemed to have their own little Jim Jones to speak for them while they happily abided in silence? He’d never came across kids so eerily well-behaved, so quiet and still. Alarm bells rang immediately.

These kids aren’t gonna leave us alone, right? Let’s just play with ‘em, see if they’ll get bored of us ‘adults.’

Listen, he loved Birdie. He really did. But she was out of her fuckin’ gourd if she thought he was gonna humor this. Did she really not see anything wrong with this picture? He really wasn’t ready to become the sacrificial lamb to He Who Walks Behind the Rows. Part of him wanted to pull her aside and gently suggest that they both pound sand as soon as humanly possible, but if she had a plan cooked up… well fuck, he couldn’t just leave her here. And what if it was funny? He could never forgive himself for missing out on a good laugh.

Partially alarmed, but ever-levelheaded about it; Heritage took one more swig from his bottle.

❝Uh… okay...❞

Eli shuffled to the front door of the cabin, his arms full and straining, his shoes scuffing over the worn stones of the path beneath them. A stray shoelace threatened to throw him, but he caught himself, stumbling for only a brief moment before straightening.

He’d lived the last four years in his cramped studio apartment near campus, his room a mess of spare computer parts and tangled wires. It still looked as though it were occupied by a robot, rather than a man. His influence was limited overall, his walls largely bare. The few pieces of furniture and fixtures had been left over from the previous tenant, and Eli had left them as they were without complaint. The natural light came in sharp slivers through his thin windows, which he always kept open, so the sounds from the New York streets created a hum that ran all hours of the day. It stifled the silences, but there were still days in which he failed to fill the empty space, and instead he’d sit still and solitary like a ghost, haunting the space between his bed and the desk lamp.

Four years, and even then, his apartment couldn’t be home, not when he still felt like he was running away from it. Home was states away and years behind. It balanced on phone lines, called his name between dial tones. Home visited him daily. It pulled him out of bed at night, a loose spring poking out of his mattress like the one he used to sleep on as a child, his feet hanging off the end. Home flashed in the rearview mirrors that hung in the back of his mind, right next to his conscience.

When Eli stepped into the cottage, it did not feel like home.

For a moment, it was overwhelming. It was like he’d been sailing forever, the tide to his knees and the wind at his throat, and now he’d finally reached the lighthouse. The sense of relief stung sharply for just a moment, his shoulders suddenly slack, until he remembered that he was not a sailor, and that he was just a college student on vacation for a few days with his friends. He also realized that it smelled like cookies.

he replied to Tiffany, dropping his load of bags in the center of the room. He made a beeline for the kitchen, slipping past furniture to reach the plate of cookies. He scooped one up without question, bumping it lightly against the one Tiffany held between her own fingers.

He smiled, breaking apart the cookie and popping half of it into his mouth. He nodded as he chewed, taking a moment to look around the kitchen.

He stepped closer to Tiffany and Zoey, peering over their shoulders to take a look at the plate. He squinted at the note as he read it, biting the other half of his cookie that he still held.

After years of boarding school filled with barbaric schoolboys, Chester never experienced the sensation of a wet finger being put in his ear. Years passed and here he was now. The wet-willy he got from Eli was almost enough for Chester to drop his expensive luggage on the other's feet and run after the other half of their group. Gross. ❝How old are we, six? You are absolutely vile, Baker. I hope you know that.❞ There was venom in his tone yet he had an underlying feeling that the insult would be as bad as a bee sting to Eli of all people. The oaf had always found his words to be more humorous than offensive, to which Chester would be giving him credit for if it didn't always throw him off.

How his idea to commit arson on their expensive pieces of paper morphed into a vanilla campfire was just another case of the Zoey-touch. Turning ideas that implied destruction of any kind into a rated-G experience that even kids could watch and enjoy. Not that Chester really minded. If a little campfire was what his rag-tag group wanted, it would be what they'd get. He was sure Birdie or her mutt brought a lighter with them.

❝Y'know I could do with a little fire action. I'm probably the only one out of you city slickers that can start a fire.❞ Or perhaps Tiff could start a fire with flower bush sticks and farmgirl passion. Chester couldn't help but chortle at her choice of wording.

City slickers. Precisely what the Finch family was. Far too used to the plush lifestyle of penthouses and skyscrapers, he never visited a farmhouse, let alone stayed in one. Although the inside was exactly what he imagined one would look like. His previous comparison to the Disney film seemed to still have weight to it as the interior reminded him of the hideaway the squeaky-pitched princess scurried off to. It reminded him of a well-loved home. Or at least what movies and productions painted such a concept to be.

❝The owners must have left us a welcome gift.❞

The smell of cookies was probably a smell someone like Zoey found familiar but to Chester, it was completely foreign. The entirety of the warm atmosphere made him more unnerved than comforted. Clarise Finch never stepped foot in the kitchen for the purpose of cooking let alone baking. One of the only explanations to see her behind the kitchen counter would've been to accuse one of the maids of wearing her pearls. Not that she needed them if the claims were true, she owned more pearls than the Indian ocean. A part of himself wished to ignore the stench—and the lack of attachment that came with it, and just claim a room. Yet curiosity was an awful little thing and the smell of granny's goods was gathering his friends like flies to dog dung. He found himself abandoning his suitcases in a corner of what he assumed to be the living room, and joined the hivemind.

Was it surprising that he entered to the sight of Eli and Tiff chowing down on the cookies without question? Not at all. Perhaps it was just him who found the idea of free cookies to be something to think twice about. In the monochromatic world of Chester Finch, things weren't just given out for free. Everything and everyone had their price; their little motives in giving out discounts, free samples, and in this case, welcome presents.

He rolled his eyes at the genuine gesture of trust in a stranger, how they could grab a piece of the mysterious baked good without a second thought was beyond him. ❝Consider me rude then. Didn't anyone warn you about taking candy from strangers?❞ Kidnappers with candy and (possibly) old people with baked goods were cut from the same cloth, right? Snow White and the seven fucks sure as hell taught Chester that. The cookie probably wasn't bad enough to cause anything other than indigestion, anything worse than that, Tiff could probably get Dani to file a lawsuit for her. But who really wanted to start off an outing on the toilet? Chester wasn't taking those chances.

By poking his head above Eli's colossal shoulders, he spotted the note. ❝Jesus, I bet you didn't even try and read the note before eating those.❞ Pushing past his admittedly taller friend, he plucked it from its place. ❝I'd rather start calling dibs on the best room while Heritage isn't around to steal that shit from me.❞ He had no idea who in the world was L, but he already knew they probably wouldn't get along. The handwriting was too neat, too perfect.

Or maybe he was being too harsh. Chester didn't know anything about this L character but he did know one thing, he wasn't eating those fucking cookies.

meathook

Danielle was content to handle the bags solo, but, when she found herself struggling with one of the heavier ones, she was grateful for the help from Zoey. Dani gave the other girl a small smile and a nod of gratitude, resisting the initial impulse to be embarrassed that she had overestimated her own strength. Ever since that math class where they had all met, Zoey had been a helpful presence in Danielle’s life. She was kind and had a mind that never failed to amaze, but Dani often got the impression that there were many things she didn’t say, and it puzzled her. That couldn’t be healthy, could it?

Soon, Eli was also lending help with the bags, and Dani gave him a similar gesture to say thanks. Danielle was glad he was along for the trip; whenever she found herself taking things too seriously, she could hopefully rely on his enduring humor to relax.

When they entered the cottage, Danielle examined everything carefully, from the furniture to the wood of the walls. How… homey. “You’re probably right about that, Tiff,” she replied with a smirk to the comment about starting a fire. Dani, admittedly, was a bit out of her element out here. Even when her family did do more… nature-y things, it was always an experience watered-down by the accommodations afforded to them.

This was part of why Dani found Tiff so interesting—their vast differences in experience. She’d always wanted to get around to picking the engineer’s brain, but opportunities never seemed to present themselves.

And then, Dani caught the sweet warm smell.

”The owners must have left us a welcome gift.”

"Well, bless their hearts."

“Cheers, Tiff—to our good manners.”

Eli and Tiff were quickly standing around the platter of cookies taking bites in the kitchen. Danielle walked up and crossed her arms, not bothering to hide her disapproval. She walked over near Chester and peeked around his tall figure with a “Let me see,” to read the note for herself. Her brow furrowed.

“‘L?’ They couldn’t put their actual name? I’d much rather receive cookies from Larry or Linda than just ‘L.’” Danielle considered that she and Chester were being overly cautious, but then an opposing voice in her head quickly shot the idea down. Even if it was just the owner of the cottage, wouldn’t it just be better to put their actual name and avoid rendering their plate of cookies mysterious?

“I’m with Chester on this one,” Danielle declared, noting curiously that this was the second time today that she and Chester had found themselves aligned—maybe he just had good takes sometimes. She cast a quick glance at Zoey, who hadn't approached the platter quite yet. “I’ll start checking out the rooms, and you guys can tell me about the taste of the mystery cookies later. Maybe,” she began turning around, “we could even track down this anonymous baker.” Bags in hand, she began to press deeper into the cottage, somewhat determined to get the best room before Chester now that he had mentioned it. Her heeled shoes clacked on the wooden floor, and she looked into doors as she passed through.

Pierce had his free hand awkwardly clasped over his eyes, leaving the out-loud counting to his more colorful companion. Suppose there'd be nowhere to go but back if this meadow were the end of the line, though his disappointment at the thought put a visible crease between his brows. There remained a slight silver lining that it'd just mean more for later. Whoever was unfortunate enough to suffer through being his temporary roommate just had to get used to the stench.

The sound of tiny little feet rustled the grass around them and seemingly made some decent headway into the distance. Good. The further away they ran, the more time it'd take the lil' cult to catch on that the duo weren't coming for them anytime soon.

Twenty!

As soon as his eyes blinked open again, his gaze found Birdie. There was no trace of the children from the sound of the wind.

❝Alright, kemosabe - ❞, Pierce's tone was absolutely dripping with friendly, ribbing sarcasm, ❝ - you gonna high-tail it first or should I do the honors?❞

Don't answer that. He didn't really allow her any time to. A quick heel-turn back towards whence they came, and he was already striding back for the path. There was still some hesitation within the fact that he wasn't sure if he was leaving her behind. Her enthusiasm seemed too genuine at the worst of times, especially when she was bullshitting.

meathook

"Now, don't be rude, y'all. It is rude to not to eat what is given to you."

Tiffany followed her into the cottage kitchen, her voice almost playful as she gave Zoey a wink. Zoey's mouth started to open, then closed. She was right, wasn’t she?

Fingers closed around a cookie, still fresh and warm. Wait. How could that be right? There was certainly no one here when they arrived, and hadn’t they spent enough time pulling suitcases from the trunk for some cookies to cool?

Eli didn’t seem to have any hesitation, cracking a usual joke while he bit into his own cookie; it was more convincing of safety than any other action would have been.

Zoey pulled in a breath, doing her best to recognize the pattern of her brain going into overdrive. They must have just been left recently, or her hands were cold from being outside. She took a small bite, and the taste of warm, soft cookies was almost enough to mask away any worries.

“Whatever else, they’re a good baker,” Zoey murmured.

Chester’s voice chimed in, the space around Zoey filling close with those who’d taken the choice to stay with her. She turned over to him, eyes narrowed in probably more thought than his statement had been meant for.

Was this taking candy from a stranger? They’d trusted these people enough to rent a cabin from them, anyways.

“It wouldn’t be very smart of them to poison us,” Zoey started to say, considering the options. There was a good trail of evidence, and no real motive. Maybe just as a prank? It still didn’t quite seem reasonable, like it would accomplish any good.

“I’m with Chester on this one,” Zoey’s statement cut off when Dani spoke, completing the gathering. Dani was the law student, and one of the smartest people Zoey knew; if she didn’t think the cookies were safe, there wasn’t a higher authority on the matter.

It seemed silly, suddenly, arguing over chocolate chip cookies. Almost all her friends had found their place beside her, inside the layout of kitchen tiles and still warm oven, inside their undeniable temporary home.

“Wait, hold on,” Zoey’s hand, still holding an unfinished cookie, dropped to her side as Chester and Dani started mentioning rooms, and turned around. Her tone was light as she claimed her stake in the competition, cookie debacle almost forgotten, “Birdie’s going to be counting on me getting us the best one.”

She realized only as she finished speaking that her and Birdie hadn’t actually decided on rooming together, or spoken about it yet at all. Any other option, however, seemed painfully wrong, a twisting feeling in her when she imagined picking out a room without the other girl. Sure, sometimes living with her was… loud and unpredictable and so much that Zoey wasn’t, but that was them. Zoey wasn’t sure whether she’d still be able to sleep without it.

Zoey quickened her pace, catching up to Chester and giving him a gentle bump with her elbow,

“Not that either of you would beat me to it,” Her words were minimally confident at best; while she was sure she’d outpace the two of them easily, she didn’t quite want to go too fast on hardwood floors, and with every room she looked into, the snug, homey decor pulled away at her attention. Every room was eerily perfect, so much so Zoey wasn’t sure there would be an outlier.

Still, looking for rooms, everyone joining in to one activity or the other, it was like the first step to fitting in. She gave Chester a quick smile and took a deliberate second bite of the cookie she was still holding onto before continuing to step ahead.

An empty bottle clinked on the path, the sound louder than it should've been against the relative silence of the woods. Admittedly, he did find the whole sitch a bit strange. Who just has that? He started the trek again, ducking under the same low-lying branches that he had on the way in. It didn't seem to really matter that much to him, though, because as always, he couldn't help but take the opportunity to rag Birdie about the thing.

❝A weird-ass crow, huh? You know, you can always just hold my hand if you're gonna start wussing out. Ever seen The Wicker Man?❞

Pierce had been notorious for the sheer amount of cinema he just hadn't seen, even for his major, but it was because of his major that he'd even seen it in the first place - and it was one of the few movies that somehow didn't manage to put him to sleep with its horrible pacing. What do you mean you've never seen Taxi Driver? Yeah, sure. His preferences lied within three different leagues of movie: the gory, the so-bad-it's-good and the trippy hippy-dippy shit. In his opinion, The Wicker Man fell into both the former and latter. Right up his alley. So entirely up his alley, in fact, that there was a permanent BOLO out on him in the local Blockbuster from the number of weird videotapes he liked and never bothered to return. Call him a celebrity the way a grainy, cryptid-like picture of the back of his head stayed plastered up on the wall of the employee breakroom with an overly aggressive DO NOT RENT TO THIS MAN!!! plastered above it in permanent marker.

He continued - eyes forward, speaking up so Birdie could hear him but also speaking to no one in particular; ❝Guy visits some island in search of a missing girl, sees a whole bunch of kinksters banging out in the open, shoving frogs down their throat to cure a cold, dancing around the maypole, whatever. Freaky shit. The kids in that movie were just as creepy as the kids back there.❞

He shrugged his shoulders, then looked back over at her with the most eerie little smirk he could muster. ❝Who knows? Maybe they really are eager to burn us alive. Shove us into some kinda crow effigy with a whole bunch of dead cattle and call it a day. Maybe the whole town's in on it, and we're just playthings for their corn-god or something. Though I don't think I'd qualify. Maybe Andy would, being the virgin she is.❞

He snickered. Then the cottage came into view.


Pierce stepped through the door as if this were already his home-sweet-home, making straight past Tiff and Eli for the plate of cookies. Priorities. Without a second thought, he grabbed one from the plate and took a big, greedy bite out of it. He didn't even bother to check the note.

❝Oh, fuckin' A. Who made the cookies?❞ - his voice was muffled around the chocolatey mush in his mouth.

It looked like there were a couple extras left behind as a bonus. What kinda maniac would turn their nose up at cookies? He claimed those as well, pocketing them within his jacket... in which he'd probably end up forgetting about their presence until he went to rest his hands inside and come up with a gooey surprise.

Swinging back around, he wasted no time asking after Chester's whereabouts, but not after a very brief and half-assed explanation about why the two peasiest pods came back so soon. If Birdie wanted to explain more, she could. He was already over it.

❝Long time no see, huh? Smoke sesh was blown. Some kids just like... manifested out of the trees and creeped us out. You'd understand if you'd've seen these lil' guys. Anyway...❞ - he craned his neck to peer around Eli - ❝... listen, you know I love you, but I need to find Chaz. If he suffers the blissful peace of my absence for too long, his neck's gonna snap from the weight of his big head. Somebody's gotta keep him on his toes. Catch-up after we get settled?❞

He offered Tiff a wink and then made a casual stride towards the hallway. Now, if I were a mouthy blonde theater twink, where would I crash?

meathook