poetry by dead men

Here was the thing about the bookstore: Bella spent every day surrounded by books, but she didn’t get paid nearly enough to afford them all. She could stare all day long, pick up two or three that seemed worth holding on to, but they were more a treat than a habit. She read too often and too fast to sustain herself.

So, instead, she’d head to the library.

She found herself deep in the stacks, looking for--what? No more Brontës for the time being. Some bad romance, maybe? Fantasy? One of those book club suburban mom murder mysteries, which leaned even more out there than Lord of the Rings? She didn’t know. She’d take whatever, letting her arms grow heavy with the weight of their pages.

As she turned a corner and pulled another book at random off the shelf, she saw a familiar silhouette. Was that Jamie Moriarty from the bookstore, here in the wild, among the plebeians, where she so clearly didn’t belong? Was she staring? Bella was definitely staring. Jamie had probably seen her by now, standing there with her mouth hanging just a little bit open and starting to blush. Great. Real smooth, Bella. Real cool. 

On her days off of work, she stopped in to visit Charlie at the station. The newer deputies would smile and flirt with her, offering coffee and donuts; the older ones would comment on how big you’ve gotten! and I remember when you were knee high and just wanted the stickers. Charlie always seemed happy for the company, and they’d eat lunch at his desk while he regaled her with stories from the week.

I’ve told you about the woods, right? he’d say, and Bella would nod into her sandwich. The action never stopped for Chief Swan.

Then, Charlie got called away to a meeting, and Bella headed outside. It was dark in the station, and unexpectedly bright outside, and it took her a moment of standing there blinking to adjust to the sunlight. As her vision cleared, she saw a girl by the steps, alone.

open starter

John — it always felt so strange to call himself John, it was like a sock that didn’t fit right. But it was the only name he’d ever known, and so he used it. John was easily distracted tonight. He was working on a new potato launcher. (Not for any particular reason, he just thought it would be fun to have over the summer. With any luck, he could calibrate it to launch over the school this time.) Sometimes he could get lost in the wires and the clanking of tools, but sometimes… Sometimes he got lost in something else. 

His garage door was open, and with a pair of (unnecessary) goggles on top of his head, he slowly wandered out. Staring upwards at the stars, stretching out across an inky sky. It felt wrong to look at something so beautiful while standing on a boring old paved driveway. Even the sidewalk felt too… solid beneath his feet. He kept meandering until he found a park. The ground soft and spongy beneath his feet, the springtime grass fresh and bouncy. Grass would smell better if it had just a dash of apple, he found himself thinking. A strange smile crossing his face. Finally though, he felt right. Right enough, anyway. He sprawled out on the grass and lifted a hand upwards to trace the constellations. 

&

She’d long since grown used to the shape of nights at Charlie’s. Dinner, probably alone, probably leftovers taken from deep in the fridge that she’d prepped for the week days ago, the two of them taking up their separate posts on opposite ends of the house--it wasn’t that big, so they were never that far, but they were far enough. Charlie would sit on the couch with a beer and The Game, whatever The Game was, until late. Bella would come down for water or a snack and find him fast asleep, a half-empty bottle perched precariously on the coffee table.

They did fine together, all things considered. It was familiar, at least. Routine. Habit. She liked habits. Habits made sense.

Sometimes, she’d tiptoe past Charlie as he snored on the couch, and take a walk. On a clear night, with the sky day-bright with stars, her headphones in, and only the occasional passing car, she could pretend she was anywhere but here. Bella walked aimlessly, meandering towards the park more as a guide point than a destination. She’d probably just take a lap around the block then head home to sleep before work, then wake up and do it all again tomorrow.

Tonight, there was someone  splayed on the grass in the park. She approached him slowly, her hand clutching her keys tightly the way Charlie always taught her. Just in case. 

You’re overreacting, Bella. You’re fine. It’s a pretty night. He’s just stargazing. 

She looked up the way the man was pointing, as if she expected to see something up there. It was just the sky, and the stars, a hazy swirl of lights. She’d long since forgotten most of the constellations she’d learned in elementary school.

It’s late at night. Just almost closing time. It’s only her in the diner. She’s been given the keys, and asked to close the place up. Also clean, which is not her job at all. Why? Something about making up for… a few broken plates. Which is total bullshit, but okay. With a mop clutched in hand and her headphones in, she’s cleaning the floor to the beat of the song - mouthing the lyrics. She’s lost in her own world, because… who’s gonna show up at this hour? They have only like 10 minutes to go. So lost she doesn’t even notice the ‘ring!’ of the doorbell, and the person coming in. Until a particular spin, which leaves her face to face with them. “Oh, shi-” she yelped, knocking back into a few boxes and almost immediately bending to make a grab for them. Not without having its contains dumped on her head, first. Obviously. Because she’s just that lucky. “…. I mean, hi! How can I serve you?” Nice going, Veronica. Very professional.

She was on the closing shift that night. Her favorite one, even though it involved way too much cleaning and money-counting. The evenings were quiet, empty, peaceful, and, save the occasional desperate college student, Bella had the store mostly to herself. Time to read, time to catch up on Netflix, time to stare vacantly at the wall and wonder what she was doing with her life, time to think bout what she wanted for dinner, time spent doing just about everything but her job. She really was terrible at it, she thought; she should have been fired a long time ago.

Finally, she got to flip the sign to CLOSED and lock the door on her way out and make a mad dash to the diner in hopes of catching it before it closed. It had been tight, but doable, and she found Veronica still there, startled by the door chime, dumping boxes on herself, making a mess of the place.

*

For as much as Edward was staring at the girl, it seemed that she was hellbent on doing the same. She didn’t break her gaze. She stared at him. It wasn’t something that Edward found to be uncommon. There were a lot of women who stared at him. A lot of women that attempted and failed to get his attention. Why did this brunette seem to demand his attention and capture him at the same exact time? It didn’t matter how many times he told himself to look away; his gaze always ended up on her. 

Perhaps they’d known each other in another life. That would explain the familiarity that Edward felt when he was in her presence. Her presence was like slipping into an old sweater. One that he knew like the back of his hand. Every worn thread, every tear. It was comfortable. Like a warm embrace that he’d had a million times and still craved it every single moment. 

That would explain the dreams. It would explain the feeling he’d had in her gut when he’d finally read her name upon her nametag at the bookstore. Why it hadn’t left his head since. Why it felt so right. So familiar. He’d seen her in almost every one of his dreams. Sometimes he heard her laugh. Sometimes he made her smile. Other times she was broken and bleeding out in his arms. It didn’t make sense to him. 

Edward looked away from Bella, but his immediate instinct was to look back up at her and he did. Despite something within him telling him that he didn’t deserve it, he ignored that irrational part of him. He was just serving her a drink. It wasn’t anything more than that. 

Bella tossed her hair back and Edward knew what her scent would be like before it hit his nose. At the same time, he felt a burning within his throat that he couldn’t explain. There weren’t many things he found that could easily be explained lately. His hand twitched at his side again, begging its owner to allow a single pass through her hair. Edward - if he hadn’t already been clenching his jaw - would have gaped at the girl when she said she trusted him. Instead, he merely nodded and turned his back to her to grab one of the beers that they had on tap. It seemed like something that she described liking. However, he couldn’t read her as easily as others. 

Edward slid the beer over to her and murmured, “Here you go. It’s an IPA. If you hate it, I can grab something else.” Why was he so worried about her opinion? Why did he want to hear her voice more than anything? To hear her laugh? “Surprised to find you outside of the bookstore.” 

She liked the sound of his voice. It was old-fashioned and musical, like the golden age movie stars in the movies Renee liked to watch. With the set of his chin and the slope of his forehead, he seemed better suited for an old photo album than leaning behind the counter of a modern-day, real-life bar. His hands, pale and slender, should have been at a piano, not pouring beers and mixing cocktails.

Bella watched him move deftly, gracefully, so at odds with her own fumbling hands and two left feet. She’d told Charlie once that she was thinking about trying for a job at one of the campus cafes, and he’d laughed so hard at the idea of her handling coffees that she’d dropped it immediately. Bookstore it was. No risk of spilling boiling liquids or being any kind of safety hazard, just the occasional tipped pile of paperbacks and inexplicable papercut.

But watching the bartender was like a dance, backed by a familiar melody. It was a ghostly refrain, a quiet lullaby, soft-played piano chords echoing like a heartbeat. It was the pattern of her breathing, of her footsteps, of something world-shaking and frighteningly intimate. It was a song she’d never heard before, and a song she knew by heart.

And then it was gone. Just the too-loud thumping of the bar’s tinny speakers and the din of her neighbors getting drunk. In the far corner, someone laughed loudly, and their table mates cheered.

Please hurry up with that drink.

He slid her the beer, and it nearly slipped through her fingers, but Bella caught it. The condensation was cold against her hands, and it felt good and familiar. (Pale skin, a touch like ice, a melody.) She smiled in thanks and raised it in a little toast. “No,” she said, “this is great.”

She took a sip, swallowed, closed her eyes for a moment, exhaled. He’d chosen well. She’d been right. She needed this. He’d known.

@bellecygne​ +  dance studio

Natasha’s last ballet class of the day had left the studio slowly. The day had went well. There were no injuries which always was the sign of a successful day. The girls in her last class were excited to learn and perfect their arabesques. The day had flown by. Natasha stood in the center of the floor and worked on her plan for the next day. She stretched a few times before going over the moves that she’d add to the simple routine that she’d been teaching so far. It took a few tries before she found the right beat and scribbled them down upon a piece of paper. 

When she finished the routine, Natasha stood behind the counter in the front and began to go over the roster for her next day’s classes. The defense class was full tonight. The redhead was busy scribbling on a piece of paper when the bell on the door went off. Looking up from what she was doing, Natasha greeted, “Hi. Can I help you?” 

When she was a little girl, Bella had taken ballet lessons. It had been one of those hobbies Renee had thought would be cute for her, like violin and painting and that one incredibly doomed week of soccer that ended with at least three concussions. She tried identities on her daughter like shoes, hoping that one of them would look pretty and not pinch too badly.

Bella, fueled by Angelina Ballerina and Barbie of Swan Lake, had ridden this particular one out longer than the rest. She’d done a few years of bad dance recitals and lopsided twirls around the house until they all agreed she wouldn’t outgrow her two left feet, and her blatant lack of coordination stopped being cute. So ballet had gone out the window, and Renee had gone in search of another persona.

But now, some decade and a half later, Bella found herself entering a dance studio again. Something knotted in her stomach, warning her that this was a bad idea, bad things happened to her in places like this. She brushed it off. She needed this. She needed a hobby. She needed to feel like she could do something. She needed to inhabit her body again, to feel her own fingers and toes, to stop floating through this dreary awful everyday. She needed to be able to protect herself.

bella swan + tv tropes

~*~

Jessica waved off the thanks. It never sat right with her, people thanking her. Either they were just being polite assholes or… she just didn’t like it It made her feel like she was covered in slime for whatever reason. She was probably just allergic to manners honestly. 

She followed the girl towards the corner. She caught the flash of a smile, but she dropped it just as quickly and Jessica let out a breath of relief. The idea of forcing someone to smile also made her feel like she was covered in slime, and that one made a lot more sense to her. “You heard about the bodies in the woods?” she asked, eyes sliding over. “I’m a journalist, thought I’d look for a new angle. See if… there were any stories about this happening before, or something.” 

Bella liked this woman. She was dark and a little frightening, and she could feel her edge from across the store, but she liked her. She seemed like she took no shit, and didn’t mind a lapse in the customer service voice her job so depended on. And she was a journalist (also very cool), looking for--ghost stories? Local legends? Dark stuff, weird stuff, fun stuff. The stuff that could help them both make sense of this weird swirling in-between place of a town, if they were lucky.

Bella eyed the bookshelf, tracing up and down the spines, hoping for something that could give a lead--any lead, and stopped.

Bodies in the woods.

She’d heard something about them. An idle background chatter, a slow humming, a headline Charlie had frowned at and promptly disappeared for the better part of the week (Work stuff, kid, he’d said. Best you stay out of it.) But she hadn’t read into them much. The details were vague at best; were there details at all? Did anyone know anything? Why were they looking for ghost stories?

She shrugged. “A little,” she said. A horrible wave of deja vu passed over her all of a sudden; she’d dealt with bodies before, but when? Where? How? 

Then it was gone, and she couldn’t remember.

Reblog and bold everything your muse has done!

@echospringshq​ edition: bold all that your muse has only done in the world of echo springs. italicize all that your muse has only done in canon. bold and italicize if they’ve done it in both.

“I’ve had enough of both for a lifetime” Grace responds while scrunching up her nose in distaste, between all of those that had offered her condolences on losing the entire Le Domas clan there had been just as many that had praised her luck. And that wasn’t even taking into account the outpourings on social media, Grace had looked once and that had been more than enough for her to never delve into that black hole again. The phrase calling her a gold-digging bimbo would haunt her forever. At one point there had been a petition to get her investigated for masterminding the whole tragedy in order to take over the Le Domas’ fortune and company, it had only gotten thirteen signatures but knowing there had been more than one at all had been quite crushing.

Closing the distance Grace rests herself against the counter, placing a hand on the top and leaning on it while she spoke to the clerk. It had been an odd request she knew, but Grace hadn’t actually come in with anything solid in mind rather just in her spontaneity asked for the first thing that had come to mind. That was more of who she had always been as a person, free-spirited and always ready with some kind of snappy response. Alex had never expected her to change after they were married, but then he hadn’t been expecting his entire family to die on their wedding day and leave everything for her to handle in their stead. It had weighed heavily on her personality as well as her health since. “Well you certainly sound like you know what you’re talking about” Grace offers with a slight tilt of her head, looking back at the clerk after following her gaze to the bookshelf behind her “what would you actually recommend?”

Bella laughed. Okay, good. She was so tired of pushing the suburban mom-approved hashtag-empowerment book club oeuvre. Thank god Renee had never been too into that stuff. Her book clubs were more becoming one with nature and channelling your inner goddess through breathing techniques and meditation, and incredibly specific nonfiction books about this histories of, like, trees and Beat poets. You know, normal stuff. Charlie liked a good crime thriller now and again. Otherwise? No Big Little Lies or The Secret in either of their houses.

“Thank god,” Bella said, “because I might have had to quit on the spot if you wanted them.”

On closer look, there was something about this woman that Bella liked. Something scrappy and sharp in the set of her mouth. Something steely in her eyes. As she placed a hand on the counter, Bella got a glimpse of tattoos--so at odds with the rest of her outfit, which probably cost more than Bella’s annual salary. She had a story, for sure. Bella wanted to know it, but she didn’t want to ask.

Usually, Jamie had little time for retail workers. Indeed, she had little time for most people, but those vacant-eyed dim-witted souls who stood behind counters were especially easy to dislike. However, Bella was a rare exception to this. She had taken the time to learn Jamie’s name, and had always remained polite. But she had risen in Jamie’s estimations when she had recommended a replacement for a book on curatorship which the shop was unable to order in, and the replacement had proven to be perfectly suitable. And so, from that exchange on, Jamie had held Bella in higher esteem than her colleagues.

Bella withdrew the book from behind the counter, and Jamie smiled. “Excellent, thank you,” she said, opening her clutch bag to take out her credit card. “Well, most people would argue that every act of conservation has a number of ethical components, particularly fine art restoration,” she explained, her tone taking on the barely auditory, ever so slightly patronising undercurrent that it always did when she was explaining something to someone, no matter who they were. “Salvador Muñoz Viñas has written at length on the topic. I’m quite well versed in his opinions, but it always pays to have a text which one can refer to easily.”

She glanced at the book cover, and then back to Bella, still smiling. “I have discovered a different shade of paint beneath the visible layer of a landscape I’m currently restoring. It was obviously previously painted over at some point, but I’m not yet sure about the ethical dilemma this puts me in – if the newer layer was added by the original artist, for example. So yes.” Here, she took a breath, aware that she had gotten carried away, which was a rather rare occurrence for her. “I suppose you could say that I’m working on something ethical, insofar as all of my work has ethical elements.”

Jamie was, generally speaking, pretty kind to her. No hissy fits or trying to return salt-soaked, sand-covered beach reads for being “defective.” There was respect there, an appreciation that the girl behind the counter was just doing her best to get through the day. Bella liked her plenty. At least as much as she liked anyone in this store, in this tiny, tiring town.

So she tried her best to keep up. She’d never be an art expert (two art history classes in college didn’t quite cut it), but she did her reading, asked questions, followed along more or less competently. Maybe it was her accent, but there was something about Jamie that made Bella want to prove herself as more than just the cashier, to varying degrees of success. 

Here was where where Jamie Moriarty began to answer, and where the condescension came into play. Part of it, Bella was sure, was that Jamie was just Like This, because you couldn’t get so good in your field without becoming at least a little bit Like This. But it still made her squirm, just a little. Here was another moment of her trying, really trying, and being seen as nothing but the little girl who counted the money. (Not that well, either. The register did most of the work.)

Bella was always just the little girl. She always ushered in underestimation, low expectations, people assuming she was defenseless and incapable. Always in need of saving. Not even her old monster of a pickup truck could convince them she had something interesting to say.

She wanted to be so much more.

(She had a feeling, but couldn’t quite remember how or when or why or where, that she had once been so much more.)

Jamie was so much more.

Melinda wasn’t thrilled about having to interact with people as part of being a waitress, being the anti social type, but here she was. She had to start being an adult to pay for the apartment she found when she moved out. The diner wasn’t bad but some of the people around town didn’t sit well with her. She was friendly but still wary. She took her notepad and pencil, walking over to the new customer who just sat down. ‘’Hi there.’’ She put on her smile. ‘’I’m Melinda and I’ll be taking care of you. Can I start you off with a drink?’’

&

She usually came to the diner with Charlie. He’d order a burger and fries, she’d pick at a turkey sandwich or a Cobb salad and the berry cobbler he’d ordered her to split, because it had been her favorite when she was a kid. (It didn’t taste the same these days, gelled and sticky and over-sweet, and Charlie still had a hard time remembering she wasn’t a kid anymore.) But Charlie was at work, and Bella was off work, and the house was out of food, and it was as good a place as any to go.

She smiled nervously at the waitress--she knew this place by heart now, and most of the staff had long since become friends with Charlie, who made friends with everyone in town. She’d never seen this girl--Melinda--here before. Or maybe Bella just hadn’t been in here in a while.

He was staring. Wasn’t he always staring? Ever since he’d first seen her in the bookstore, it was like all he could do was stare at the girl from afar. The first time he’d seen her, the feeling was inexplicable. Was it possible for him to know someone that he’d never met before? No. That was ridiculous. There was just something about her. Something that he couldn’t put his finger upon. Something that felt more familiar than anything that he’d ever known before. 

The dreams, of course, didn’t start until after he spotted her at the bookstore for the first time. Edward was quick to put it off to coincidence. She’d just made an impression upon him. Somehow. Their first interaction had been brief, but he’d been back to the bookstore several times since then. The dreams were unlike anything he’d ever had before. They felt like memories, but that was impossible. Why did had he memorized the color of her eyes? Why did he know the specific lilt in her voice? 

She had to think of him as a creep. He was sure that his stare was off putting and that was why he immediately looked down at the bar. He adverted his gaze as if embarrassed. Edward only knew her name because of the little name tag she wore at the bookstore. Bella. He’d turned the name over several times in his mind. It didn’t ring a bell. They’d never met before. At least not that he could recall. So, why did he feel this way? 

Her hair fell in front of her face and Edward’s hand twitched at his side. He had the inexplicable urge to reach out and brush it away from her face. To twist his fingers in the strands. It was madness. That was all he could place it down to be. 

“We have a couple on draft, if you prefer beer. A lager, ale, or stout?” He asked, knowing he was going above and beyond his job description. He rarely made conversation with his other customers. Mostly because he could read what they wanted. Or he remembered. She wasn’t as easy to read. In fact, he couldn’t read her at all. “Nothing too sweet or pink. Perhaps an old fashioned if you want to tread out of your comfort zone.” 

You didn’t just tell your bartender I’ve been dreaming about you. You definitely didn’t tell them that before you’d even had your first drink. But as he spoke, Bella remembered-- the memory of a memory. She remembered waking up with a name on the tip of her tongue, with the feel of someone’s hands on her shoulders. And she’d forget it, because it was a dream, and she rarely remembered her dreams, until he spoke. Actually spoke. Full sentences. Just listing beers, but, considering Bella had never heard him say more than a few words before, it sounded near a goddamn soliloquy.

And, though she’d never heard him say her name before (she didn’t even know his; she doubted he knew hers, unless he read her silly little name tag at work, which no one ever read), she immediately knew what it would sound like. Some irrational part of her twitched with recognition, like it knew exactly who he was and what they were doing here, if only she’d open her mouth and trust it.

Sometimes, when she woke up from those memories of memories of dreams, she thought there had been someone in her room with her. Every reasonable bone in her body knew it should have frightened her, but in the hazy morning half-light, she wasn’t reasonable. She liked the idea of company; she’d never had it before. Bella and Charlie danced distant circles around each other, crossing paths in the kitchen or the living room or, at the worst of times, fighting it out for the shower, but that was it. Just her, puttering around that little old house, never quite bridging the distance. 

And by the time the haze wore to full sunshine, she found herself alone again.

He looked away from her, and she looked down at her hands. Had she said something? Had she done something? Had she been leering? Was there something in her teeth? Had he finally seen her up close and decided she and her too-small mouth and the oversized dark circles under her eyes weren’t worth his time?

Wow, she needed a drink.

“I’m a fan of Agatha Christie, some of Gillian Flynn.” He said, noting the polite - if possibly tense - smile. People probably expected that he didn’t like King’s work to be the kind of pretentious he often was - and there was some truth to that. But, in all honesty? He preferred a full mystery over abject horror. Something he could delve into, and rather than horrifying clowns and axe-wielding murderers, held a twisting turn of a maze that he could delve into it and try to solve. A good book was like a proper puzzle - curveballs, story structure, characters he could sympathize with. It wasn’t easy to sympathize with people in his own world; fictional ones were better. 

His thumb slid over the cane’s head, a coping mechanism in these situations. Why was it that being cruel was so simple, but being even mildly polite felt like he was doing something wrong? “I prefer stories without a lot of blood and gore.” His smile felt forced and all-too cold, though perhaps that was because he didn’t recall the last time he’d managed a proper one that wasn’t with vile intent.

“Gone Girl, huh?” she said, unable to resist the barest hint of a teasing edge to her voice. “Wouldn’t have taken you for the book club circuit type.” Bella stared at him a little longer, narrowing her eyes. She’d never been the best judge of character, but she could read clues. She could put the pieces together. She liked a mystery herself, a chance to sharpen skills of observation she’d otherwise never use whiling herself away in this goddamn small town. “Wait, no, let me guess-- you thought Gone Girl was overplayed, but Sharp Objects was an underrated masterpiece.” She didn’t needle him about Agatha Christie. Some things were held sacred.

*&*

He’s a man of habit, more than anything, and so Steve’s already halfway to the shelf where his old history favorites are housed when he remembers that’s not going to help him (or his near-empty wallet) today. So he stumbles to a stop and tries to orient himself just as the question slices through the air.

“Oh,” he looks around one last time, hoping the answer will manifest itself before pulling the employee away from the important task of  – he glances at the counter and raises a brow, amused – reading. Well, then. “Is there a how-to section?” He clears his throat, “Home repairs and the like.” 

Most of the work (things like patching holes and replacing the roof, then the fence) he’s either done before or has been able to fumble his way through. Even the mechanical work on the old tractor, thanks to his pilot training, had been easy enough once he got the right parts.  But he’d finally met his match when it came to the plumbing, the aging pipes a decent foe indeed. 

The man looks like he knows where he’s going--he’s on a mission, at least, and she knows well enough by now not to interfere with customers on missions. (That’s how a Karen last month ended up chewing her out for being hovery, something Bella had never once been called before in her life.) He’s also about her twice her size and definitely not worth throwing off-course. So she stays where she is until he comes to her, his mission apparently not a success. 

“Um,” she says. “Yes? I think so?” It’s in nonfiction, she’s confident enough about that much. She’s pretty sure there’s a shelf stocked with at least one self-help book and some kind of knitting for dummies, but it could be all histories and memoirs over there. She mostly sticks to the fiction.