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This is what happens when youâre given a Mag7Weekend after watching too much Deadwood and Hell on Wheels, falling deep into Manhell, and you just really want Vasquez to have some happiness and âresponsibility.â The title comes from my favorite Hell on Wheels quote where one dying man asks Cullen Bohannon if thereâs peace where heâs going, and Cullen replies, "I don't know if men like us ever find peace, Mr. Bolan, in this world or the next, but I hope so...I really do.â
Thanks to @cthulhuwithteaâ for her help in this.
The two prompts I used are âIn another lifeâ and âWherever you are.â I promise there will be love in all its forms.
The first freeze comes two months after they put the bodies in the ground.
Vasquez steps out of the room and, recoiling from the bite in the air, thinks itâs permanent now. First companions in years, and now theyâre frozen in the ground. If theyâd been there, Vasquez imagines Billy would like the cold. Horne had enough layers never to feel it and Billy would like it, but as for Goodnight and Faradayâwell, neither had ever shut up, and Vasquez supposes they wouldnât make any exceptions for the cold. He imagines Horne telling Faraday to quiet down, son, and Billy lighting up and passing it to Goodnight because with his lips around a cigarette, he wasnât soliloquizing.
There was a fondness among them that Vasquez still misses; there was a fondness in companionship that he canât say he truly has now, but he tucks his shirt into his pants, buttons his waistcoat, and makes his way downstairs.
Sam is there with a mug of coffee, and heâs probably been there a while, ever early to rise. The first time Vasquez had woken to an empty hotel room, he hadnât been able to keep himself from shaking before he had realized Samâs things were still in the chair. He feels guilty for saying it, but Sam wouldnât have been his first pick for travelling companion. Still, company is company, and when heâd been alone for as long as he had, he couldnât be picky.
âCold this morning,â is Samâs greeting as Vasquez drops into the chair across from him. Itâs not much, but itâs better than he usually gets from Sam these days.
âMexican blood, itâs no good for this,â he says, blowing on his hands. If this is the beginning, he doesnât want to know what the full winter will bring. âDonât look forward to snow.â
âWeâll have to head south to avoid it.â Sam gives him a pointed look, and Vasquez knows what he means. To avoid the snow or any other harsh weather, theyâd need to return to where his warrant still stands.
It wouldnât be the first time heâs spent the winter frozen, but something about the way Sam brought up the topic makes him think Samâs already made up his mind to go south. Vasquez considers it for a moment and then shrugs. There are worse people to watch his back than Sam.
By the time theyâve eaten and packed their bags, the church bell is ringing and calling the congregation. They go marching by in their best as Vasquez settles in for a long ride with Sam. Just once he wishes he could attend a sermon again, but Sam doesnât seem the sort of man for that, so he hopes the tipping of his hat is apology enough to the preacher, who calls out to them, âPeace be with you!â
âYou think thereâs peace for men like us,â Vasquez asks when theyâre out of earshot.
Sam doesnât respondâunsurprising, but if Vasquez had wanted philosophical conversation for the sake of conversation, Goodnight would have been the one to askâyet the clench of Samâs jaw gives him all the answer he needs.
Itâs you or them, Vasquez tells himself when his fingers quiver to reload his gun, you or them. Sam or them.
Itâs the last part that steadies his hand. In all honesty, heâs so goddamn tired of running that, if he didnât know Sam was counting on him to have his back, he wonders if he might stray from his cover with his hands raised in the gĂŒeroâs âdonât-shootâ style. Dead he would live up to his familyâs expectations. But thereâs still that same flame to live that had sent him careening out of Texas that licks at his insides and keeps him ducked out of sight.
One more shot fires and clips the rock above Samâs head. Just which party did the sneaking is unclear, but which party had been up to no good is not; one mention of Samâs âduly-sworn warrant officerâ spiel had them drawing their guns, and even after walking out of Rose Creek, neither Sam nor Vasquez liked the odds of seven-to-one unaware. Now, five men down, theyâre covered behind the rocky Arizona outcropping, waiting for their chance to pick off a few more or the chance to explain that they didnât mean to find them. Although at this point, Vasquez assumes Sam doesnât care much about negotiating. Not that he would blame him or trust the others to pass honorably.
One particularly brave, stupid soul sticks his head around their rock, perhaps trying to get the drop on them, but Vasquez fires two shots into his forehead before the other man can raise his gun. Itâs a waste. Next to him, Sam pops off three more fanned rounds in rapid succession, and Vasquez hopes thatâs three more down. He reloads both his guns once more, then glances to Sam before breaking his cover.
When he shoots, he isnât quite aware heâs doing so, and later he might wonder about the safety in that, but thereâs only a twitch of his fingers that doesnât quite feel like itâs coming from him. Mi dulce, MarĂa Marquez used to say with her warm smile pressing a kiss to his forehead; mi dulce, she would say now with tears rolling down her cheeks, and it wouldnât sound nearly as sweet.
Oh, mi dulce, Vasquez can hear her saying when the silence settles around them. It bounces and echoes off the cliffs more than any gunfire ever could.
Vasquez looks to the pool of blood and the brave, stupid man floating in what hasnât been soaked into the earth, at the sharp nose, the dark eyes, even the scruff of his beard, though longer than his own. For what itâs worth, he could be looking at a picture of himself gunned down in a bar, and it feels entirely too close, entirely too lucky. For the first time in a long timeâin too longâhis stomach churns at the sight of the dead man he possibly killed, and that alone makes him feel even worse. When did killing become such a habit that he doesnât balk at a body?
He scrubs his face with his hands and leans into it as a wave of sickness washes through him. Good, he thinks, and wishes it were worse.
âVasquez.â Samâs voice pulls him from his self-damning thoughts, and he shakily turns, where he finds Sam standing over the familiar body and studying Vasquez as though meeting for the first time. âLook at him.â
Reluctantly, Vasquez turns his attention back to the dead, and all he can see is himself lying on the ground. No identification, no one to tell his mother that her only son was dead, truly dead now, so she could either stop worrying or have a reason to continue her mourning. No one to tell her how much heâd loved her, she and his father and sisters, and that he hadnât gone a day without thinking of them on their ranch in Texas. He sees a decade of running made fruitless, years heâll never get back and with nothing to show for them. He looks, but he doesnât want to. âLooks like me.â
âYeah. He does,â Sam says, and then thereâs a rustling that draws Vasquezâs attention away from the body once moreâdraws his attention to the same paper Sam had held up when they met.
And then Vasquez understands without Sam having to say a word. When he looks at the body again, all he sees is five hundred dollars pocketed, plenty to split if Sam is willing, and a death sentence that disappears forever. One life for two. He could start over and have a life again. The comfort of Rose Creek, the familiarity and companionship, the dry bed and soft pillow, he could have it all if they did this. He could stop running and just be still.
He doesnât have to say a word for Sam to know.
Once, on a ranch in Texas, there had been a man and his wife and their three daughters and son.
The ranch had been in the family for more than a hundred years, and as the oldest child and only male heir, the son had been set to take over, and he hadnât minded, had looked forward to the day when he could make his family proud, take on their name and wear it well because he had loved his family. He loved his parents who had only given him love; he had loved his sisters, the stern and serious Hildebranda, vibrant NoemĂ with not enough time in the day to laugh as much as she wanted, and sweet little MarĂa, who took after their mother more than just her namesake. Looking back, he sometimes wonders if heâd loved them too much, or too poorly; if he only had loved them just right, perhaps he could still be with them. If only so many things had been different, perhaps he wouldnât have lived the last ten years with a noose around his neck.
It should feel freeing now that the noose is gone. Alejandro Vasquez is dead. His life was worth five hundred dollars, half of which jingles in the bottom of the saddle bag next to his right foot. It should feel freeing, but it doesnât. Instead, it feels instead like heâs wandering through a desert in the dead of winter: no destination, no reason to run, nothing holding him in place.
Even with his warrant gone, Vasquez knows thereâs no going back; or rather, he wonât go back and put them in dangerâwonât have their safety on his conscience too. And so still itâs forward, farther down the trail, away from a home that feels no closer now than it has in years.
When the ground has thawed, or at least thawed some, they stop wandering the desert and find themselves just west of the Rockies in Colorado, in a railroad town called Pine River. Itâs still entirely too cold for Vasquezâs preferences, but he knows thereâs little use in trying to sway Samâs opinion.
All saloons are the same, Vasquez thinks, as they hitch their horses to the post outside into this new one. Some have clean girls and dirty glasses, some have a piano that plays in tune, some offer lodgings upstairs, but they all give a drink that burns, and he canât think of anything better.
This saloon, though, has an amiable barman whoâs more than happy make small talk and who tops off their glasses generously. Heâd squinted once when theyâd walked in and immediately waved them over to the bar, introducing himself as Alfred Tolliver and asking how they were with enough welcoming that both Vasquez and Sam took it to be sincere.
âNameâs Chisolm. Sam Chisolm, peace officer from Wichita, Kansas,â Sam says now, easy in the other manâs easy company, and it makes Vasquez feel easy too. âJust passing through town with my friend here. Weâd like to stop for a night or two and have a warm bed for a change.â
âWell,â Tolliver says in a drawl that sounds gray-suit familiar, âiffen itâs lodgings you want, youâre best to check with the Widow Barber at the hotel.â
âWidow Barber, huh? Howâd her last husband die,â Vasquez asks, running a finger across his throat.
The barmanâs friendly smile turns more unsettling than amused, and Vasquez, like usual, regrets his joke. âSliced to pieces, thatâs for sure, but not by her. Canât say she was too disappointed to see his great ass in the dirt. Canât say any of us were. But their place is right at the fork, canât miss it.â
When theyâve had their rest, they part with a tip of their hats, Sam taking the horses to the stable while Vasquez follows the manâs instructions down the thoroughfare, where, turning right at the fork, a yellow building with brown trim looms the span of half the block, its only real decorations being the sign that reads âBarber House: Finest Rooms and Baths.â The front door opens to a rich, oaken lobby, with two halls on either side of a staircase that splits at the landing. Itâs empty inside, save for a lone woman at the counter holding a tiny baby in one arm and a cigarette to her lips with the other, her battered bodice unbuttoned to her corset, revealing milk-white breasts. The moment he realizes heâs staring, Vasquez hurries to turn his gaze to her face, thin and mean in both senses, only to find her already scrutinizing him with a pair of harsh blue eyes. Liar, her face reads.
If this is the widow, Vasquez wonders exactly who the lucky party was. âSeñora Barber?â
Halting her drag on the cigarette, a cloud of smoke puffs from between her lips as she snaps, âDo I look like a fucking widow? If you want her, youâll have to wait a goddamn moment.â
Look like una puta, Vasquez wants to say, but common sense tells him this is the kind of girl with a gun in her garter. He hasnât made it this far just to have an irritable prostitute off him. She brushes back a strand of stringy coppery hair to better squint at him, raking small eyes up and down his being, and then takes a drag from her cigarette, smoke blowing in his direction. âIâm Beatrice. The whore. You need something?â
âNameâs Marquez, Salvador Marquez. Just came into town with my friend,â Vasquez says, after a beat when he can think of a passable name. He ignores her implication. âI was told Señora Barber could give us a room. Need one room with two beds or two rooms with one bed. And a bath, por favor.â
âJesus, do you always run around shoving your stick up everyoneâs ass?â Beatrice stubs out her cigarette on the counter and gives him her most impressive scowl yet. âYou know what I fucking meant. You want the widow, or just the room?â
âRoom is fine,â Vasquez says. She reaches beneath the counter to withdraw a ledger that she slides across to him. A thin, boney finger taps at a line, and Vasquez signs his nameâSalvador Marquezâon it, then Samâs, and fishes out a few coins from his pocket.
âNumber fourteen, right at the top of the stairs. Two beds. Itâs cheaper that way,â Beatrice says without much heat, passing him a key. âIâll get the bath brought up.â
âGracias.â Vasquez offers her a smile, and though she doesnât return it, she doesnât frown either, merely watches him from under her lashes, shifting the baby in her arms just enough that Vasquez catches a glimpse of tiny lips and round cheeks.
âNice place,â Sam says when he comes into the room.
Vasquez raises his head off his bed just enough to watch Sam drop his hat onto the roomâs free chair. For a fleeting moment, he hopes he hadnât looked as rough as Sam, but he canât find the energy to care all that much now that heâs bathed and tested the bedâand madre de Dios, what a bed it is. Itâs so comfortable that he wonders if heâs already died, except where heâs going would never be this comfortable. Maybe heâll never get up. His stomach rumbles in opposition of the thought, but it takes little effort to ignore it, even after too long of having a routine again, too long of having proper meals at regular, proper times.
âRestaurant down the street seems popular.â Thereâs a hint of amusement in Samâs voice, which Vasquez snorts at. Everything is working against him to get him out of this bed, and frankly he wants nothing to do with it. Itâs the only thing he wants for the rest of his life: a soft bed and the goddamned peace and quiet that comes with it. Not that he wouldnât take anything else that comes with beds either. âThe widow suggested it too.â
âYou meet the widow,â Vasquez asks, only out of a salacious sort of curiosity, still not budging. The hotel is by far the nicest heâs ever stayed in, with or without Sam, richly built and decorated, which only serves to contrast even more sharply with the woman whoâd checked them in. Perhaps Beatrice was the dead manâs mistress, put into the hotel as a favor even after death. Perhaps she and the widow hate each other. Or perhaps the widow has figured out how to make a bit of extra money.
âQuiet. Reckon sheâs nice enough,â Sam says, and then comes a clanking of metal beating its way up the stairs. Vasquez hears Sam cross the room to answer the knock, and he doesnât have to look to know itâs Beatrice clanking her way into the room with another tub. Just as loudly and unceremoniously, sheâll be back with pails of water half-sloshed up the stairs and through the hall. Vasquez closes his eyes. No need to add to her ill-feelings towards him.
When Sam finishes bathing, he wakes Vasquez with a kick at his foot dangling on the floor. Vasquez growls, but his stomach growls back, and with a great reluctance, he heaves himself out of the soft, perfect bed. Itâs growing dark out now, the room dimmed into shadow and lit only by the dusk from the window and the single lamp Sam had lit. Shifting through his bags, Vasquez finds a cleanâor cleanerâpair of pants and tugs them on.
Sam is out of the room before he can finish tucking his shirt into his pants, and heâs focused on buttoning his vest while not falling down the stairs when out of the corner of his mouth, Sam mutters, âSheâs talking to you.â
Snapping to attention, Vasquez expects Beatrice, but instead he finds another woman waiting as if she expects him to accost her; not that he ever would, or even could, especially with the way she watches him with such round, frightened eyes. Everything about her seems round, her eyes, her face, everything round and soft, and if she wasnât dressed to her neck in black, heâd think sheâd never known a hard day in her life. In a voice equally as soft and more modulated than even Billyâs had been, she says, âMr. Marquez?â
For a stupid moment, he stares at her, uncomprehending, and then he remembers who Mr. Marquez is. He offers what he can of a smile that goes unreturned, though he doesnât know if thatâs from nerves or being put off. When he starts to come over and she sees that she has his attention, she asks, âHow do you do, Mr. Marquez? Iâm Mrs. Anna Barber, proprietor. Please forgive me for not seeing you in this afternoon, but I had an errand to run. I trust that everything was to your liking and there were noâŠmisunderstandings?â
âMisunderstandings,â Vasquez asks. He hopes itâs not misunderstood that he knows the word, but nothing had gone wrong like she seems to think.
Señora Barber had been twisting a handkerchief in her hands, and now Vasquez thinks that if it was made of paper, sheâd have it torn into shreds. âChecking in wasnât too unpleasant? Everyone was polite?â
Realization peels back the corners of his lips. So her guard dogâif thatâs what Beatrice can be described asâgot loose. âNo worries, Señora Barber. Your security, she doesnât bite too hard. Still have all my fingers.â
âAre you sureââ
âItâs all right, señora,â he insists, holding up both hands and wiggling his fingers. âNo harm, see?â
âYes, I see,â she says, and when the traces of a grin ghost across her face, she ducks her head as if to keep from being caught. He wonders for a moment just what she would look like smiling, if sheâs just as soft and somber, but she raises her head as composed as ever. âWell, Mr. Marquez. I have no certainty for how long you intend to stay, but we do serve meals here if youâre ever so inclined, and on Mondays, we launder the linens and anything else you might like. If thereâs anything we can do for you, donât hesitate to ask. And again, Mr. Marquez, I do apologize for anything that may have conspired earlier.â
âGracâthank you, señora. And no apologies needed.â With a tip of his head, he offers one last parting smile and rejoins Sam. Somewhere deep inside, he half hopes they do stay long enough to see laundry day.
In the town of Pine River, the Colorado Central Railway stops three times a day, morning, afternoon, evening, and if anyone gets off, they go to Banjo Joeâs Saloon, Bergmanâs Kitchen, or the Barber House, where thereâs warmth to go around: a hot meal at Bergmanâs, off for a decent conversation with Al Tolliver next, then to one of the Widow Barberâs soft beds.
Vasquez wants to think itâs these three things that draw him in, but in reality, itâs not quite true. For a railroad town, there isnât much excitement except for the trainâs three stops a day. Everyone knows everyone else, from the millerâs new baby to the reverendâs grandfather-in-law, and moreover, they take a moment to speak to him so that by the end of the three days spent in town, there are rounds of, âHow do you do, Marquez,â whenever he walks through the thoroughfare.
Even better is the shop at the end of the thoroughfare, right where the street forks for the railroad and hotel. Without any notice, the previous owner had up and left one night, and when the town had awoken in the morning, theyâd found his few personals gone from the back room and his shop completely intact, all his equipment, his saws and nails and enough lumber to last for months, waiting for another day of work that wouldnât come. The bank had waited without any sign of him for three months before seizing the shop and leaving the town in need of a carpenter.
But itâs the beyond that really draws him in. Surrounding mountains cradle the town in a rich valley, with hills that roll emerald when the snow melts and trees that disappear into the sky, the land cut only by the railroadâs single line. Itâs cool in the mornings and evenings, and even during the day, itâs cooler than what Vasquez is used to, and itâs certainly no Texas, but he thinks he could make it work. Stop lassoing rocks and get back to the cattle he grew up with. Stop blazing a trail and carve out a homestead.
If thereâs anywhere he could stay, itâs here. He assumes Sam likes the town too, considering he makes no mention of leaving after three days, but by Saturdayâat least, itâs Saturday as far as Vasquez can tell, and Señora Barber hasnât asked for the laundryâSam is again ready to go.
âIâve got a warrant for a Mickey McCrae,â he says over dinner at Bergmanâs, and the fork halfway to Vasquezâs lips pauses in its journey. âThree hundred dollars for stealing from Huntington and the CP, and word is, heâs a three-day ride just north of here.â
His stomach decidedly not interested in eating anymore, Vasquez lowers his fork and raises his eyes. âJefe,â he begins slowly, âI am grateful you didnât kill me and let me come with you, but this townâŠitâs nice.â
For a long moment, Sam doesnât say anything, just keeps chewing his cornbread and watching his plate, and Vasquez waits for his anger that never comes. âYou thought about this?â
âSĂ. Everyone knows Salvador Marquez. They need a carpenter, I needâŠâ A roof, a rest, a reason; he needs so many things that only come if he just stops running.
Vasquez waits for his anger, but Sam only nods.
Sam sets out the next morning.
Not long after theyâd struck out together, Vasquez had recognized in Sam the fire burning for something he couldnât have, and he knew the feeling well. What Vasquez wanted was to leave behind Vasquez the outlaw and the chance once more to be Alejandro Vasquez, the man with the ranch and days of hard work made easy by family and friends. If heâd ever had a desire for adventure, that burned out years ago when for even more years, heâd been without a familiar face, anyone to assure him that he was right, to just keep going, it would be fine one day. Itâs not the same thing that makes Samâs fire burn, thatâs for sure. In Sam, thereâs a restless sort of energy, a need to be always on the move, always reaching for that wantâan angry sort of energy with which Vasquez can identify, but theyâre worlds apart in how they want to react.
Which is the problem, Vasquez thinks; Sam wants to move, and Vasquez wants to dig his heels in the ground.
When the morning comes and Sam is packed and Vasquez isnât, he waits for Sam to make some comment about their separating, to tell him heâs out of his mind and this is dangerous, or to ask him if he remembers this and that, make him nostalgic and sick for something he hasnât yet lost. But of course, Sam doesnât. He takes his bags to his horse with the same stoicism as ever, determined to leave Vasquez with one single image.
âWonât be hard to find me, you know,â he says when he fixes his bags to the saddle, and more words than heâll ever say are on his face. Wonât be hard to find me if this doesnât work out, but I wonât come find you.
âI know, jefe. Just ask for the warrant officer from Wichita, Kansas,â Vasquez answers, and Sam reads his real reply in his face. Stubborn assholes, the both of them; they wonât be finding each other without just reason besides missing companionship.
Itâs with a jerk of his head that Sam mounts his horse. âTake care now,â he says, and then heâs digging his heels into his horseâs flanks, rocking into motion, into an easy sway now part of both their bloods. Heâs slipping the thoroughfareâs traffic, mingling among them, disappearingâand then heâs out of sight. First friends in a decade, a whole six all at once, and less than a year later, theyâre all gone again, just as suddenly as theyâd come.
Immediately, thereâs a gaping hole where one shouldnât be. All the conversation, terse as it might have been, all the protection, all the comfort of just having someone, itâs gone in an instant, and Vasquez curses himself for letting it happen. But if this is to work, heâll have to let it happen again.
So as much as he immediately misses Sam, Vasquez sticks to his word. He waits, watching until heâs out of the thoroughfare, and then visits the bank, using what money he has to buy first the shop at the corner, and with his remaining cash, he buys sixty acres about a half-mile outside town, where the land, encircled by ancient pines, rolls green and lush and promising. Thereâs nothing on the land and nothing in the shop thatâs his, but heâs going to fix it. Heâs going to fill it. He has to. Â
Thanks for all the participation in this monthâs Mag7Weekend: Love and War Edition!
I continue to be thrilled and humbled by the continued participation by all talented individuals in this fandom. Thank you for your work, we couldnât do it without you, and thank you to everyone who has reblogged and liked and shared your admiration with these lovely folks. You are a mighty important piece of this Mag7Fandom pie.
If you have an entry still cooking, donât worry, itâs just as welcomed to the mix. Just give me a heads up so I can be sure to share it.Â
With all that being said, look for 2018âČs Mag7Week coming this autumn, and maybe a Weekend or two between now and then. ;)
And be sure to support the folks over at @magnificentsevenbigbang! Itâs going to be an amazing event and I canât wait to see what they have in store for us!
A Supernatural Monster Magnificent Seven Au for Spooky Mag7 Week
Posting a bit early in preperation for the event, a colaboration with @geekyelvenchick
Dark Side - Bishop Briggs // Donât Fear The Reaper - Unto Ashes // The Devil and The Huntsman - Sam Lee & Daniel Pemberton // Oh Death - Jen Titus // Bad Blood - Welshly Arms // Donât Be Afraid, Itâs Only Death - The Widowâs Bane // Unicornâs Rest - Bill Brown // See What Iâve Become - Zack Hemsey // Gods and Monsters - Lana Del Rey // Lay Your Head Down - Mad Caddies // Broken Bones - Kaleo
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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Help me select a date! (itâs a short thing so no official survey but if you want your response anonymous please feel free to respond via ask/messages)
1. February 13, 14, 15 (not a weekend, but actually hits the holiday)
2. February 16, 17, 18 (actually on the weekend)
3. February 23, 24, 25 (last weekend of the month, just cause)
Following the success of Mag7Weekâs day five prompt, welcome to our first Informal Mag7Week(end).
Aka: The long, spooky weekend.
Taking place October 29th, 30th, and 31st, join us for three days of terror and delight.
What is an Informal Mag7Week(end)?
Rather than have a full week (and a day) set aside for specific prompts, our long, spooky weekend takes place on a Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday - for sneaking in that Halloween goodness.
It is based around three prompts:
Fright Fest
Supernatural Encounters
Magnificent Monsters
However, rather than have a set aside day for each prompt it is a free-for-all. Approach these in any order or select a prompt and stick with it for the entire event. Mash-em-up, if you so wish. Interpret them as you want!
Post on one day or two or three - as big or as little as you desire.
Make it brand new or a continuation of a previously started spooky story. Have it be nice and neat or to be continuedâŠ
Fill it with chills and terror, or keep us wondering whatâs around the corner, or share your friendly neighborhood ghosties and ghoulies. Have fun with it!
What fandoms are included?
Magnificent Seven in all its iterations: Â
2016, 1960, sequels, tv shows, Seven Samurai...
What can you make?
Fic, art, graphics, gifs, song mixes, podfic, if you can think it - you can make it!
How do you participate?
Just create! And tag it Mag7Weekend and/or @mag7weekâ. Or cheer on our magnificent makers with comments, shares, and likes.