Days and nights no longer Festooned with ornaments and lights How do I keep myself from running on autopilot during those periods of negative space between magic moments?
Those tidings of comfort and joy Granted so generously throughout the month of December Those cards with cheerful cardinals and gleeful carolers Are somehow supposed to sustain us through twelve months
They say that time moves faster as you get older Because there are fewer benchmarks and milestones Most years won’t have the thrill Of a first kiss, a new job, or a new home
Part of me seeks a middle ground Between decadence and discipline Wishing I could sprinkle the triplicate of holiday invites Throughout early March and late August When there is otherwise a dearth of offerings To satisfy my wistful longing For belonging
And there are no shortages of challenges to pursue No shortages of resolutions to tackle To feed into my obsession with metrics And social media will keep me accountable Sure I can Feng shui and bullet journal Count steps, miles, calories, photographs, poems But will it add up To me?
After repeating the same day on a continuous loop This groundhog growls Longing to press Escape Yet knowing that Until I get this day right And use it for the betterment of myself and my community I will be just like Bill Murray Or Phil of Punxsutawney
I have been searching for the Ordinary World since 1993 And now my age has nearly multiplied by three And in that quarter century I have learned to survive But have I really learned to thrive Have I really learned what it means to be alive?
Well, the one thing I do have Is Time To keep figuring it out
My footprints are no blueprints But if I keep putting one foot in front of the other I will have something to count on And I can keep counting What matters To me
An AU where Cas, Sam, and Dean had been soldiers. Cas and Sam died saving Dean and the rest of the units lives along with a number of civilians. Dean gets an honourable discharge and tries to make a life with old girlfriend Lisa but he is just too broken.
So he starts drifting until one day he ends up at a bar Purgatory. The owner Benny is gruff, sarcastic, and recognizes another lost soul. He hires Dean and lets him crash in a trailer behind the bar. They slowly become friends and even more slowly Benny flirts a little.
But Dean doesn’t flirt back. He wants to, he has grown so fond of the bar owner but how can he be happy without Cas and Sammy? He isn’t allowed to be happy with that much of his heart carved out.
And December 1st rolls around and overnight the run down bar is festooned in lights and pine and Christmas music. Benny is completely unapologetic.
“Tis the season chief. Forgive me for wanting to put a little colour and magic in our live.”
Dean scoffs “Magic isn’t real.”
“Christmas magic is.” Benny replies.
Dean just laughs at him.
He laughs less that night when he goes into his trailer and sees the ghosts of Cas and Sam sitting at his table.
“We’re here to remind you to be happy and have some Christmas spirit.” Cas says seriously.
Sam just grins. “Welcome to your hallmark movie jerk.”
And so begins the Christmas haunting of Dean Winchester.
She passed under the garden trellis of River Run, and Jamie had to catch his breath.
The fabrics of her gown were sumptuous, the skirt a clear, light blue festooned with roses that vined upward onto the bodice, so like his mother’s roses at Lallybroch that he felt tears begin to sting his eyes. She carried a fan, which she flicked adeptly, concealing and revealing in turns the squared neckline trimmed with pink lace.
Never a day in their marriage had Claire not been beautiful to him; to anyone with eyes, he corrected himself, for surely his weren’t the only ones drawn to her as inexorably as bees to nectar.
But today, seeing her thus arrayed, beaming like sunlight amid the sky of her blue gown, Jamie was transported back to Paris, to a Claire in the prime of her youth. This, he thought in wonder, was the Claire who had—with child, no less—healed the sick and injured at l’hôpital des anges, borne the onslaughts of wicked conspiracy, and endured shattering loss… all while playing the part of a Versailles courtier to utter perfection. La Dame Broch Tuarach, she was once more, bedecked in their silks and satins, yes; but only as a disguise, while she masterfully charmed one and all to her purpose with cunning whiskey eyes.
Those very eyes met his over the top of her fan, the roses in her hair bringing out a sudden maidenly blush in her cheek.
Aye, *Diana*, she was to him, today: luminous, pure, breathtaking in her bloom of femininity…
“C’mon, babe, it’s not that bad,” Blaine said, motioning to the heap of fabric next to him on the bed. “I think you’ll look great.”
“Of course you do,” Kurt sneered, backing away from the bed like it was a monster ready to pounce. “That thing is indecent, Blaine. I’m not wearing it.”
“But you have to.”
“Says the invitation, remember? Mandatory dress code.”
“I always knew Elliott was a pervert, but I didn’t think it was this bad,” Kurt grumbled, arms folded across his chest.
“You make it sound like we’re going to some kind of S&M party,” Blaine said, trying not to laugh too obviously - best not to provoke more of Kurt’s ire.
“I’d almost prefer that!” Kurt said, provoking some mental images in Blaine that made him choke. “I have bondage-inspired apparel. I look amazing in bondage-inspired apparel! But this?” Kurt picked up the bulky green sweater distastefully between his index finger and thumb. “This is a crime against humanity.”
“Oh, come on, it’s festive,” Blaine said, smiling. The sweater had knitted Christmas ornaments, jingle bells, and working lights festooned across it, with a gold star on the neckline and a velvet “skirt” around the hem. “It’s totally going to win the ugly sweater contest, too.”
“You really think so?” Kurt asked, hesitantly intrigued.
“For sure,” Blaine said. “It’s completely gaudy. No one could possibly compete unless they literally glued a reindeer to their chest.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Rachel,” Kurt said darkly, but he had shifted his grip to have a better hold on the garment. “And you promise that we can burn it afterwards?”
“I’ll let you light the first match,” Blaine said calmly. “But if you win, I doubt you’ll want to burn your victory sweater.”
“If I win, it can stay. If I lose, we’re having a bonfire when we get home,” Kurt said. “Deal?”
“Deal. Now get dressed, I don’t want to miss Dani’s gourmet eggnog!”
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