yard sale saturday

all energy readings are done, and all readings- tarot and energy- are closed! they will remain closed for some time. i am seeing my best friend who i haven’t seen in a long time tomorrow, and then i’m graduating college on monday, have another procedure on friday, and i have a yard sale that saturday and sunday. afterwards i’ll be packing up my house to move to my new farm, and then i’ll have some time to adjust before i head out to milwaukee.

i can guarantee that all readings will be closed for at least a week. afterwards i will likely open energy readings for a few days for those willing to donate for one. a lot of people have messaged me recently to ask for clarifications regarding my donation-based readings and when i’ll be providing those and free readings, so keep an eye out for a detailed, completed post regarding when and why readings will be done via donation and for free. 

Time is Nothing - Chapter 1

Reminder of the reverse chronology. Also, while the story as a whole is written backwards in terms of time, within each chapter itself the months of that specific year progress as normal. Does that make sense? You’ll get it. 

I want you all to know that I love you for the response to the prologue. And I also want you to know that PMW by A$AP Rocky came on shuffle while I was writing this, and I was so focused that I couldn’t change it. So there’s that. 

Previous chapters here

8tracks playlist here.

This is totally and completely fiction. 

Slightly NSFW. 3166 words. 

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duet, chapter 3

Aha! I have neither died nor forgotten how to write! Here is the next part of Duet, my Soul Mate/Reincarnation AU where Jamie and Claire meet in their subsequent lives, recognizing each other only after saying their “phrases”. Enjoy :)

Catch up with Chapter 1 (Paris, 1829) and Chapter 2 (Ohio River Valley, 1853).


THREE (Bristol, England – April 1999)

Claire Randall did not feel particularly charitable towards God today. Or towards his angels or his Saints – and certainly not towards his bloody Apostles. And why should she, really? The Apostles’ steadfast loyalties had run dry when it counted, a chorale of snoring men while their Christ had bled. Claire hated betrayals, all unmet promises and failed potential. And on this Easter Sunday her own missed opportunities seemed to bellow from the organ: If you had only! If only, if only!

Beside her, Louise dropped to her knees, gulleted chin tucking into a hallowed chest. Her eyes peeked up – not at the priest’s pulpit, but at the clock hanging just above, as if prayer could right the wrongs of time. Claire snorted quietly. Gravity had not been kind to the woman, time even less so. Louise’s jowls sagged forwards in blatant proof, skin dripping from her skull like molten wax. If only, if only!

Claire caught her own reflection in the window and cringed reflexively: patches of thinning, gray hair, once so full and curly, and a face turned to crinkled lace. Her cane stood at her side, a reminder that, even if she felt so inclined, she couldn’t kneel and right herself without help.

It wasn’t that Claire cared about her appearance so much as what these physical changes implied. Old age, death. All those regrets oozing from brittle bones, joining in the organ’s elegy for her dwindling future.

“Terminal cancer…”

“Early stages, though!”

“Admission still advised.”

“The hospital – just beside the facility!”

Oh, how the doctors had sung such statements! A row of youthful faces beaming with silent relief: it was not their deaths that they predicted, their doom they foretold. Surely, they seemed to think, the hospital’s convenience would ease the blow of her body’s betrayal?

Well, terminal cancer, my arse.

Perhaps this was why the Apostles slept, Claire mused: they’d recognized the signs of danger, wanted to shunt it away in ignorant, sleepy denial. She could understand that, at least. All she wanted now was to burrow beneath her covers, eat a Hershey’s bar, and forget about chemotherapy and syringes and the saccharine smiles of her aids.

“Oi, I’m going back to my room,” Claire whispered. Louise nodded, crossed herself, and sat back into her chair with ease.

Horrible jowls, but better knees, damn her!

“Will you come to bingo at 7 tonight, then?” Louise asked.

“Bloody hell I will.”

“And why not? You’ve not gone once in the three weeks you’ve been here. You’ll make friends.”

“No need,” Claire replied, very matter-of-fact. “I’ll be out of this place soon enough.”

Her friend rolled her eyes, and Claire thought, for a moment, she’d caught a glimpse of the girl Louise had been in youth, not the weathered woman groping desperately for clock hands. Perhaps she’d had bit of precociousness, an alluring strut that showed off the promise of her plump hips (now replaced with metal).

Did men like that sort of thing back then? Claire could hardly remember, though a recent issue of the Daily Mail claimed men’s tastes veered towards “the waif”. Get the Kate Moss Look! the headlines shouted. Claire had never been a waif, and despite an illustrious career in healthcare, had no qualms about eating McDonald’s Big Macs or foregoing exercise in favor of the telly. She made a note to ask her godson, Claudel, for his opinion (“Do you enjoy dating broomsticks, Claudel?”) before remembering he’d recently changed his name to Fergus (“Claudel is just so bourgeoisie.”).

So many things changed, and so quickly.

“I hear there’s a new bloke in the East Wing,” Louise whispered, “According to Nadine, he’s unmarried and quite the looker. I’ll bet he likes bingo, too.”

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