Battlefront II : Maul 

I’m tired of this piece, but finished it. Maybe, it will fit for someone as wallpaper.

John Wick by Carolina Lta  aka @littlemorrison / @mycrystalhorse

Good Dog.

“And the dog, does he have a name?”

“No.”

John Wick: Blood & Gold || I am John Wick

I am John Wick.

Excommunicato survivor.

Assassin.

Son of the Ruska Roma. Orphan of the World.

Servant of The High Table.

~ I TRADE gold for blood. For refuge. For peace.

~ I BLEED wrath. My sanity leaves me. I have you in focus.

~ I BIND souls in markers. In wedding rings. In faithful dogs.

~ I SERVE my vows. Determined purpose in high fidelity.

~ I BATTLE my conscience, your courage, the house that holds me.

~ I SURVIVE my penance. One piece at a time. Live for me. So I may take you down.

 I am John Wick. My history is written in Blood & Gold. I am the first to save you. I am the last to stand at your side.

 I believe in Black Angels.

I believe in Judeth Clayton. "

|| Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat ||

"People used to scream my name. Now, they whisper it in fear."

"All you need to do to survive is answer the question."

"They confess their sins whilst holding my hand. And in those final moments, I know them better than they ever knew themselves."

GOTHAM REVISITED

|| @reigningmonarch42 ||

And if she bled like a bad idea in the heat of the morning sun...

It wasn't because I didn't love her deeply enough. She may have pushed me away but I remained with my back at her door and I loved her though she screamed for solitude. Knowing, that when this darkness would abandon her, I would be the first and last she would come to. And I would comfort her tenderly and wipe the blood from her halo.

I remember what it was to be broken. I remember how to forget and live on.

Everybody needs somebody.

Everybody needs someone.

Everyone will need somebody.

You're not the only one.

John Wick || Blood of the Raven King

Act One || Scene Three || In This House

Bobby could not have been happier than the moment in which her plane touched down upon the runway of the John F. Kennedy International Airport. Her eight and a half hour direct flight from London in business class had been exceptionally uneventful save for the enormous amount of reading and rock music listening to that she had divert her attention whilst the other passengers either slept, watched films or worked quietly, keeping very much to themselves. She may have drifted off to sleep once or twice only to jolt awake and re-read the same passage of her history book for the eighth time in a row. Finally, when she grew tired of this, she set down her book and resorted to people watching. Glancing upon them for a moment or so then taking hold her note book and writing a line or two of random nonsense that popped into her head and was based entirely on the impression she received from simply looking over their faces.

 Ah, but when the pilot finally announced that they had entered American airspace, she was at once vividly awake and full of anxious energy. New York always had a way of feeling like a home away from home. Naturally, it was because Uncle Winston was there, in his grand and busy hotel. And Mr. Charon whom she thought was just spectacular in his refinement and elegance. And she had friends in New York too. Friends she’d met online, through correspondence and via her studies. Members of her expedition crew that lived across Brooklyn, Manhattan and Queens. She was excited to meet with her closest friends and research companions that had stayed by her sidelong after her misadventure with the Purvrian cartel of criminals, Constance and Nathanial. Traditionally English born but American settled. Both of these friends were as well-travelled, loyal to a cause, dedicated to each other and as heartfelt as she could ever have hoped to have in colleagues. Especially colleagues that agreed, her research for the resurgence of the Raven King was not a bout of absolute madness to be relegated to the confines of mythological studies along with classical Roman and Grecian Gods and Irish or Welsh fables and legends. Like Bobby, they believed she was on to something. That she was perhaps a little obsessive, but there was definite web, just beneath the surface. And they were so close in uncovering it. They hoped it would occur together. But they didn't fully understand the depth of Bobby's inadvertent involvement in the darkness of society. And Bobby's tender heart and good nature meant she would not reveal it to them in so long as she could help it. It was Constance however that started to put the pieces of the mystery together not long after Bobby had awoken from her coma. She had confessed her private investigations to Nathanial whom helped her dig a little deeper. And in the months of therapy and rehabilitation that followed, Connie and Nate became Bobby's sole support network outside of Winston or Charon. She had begged them both.

"Please, guys, please... If you don't know anything, you can't be held accountable. So stop asking. Stop investigating. Everything you've been doing. You may be right. You may be wrong. It doesn't matter anymore. What's been done is done. Nothing is going to change. And I want to leave it all behind. So I'm begging you, let it die." Heartbroken for their friend and her suffering, they reluctantly acquiesced the request. If capture and torture was an indicator of what Bobby was worth, they could only imagine the depth of filth in which they would have to traverse to come to a reasonable conclusion. Amongst themselves, Connie and Nate came to the understanding that there was a strong possibility that the Sicilian Mafia was likely involved. If they had to hazard a guess they had began to point their fingers at a Camorra family. But Bobby had asked them to let it go. And they did. For now.  

Alas, Bobby could not make her way off the plane and through customs and security fast enough. She travelled light, with a single flight case, a backpack, a hatbox and a smaller overnight carry-on bag in a range of battered complimenting leathers that she had taken an affinity for as they belonged to her late father. She only ever carried the bare minimum in clothing, footwear and cosmetics, dedicating the majority of her bag space to books, ledgers, photographic cameras, laptops, external hard drives, power supplies and drawing pencils. Whatever else she needed or wanted she would buy in whatever part of the world she was in at the time. If it was large or bulky she'd have it shipped home by post. And on occasion, her travels had seen her to booking a freight container to carry some incredible artworks or furniture pieces that she had discovered across Europe and Asia to be transported back to her countryside home in Essex. The results were a bohemian, antique concoction of colour and texture, style and shape that added an endless warmth to the otherwise dated and plain English timber that her mother and father had thought was perfectly charming at the time.

The moment it was prudent, Bobby pulled out her mobile phone, swapped out her SIM card from the UK carrier to her American carrier and called her Uncle with the exuberance of a schoolgirl.

"Uncle Winston? I'm here! I've just arrived!"

"Very good my girl, welcome back to New York City. I trust your flight was pleasant?"

"Restful if nothing else, Uncle. I'm dying to see you. Were you able to arrange for a car or should I board a shuttle bus into town? I'm sorry about this all being so short notice by the way. I can make alternative boarding arrangements if you like?"

This made Winston click his tongue as he smiled down into his phone.

"Tsk! Perish the thought, darling! You know very well that's not how we play cricket in this neck of the woods. If you attend the visitors arrival ranks you'll see Charon standing by. He'll help you with your luggage and return you to me safely. We've a cosy room prepared for you and once you're checked in, you can meet me in the dining room for a little something to eat that isn't aeroplane cuisine, yes?"

"Oh Uncle, you're too good to me sometimes! I'm looking forward to it. I'll be with you in a bit then, traffic permitting."

"Yes, I am rather, aren't I? I'll be here when you arrive. Bye for now."

Phone away and bags in hand, Bobby ran a final check to ensure her passport and papers were in proper order and when she was satisfied, she didn't look a terrible mess, she organized her bags and joined the ranks of other arrivals that looked equally overburdened but generally happy to have touched down.

And how could she miss him standing there? Charon was always a magnificent sight to behold. Other private chauffeurs held up place signs with surnames for guests that they were to collect, but Charon merely stood at relaxed attention in his dark grey pinstripe suit looking the very picture of statuesque regal elegance. His dark-toned skin the richest colour of pure coffee and his thinly rimmed glasses caught the light in a sparkle. His hairless head and sharp features gave an imposing allure. Ladies turned their heads, even discreetly to stop and stare and the other uniformed drivers, whilst very smartly dressed, didn't quite shine with the same radiance or power that Charon had inherently mastered. He smiled at her as he recognized her amidst the crowd and finally broke free of the chauffeur's line on powerful strides that made him seem very much a dancer or a great black cat.

With a delighted cry, Bobby dropped her bags and rushed him, reaching up on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders. She was instantly taken by the familiar warmth of his cologne and the reassuring pressure of his strong embrace as his hands caressed her upper back.

A passing woman with a Puerto Rican complexion was obviously heartened by their tender reunion, for when they parted she paused to say,

"Damn girl! You is lucky, huh?" in her heavy accent, before winking suggestively and striding off, wheeling her suitcase behind her.

Both Bobby and Charon saw the humour in this assumption. They laughed and greeted each other warmly. The Concierge welcomed his employer's niece back to American shores expressing his contentment to see her doing so well. Bobby had spent a great deal of time in a wheelchair post coma and had worked very hard and very long with her physiotherapists to restore her mobility. The ordeal had taken years and was excruciatingly painful. Bobby had given over to the fact that cortisone injections, anti-inflammatory pills and an array of painkillers would be par for the course now as she negotiated her spinal injury. What she hated more than anything was the stigma that she suffered when she moved from wheelchair, to walking frame to finally, walking cane. She wanted to be free of the damn thing. More than ever. For she felt as long as she was reduced to using her cane, she would forevermore conform to the ideal that her history had bested her. And that was a notion that would simply not do. She could not take the past into her future. The idea was abhorrent. So she took her cane and burnt the thing in her fireplace, back home in Essex. She called her physiotherapist the following morning and explained the whole thing demanding that the man make her case the most serious work he'd ever do in his entire bloody life. By the end of the phone call her physiotherapist was in absolute tears. He'd pledged his purpose to her rehabilitation and they worked together, day in and day out for nine months straight. Bobby had triumphed! Bobby would walk, unassisted at last.

Considerations would need to be made, of course. She was not able to stand for long hours anymore. And rough terrain was a bad idea for it jarred her knees and hips too greatly. She would have to be a great deal more gentle with her body in the gym and resolved to take a lot of low to no-impact exercises which eventuated in strength and resistance building by taking on Yoga and Pilates. She ensured the majority of her diet was generally clean and free of processed foods or preservatives and was quite rigid about drinking as much pure water and tea as possible. Perhaps what she missed most of all was the ability to wear heels higher than three inches for parties and events. But then again, Bobby rarely attended any of those that were not of some academic foundation and didn't entirely need that level of glamour anyway.

Thus, when she next visited New York after having successfully mastered walking without a noticeable limp; it was to Charon and Winston's absolute amazement. They had been witness to her worst level of suffering. To see her spin a complete one-eighty was nothing short of miraculous as far as they were concerned.

Now, Charon insisted he take the majority of Bobby's classic, worn leather luggage and stood back to admire her walk appreciatively. Again, unknowing on-lookers may have thought he was admiring the sway of her hips as any hot-blooded man might admire a young woman. A not unheard of concept, surely. Except for the fact that Charon was some twenty-three years Bobby's senior and any affections he had toward Miss. Kent as his employer's niece were purely plutonic and deeply family orientated.

"Oh Charon, it does my heart so good to see you! You're still as striking and handsome as ever!" Bobby had no issue in affirming as they walked together, shoulder to shoulder toward the car parked amongst the ranks of others on the airport passenger collection rank. This admission brought a glitter to Charon's eyes and a smile to his lips. He always thoughts Bobby was nothing if not entirely charming herself and was mortified by the horrors that had befallen her.

"The feeling is mutual Miss. Kent. I am elated to see you walking so well without your chair or cane. You seem to have regained your balance even more so since your last visitation. It is almost as though your injuries never took place to such a dramatic extent. Has your endurance for standing and walking distances improved as well?" He asked, loading her bags into the boot of the car tidily.

He earned a gentle nudge to his ribs as Bobby begged him to drop the formality and honorifics. She insisted they were family and being called 'Miss. Kent' simply made her feel estranged rather than interconnected. And interconnected right now was where she sorely needed to be, both in his presence and in Winston's.

She answered truthfully though, relating the information and summaries given by her medical professionals that assured her that whilst a great deal many things were wrong with her, including a metal plate in her skull and the loss of a kidney; that she was otherwise healing and walking longer and stronger than ever before.

She slid into the passenger's seat beside Charon and spoke on as he paid his phone's text messages a cursory glance. Hotel staff updating him on shift changes and suppliers logging his produce deliveries. They were of no consequence right now. He set the phone to silent and rejoined in the conversation, entering the stream of New York traffic that would travel over Brooklyn Bridge and eventually join New York proper.

They arrived at the curb of The Continental's famous multi-story high-rise corner block some forty minutes later having narrowly avoided the brunt of Friday afternoon peak hour traffic. The uniformed doorman greeted their arrival and a bellhop was summoned on Charon's order to take Bobby's luggage up to room Five-Twelve. Bobby thanked all the staff profusely as she pushed a tip of five dollars US into the bell hop's hands; apologizing because she'd not yet attended a money exchange office and this token gesture was all she had left in her wallet since her last trip to the US. The charming young man took the note into his pocket, smiling and bemused before tipping his hat and strolling away with his gleaming brass luggage trolley that carried Bobby's few bags.

"What was that all about, Charon?" Bobby inquired, "I thought American hospitality staff appreciated gratuities for service. That young man looked at me as though I was asking for directions to the beach in Norwegian." Her eyes followed his departure as the lift doors in the lobby closed and began their ascent.

"From civilian guests perhaps," Charon replied patiently. "You, however, now fall into an affiliated professional category." He punctuated this sentence with a wink so rapid and smooth, you would have missed it if you blinked. Bobby, however, never missed much of anything when she entered her Uncle's hotel. Even less now that she had a more complete understanding of what The Continental New York City actually stood for. She had not expected her status to be elevated to anything other than casual civilian, especially as she had no claims or designs to work in any kind of arrangement, cartel or syndicate that Winston had explained many of the guests took to his doors to find reprieve from. 

Alas, it had taken an extraordinarily long time for Bobby and her Uncle to come to a respectable understanding that The Continental served as an external and entirely independent enterprise that functioned as a complete cease-fire neutrality twenty-four hours of the day and night. Winston had parsed over the function of The High Table, The Department of the Adjudicator and the invisible lines of gang territories that controlled New York's underworld for everything including narcotics, prostitution, weapons caching, law enforcement manipulating, money laundering and hitmen for hire. Amongst a great deal more that he withheld on principle. Because he maintained that his niece simply didn't need to know. It was for the best. It was for her protection. But this new line of her obsessive study. This relentless pursuit that she had taken upon herself to uncover the other side was a massive concern in and of its self. He'd taken so much care to dissuade her from these fancies. To suppress and reengage her into entirely different stratagems for coming to terms with her mortality that didn't devolve into the streams of the preternatural that he himself had only in his history caught soul-shocking glances of.

And now Bobby was on it. Like a dog with a bone. She was on it with ravenous attention. A woman in a wheelchair with an academic mind and little else to distract her was prone to obsessive lines of study.  Her letter had been a forewarning. She had the intention to pry knowledge from him that he wasn't certain he was prepared to impart because he himself was not sure he fully understood the depth of the other side. Who did in this day and age anyway? Life, as it stood in the modern 21st Century, was a great, glittering neon distraction from the core of the unseen that walked amongst them day and night. Hiding. In the shadows. In the peripheral of human vision. Always just out of reach. But there... So there. So extremely there that you could close your eyes and deep down, if you focused, you could hear it. Like the echos of waves in a seashell. You wanted to believe that you were listening to thousands of years of history contained in the natural and ordinary. That you were not falling subject to the tricks of the mind. That magic was something that was done in studios and meant to entertain and hoodwink the uneducated.

It wasn't true.

It just wasn't true.

And Bobby was now closer to a malicious entity than perhaps she had ever bargained for. And would ever know.

His only hope was that their paths never crossed.

At last Charon offered to take Bobby up to her room personally so as she might take a little while to unwind and refresh herself before coming to join the dinner service downstairs in the dining room. Her Uncle would be waiting but would see her only once she was properly settled. Bobby agreed reluctantly. She had a great deal many things she wanted to share and ask of her Uncle. But she too had just come halfway across the world on more than a whim. She'd need time to recuperate and organize herself.

So she hugged Charon one final time, feeling very much like a protected species under the eyes of the hotel's staff. She gasped at the sheer radiant elegance of her rooms. But knew better than to protest about their grandeur. Rather, she thanked Charon a thousand times with heart-felt sincerity and took a moment to gather her thoughts when he proclaimed as always that he was at her complete disposal. He would be downstairs where she always expected to find him. He shut the door behind her and left her in peace. Overwhelmed a little. Displaced a little. Confused a little. Aching a little.

Alone in her solitude, Bobby buried her face in her hands for a private moment and cried.

And so concludes Act One of John Wick || Blood of the Raven King

You can Read John Wick || Blood of the Raven King // Act One Scene one & Scene Two Here!

 We wish to take this moment to thank all our readers for their kind support. All your likes and kind words are deeply appreciated! We hope that where-ever in the world you are, you have had a productive week and a restful weekend. Your good karma has ensured that Blood of the Raven King will continue as a Three Act digital novella with chapters being released weekly.

We encourage you to write in via Tumblr Messenger if you’d like to be added to our reader’s list below so you never miss a chapter or emotive artwork. A complete reference bibliography will be released at the conclusion of this work’s publication.

Do you have questions about Dark Magic and the Council of Twelve? Are you curious to learn more about the Other Side and want to uncover more of Bobby’s investigation into the disappearance of magic from the streets?

And what is this incredible darkness that possesses Mr. Wick and Lady Clayton? 

Perhaps you just want to write in to tell us about your favourite character?

Remember, our Ask box is always open to the public! We are by the fans, for the fans and we want to hear from you!

Love & Peace Everyone,

L.G. Spider

{[ Readers List: @rubydian @rubydart @lalienna-dementriento @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat @jardanijovonovichs  @cynic-spirit ]}

Help Me Save Coco the Cat for Christmas

Friends,

I know this time of year under these unprecedented circumstances have put us all under great strain. We are collectively looking forward to saying goodbye to 2020.

I am not a person wanting of material possessions. Even so, it breaks my heart to have suffered through so much this year only to find that without surgery my beloved companion Coco may not survive in spite of his own good nature and terrible start to this difficult life.

And so I have created this GoFundMe in hopes to create a miracle. I only ask that if you share it far and wide across your own social media accounts we might together raise the funds required to save a life so precious.

Every share is precious and appreciated. Every dollar raised will go towards fueling a miracle.

Visit the GoFundMe here: Help Save Coco the Cat

Please help me spread this as far and wide as possible!

And thank you. Just thank you!

Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.

|| FOUR ||

Three months, two weeks and four days.

Arthur had been keeping a log of the passing time in the staff sign-in book where he was taught to autograph his name and the date for every morning as he clocked in and every evening before clocking out. The theatre director, the enigmatic and somewhat eccentric Lauretta Styl proved to be a regimented woman who ran her staff both cast and crew strictly, but fairly.  With the exception of the performance personnel, theatre crew were worked on a two week rotating roster over a nine hour day. Staff began at either 7AM, 9AM or 11AM and worked through to 4PM, 6PM or 8PM respectively. They were afforded an hour’s lunch break, unpaid and two coffee breaks spaced evenly throughout their shifts ensuring the floors were never kept unmanned and always evenly staffed.

Arthur’s first fortnight in the theatre saw him on the 9AM shift and he was mindful to take an early bus into town to avoid being late. The weekend leading up his first Monday on duty found him to be a veritable ball of kinetic excitement. He could hardly sit still his anticipation was so great.  That evening after the interview, found him bolting home on jubilant footfalls. A new sense of purpose filled him. Opportunity did wonders for a man’s self-confidence. Divesting himself of keys and coat, he called for his mother who was reading in the warm lamplight of the living room. She fixed her son with a cursory glance and nodded approvingly. He furnished her with every detail he could recall, bustling into the kitchen, intent on cooking a celebratory dinner. He’d make pasta sauce from scratch tonight!

“This is why I named you, Happy.” Penny murmured fondly as she sat upon a stool at their kitchen counter drinking sweet, hot tea and watching her son chop onions and sing to himself contentedly.

“Are they going to pay your better at this new job?”

“I dunno, Ma. It’s not right to ask about money during the interview. I’m sure it’ll be okay. We’ve always gotten by before even when things were tight. You should see this place, Ma, really. They have these beautiful purple curtains and gold fittings on the ceilings. They’re so high! You’d strain your neck looking up. And the stage is beautiful. The lady who runs the place, Lauretta, she said one day I might be able to perform on it, with my comedy act.”

“You’ll have to write some better jokes then. Something funny.” Penny replied absently. A shockingly loud clatter jolted her abruptly upright. Her son dropped the cooking knife he was handling to the sink.

“Jesus, Happy, do you have to be so clumsy? And loud? And did you check the letter box on your way up? I’m waiting for a letter.”

“They are funny.” Arthur murmured indistinctly beneath his breath. His voice quiet and his gaze unfocused upon the middle-distance. His elation deflating as suddenly as it had swelled. Penny’s ears were sharp though.

“What?”

“I said no, Ma. There wasn’t any letters today. There never is.”

“Oh… Well, I’m going to watch some television for a while, leave you to cook in peace.”

He waited for a few moments. Listening to the shuffling slippered foot-falls of his mother as she groaned, rising from her seat and padding away.

Through the kitchen window and across the street, Arthur’s sight fell upon his neighbor’s drab, old brick building. His kitchen window regrettably afforded a view of the neighbor’s living room on occasion when the curtains weren’t drawn.

The tenants were never of any interest to him directly. There was something impolite about looking into their living room. For his sake as much as theirs he sought to avert his gaze or draw the kitchen curtains whilst he cooked.

What drew his attention on this night was their great ginger tom cat with white paws and striking yellow eyes. The animal wore a red collar with a tiny silver bell around its neck and perched regally atop the window sill, watching him. Seemingly never moving. He’d lept upon the peeling sill at some point during the conversation with his mother and proceeded to lick at his left paw watching Arthur with feline interest all the while. He wondered at the cat’s name.

Come Monday morning, Arthur made sure he was at the stage door early. Martha answered his knock and offered him a polite compliment over his neat attire for which he was grateful. He’d spent the night before agonizing over the state of his wardrobe, ensuring his shirt was ironed and his shoes were polished. He wished he had a better bag rather than his worn brown leather satchel. It would do however. He made certain he had copies of his resume and ID in his wallet. Money was tight this week, he’d have to eat when he got home. Just as well, he couldn’t stomach anything right now. He was far too nervous. 

“Pleased to have you, dear. Follow me to the break room. There are lockers were you can put your belongings and the coffee and tea is complimentary. You can help yourself before your shift starts. We take turns bringing in fresh milk. I’ll mark your name on the roster pinned to the fridge door. Mind you don’t forget it when it’s your turn hmm?” Martha began briskly as she lead Arthur around the box office, up a stair well, into a corridor and out into a large and airy breakout room with unfurnished windows that looked down into the bustling city below. The stage manager checked her watch and continued.

“Now, be mindful of the time. Laura’s called a meeting downstairs in front of the stage at 9am sharp. Take care you’re not late. She’s very particular about punctuality and famous for keeping us honest about it. I expect she’ll be wanting to introduce you to your crew mates formally and assign you some duties, you follow?”

Arthur nodded his head yes. He’d been listening intently as he followed Martha and her rapid footsteps to a row of tidy grey and white lockers that were set against the wall on the opposite end of the room. To Arthur’s surprise, number 11 had been assigned to him, his name written neatly upon a white label in black marker pressed upon the locker door. 

“This one’s for you, Arthur. You’ll need to bring your own padlock but I’ll loan you this one for today.” Said Martha producing a small mail lock and its key from her jacket pocket. Arthur took the lock in hand, nodding his thanks. Martha continued her preamble intently,

“Now, if you bring your lunch, make sure you label it clearly when you put it in the fridge, food will mysteriously disappear otherwise. And where possible, don’t keep clothes or shoes in your locker over the weekend. Take them home to be aired and laundered save you copping unwanted flack.” 

“Sure. I mean, of course, Mrs?”

“Martha, is perfectly alright, dear. You’ll find most staff will tolerate a first name. But be mindful, some of the actors are sensitive whilst performing or rehearsing. It’s best to keep out of their way. And for heaven’s sake don’t let yourself be caught near the women’s dressing rooms unless you’re expressly asked or you’ll catch hell for it, clear?”

“Crystal clear, Martha. Thank you. For everything, really.” Replied Arthur quietly. His gratitude welling in his eyes. He offered a docile, slightly lop-sided smile.

“Well, see if you make it through the first fortnight before giving me any thanks. Stage front in fifteen dear, yes? Ciao for now.”

And just so, Martha bustled away on a brisk footfalls, adjusting a pen in her tightly rolled bun, leaving Arthur to his own devices in the empty break room. A number of round timber tables and chairs waited quietly giving the room the impression of an unoccupied café.

With little left to do, Arthur set about putting his satchel away in his new locker, helping himself to some instant coffee and lighting up another cigarette to pass the time. Once the clock above the door read five to nine, he was quick to leave the large breakroom behind, retracting his steps downstairs until he came to the open theatre doors where a congregation of some fifteen people were standing at the foot of the stage.

Martha was among them, speaking hurriedly with Lauretta who seemed to acknowledge what was being said and taking notes on a clip board.

Oh, she was splendid today. Dressed in fitted, black high-waisted slacks and a peach blouse. Her sleeves rolled back and her hair gathered in a French braid. Around her stood an array of staff dressed in various states of uniformed workwear. Arthur gathered his wits and strode in what he hoped was a confident fashion to Lauretta’s shoulder.

She turned fixing him with a dazzling smile.

“And here he is. Alright, everyone!” The theatre director clapped her hands sharply, the crowd quieted and listened.

“For months now you’ve told me this production has taken a toll on each of you. I thank you for patience. As it stands, I’d like to introduce you all to our latest crew member, progressive comedian and practiced harlequin, formally of Ha Ha’s Entertainment, Mr. Arthur Fleck.”

All at once a dozen smiling faces broke into hoots and hollers. A round of applause was had and Arthur offered a heartfelt smile. A little shy beneath the heat of so much fresh attention.

“Hey, welcome aboard buddy!” Called a particularly sharp dressed young man. African American, lanky of limb and distinctly possessing the style of a pop-star.

“You’re gonna love it here. Hey, you wanna see your future? Look at that guy over there. That’s Greg, he’s what we all gotta look forward to lookin’ like, even the ladies, yeaooow!”  

This seemed to draw laughs from the gathering, even from the unfortunate Greg who was weighty, balding and sucking on a partially lit Cuban cigar. He waved off the sly remark with good humor.

“Enough from you Freddie, you’ll give Arthur the wrong impression.” Lauretta corrected playfully before continuing.

“Now, Arthur will join us as a stage hand over the next two weeks, shadowing Freddie and Fay respectively. I ask you all mind your manners and be patient whilst he learns the ropes. Stagecraft takes time to come into, but if we can work collaboratively we’ll find opening week to our musical runs a great deal smoother.”

The next twenty minutes were spent exchanging handshakes whilst Lauretta introduced Arthur to each of the theatre staff individually. Freddie was finally introduced as the theatre manager, holder of all the keys. Whilst Fay, a sharp eyed, pretty brunette advised she was the stage assistant and understudy to Martha.

“Together, we’re your ‘A’ team, my man.  Get ready, because we’re gonna work you to the bone.” Freddie began, shaking Arthur’s hand with a dazzling smile. Arthur could not help but feel this young man reminded him strongly of the pop star, Prince. He moved with musical grace and had a habit of adding a “yeeoow” to the end of his sentences when making a humorous quip.

“Don’t let him scare you off, Arthur, can we call you Art, or Artie? And what size shirt do you wear? We’ll have to work out some uniform shirts for you now that you’re part of the crew.” Fay announced, gesturing for Freddie to give them some space. Arthur could not help but smile radiantly. His other employers and colleagues were never so welcoming.

“Artie is fine,” He replied finally, “and I wear a medium dress shirt, if that helps any.”

Fay made a note in her log book signaling a thumbs up as Lauretta once again clapped sharply and drew the attention of her team. For the next few minutes she took feedback about the state of the up-coming production, making notes and giving a great deal many directions. Arthur stood by, smiling and noting how pretty her small drop pearl earrings were and the way the rest of the team seemed content if not a little stressed. She addressed each problem and complaint individually and earnestly. The team seemed at their ease around her. In time the crew dispersed to their individual tasks in groups of twos and threes.

“Freddie, I’m going to borrow Arthur a minute. I’ll send him backstage with you shortly.”

“You got it boss lady!” Freddie exclaimed, turning smoothly and strutting away in time with a melody in his head.

The theatre crew finally out of ear-shot, Lauretta turned to Arthur with her characteristic warm smile.

“So, how are we holding up, so far? All good?”

“Oh, yeah! I haven’t done anything for you yet. I’ll work very hard though.” Arthur replied sincerely.

“It’s not about working hard so much as it is about working smart. Relying on your team mates to support you and more than anything, not taking anything personally. You’ll see staff lose their temper more than once and sometimes it may appear directed toward you. It shouldn’t be. But if it is, remember, you’re in your rights to just shake it off and move onto the next task. We’re something of a family here, Arthur. Working a forty hour week means you’ll spend more time with us than you will your own flesh and blood. It’s important that you’re at your ease, even when you’re not. No matter what state you’re in or how busy we all look, I am here to listen to you.”

This sentiment seemed to bring some profound change to Arthur’s features. His smile slipped and his eyes began to sting. He looked away a moment, fumbling for his cigarettes as he whispered,

“Thank you. Really.”

“Of course.” She replied, reaching out her hand to caress his arm gently. Arthur’s smile returned, he lit up, breathed in deeply and exhaled sharply.

“Now, Arthur, I hope you don’t think this too forward of me, but, about your condition. I was giving it some thought over the weekend and I wanted to get your impression. Would you prefer I have a quiet word with the staff just to alert them or would you rather speak to them of your own accord during the breaks and such? What would make you most comfortable?”

Arthur coughed sharply, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Oh, please, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t think I’m being rude?” Lauretta continued, concerned she’d said something off-key.

“No, no, not at all. I just got on with my cards in the past. I prefer to not draw attention to it if that’s okay with you, ma’am?” Arthur responded quietly.

“Of course, by all means. I just thought, if everyone was on the same page from the get go, it would make it easier for you. If people know what to expect.” Arthur’s eyes seemed to harden as he nodded, taking another pull of his cigarette and blowing the smoke sharply out of the corner of his mouth. Lauretta couldn’t help but feel she’d somehow overstepped herself.

“We just want you to feel comfortable, that’s all. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m almost always upstairs in the office. Have a great day ahead Arthur, I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Thank you, Lauretta. I appreciate it.” Arthur returned.

“Laura’s fine.”

“Laura then.” Answered Arthur with a smile.

The remainder of the day seemed to fly. Arthur diligently shadowed Freddie with a myriad of tasks. He was given a new pen, note book and clip board where he scribbled a range of instructions as he was toured around the theatre. After morning coffee break, Fay rushed to find him before he left the break room with a new walkie-talkie and a microphone head set in hand.

“Here you go honey, you’re on channel eighteen with stage hands. Push this button to call all crew and flick this switch to mute your mic. Try keep radio noise to a minimum during rehearsals. Actors lose their shit when they’re in the zone.” She punctuated the last word by gesturing inverted commas into the air, earning a laugh from Arthur who stifled himself by coughing. He wasn’t about to risk an attack in front of everyone in on his first day. He’d control this. He had to. Instead he thanked her and clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt whilst Fay rushed off taking an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter on her way out.

The evening came too soon. Arthur’s head was swimming with instructions. He’d managed to make notes of his latest directions and did a great deal of shifting, pushing and carrying of stage equipment on Freddie’s direction. The two men seemed to get on well and Freddie showed a sincere interest in asking a great deal many questions about Arthur’s personal interests that he took great pleasure in answering. Arthur was relieved come the end of the day. He’d found a friend in Freddie and Fay and looked forward to telling his mother all about it.

Come six o’clock, Lauretta found her way to the break room where she shook hands with the staff preparing to leave for the day, wishing them all the best and thanking them for their hard work. The same courtesy was applied to Arthur whom she lingered near a moment, whilst he made to take his satchel from his locker.

“Thank you, Arthur, for all your hard work today. I know there’s an awful lot to take in so quickly but your crew mates have nothing but praise for you. I’m thankful to have you in our team.”

“I’m grateful to be given the chance, honestly. It’s been a pleasure today. Are my papers okay?” Arthur replied with a questioning smile.

“Yes, they’re well in order. You can expect to pick up your first pay-cheque from my office next week. Now, go home and get some rest. Let’s see you back on deck bright and early tomorrow. Fay will have arranged some new crew shirts for you by the time you arrive.”

This was his chance. Arthur stepped forward,

“Laura, before I go, could you hold this for me?” He produced from his pocket an oversized match box and handed it to the director. She took it slowly with some trepidation.

“Arthur, this is not one of those prank boxes where if I open it I’ll be hit in the face with something, will I?”

“Haha! No, nothing like that, open it, go on.” Arthur urged, his eyes shining intently.

“Uh, okay.” Deft slender fingers gently pushed the large matchbox open to reveal within its depths a tiny pink rose bud.

“Oh how pretty!” She exclaimed lifting the flower gently and holding it to the light. Arthur furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue in exaggerated annoyance.

“Tsk, that’s not right at all. These boxes can be so unpredictable. Are you sure there’s nothing else in there?”

Perplexed, Lauretta opened out the match box fully affirming to Arthur that it was indeed empty

“May I?” He asked gently, taking the little rose bud from the lady’s fingers and shutting it back into the confines of the match box.

“Now, maybe if you blow on it, like a birthday candle?” Enchanted, Lauretta played along taking the box back into her waiting hands and blowing against it gently.

“Now try.” Arthur prompted. Nodding, the theatre director slid the match box open for a second time gasping with childlike surprise when within, where the tiny rose bud once lay was her light blue handkerchief folded into a neat little square.  With a gasp she lifted the cloth free of the matchbox looking up with stunned joy. The little rose bud was nowhere to be seen.

“Arthur! That’s remarkable! What a charming trick!” She gasped exuberantly.

“I’m glad you like it.” He breathed, deeply relieved and gently taking the box from her hand.

“Really Arthur, give yourself a little time to settle into your new role, then we’re going to have to talk about organizing some sort of show time on the side for you. How does that sound?”

“Oh! Wonderful, truly! Thank you!” Arthur exclaimed brightly.  

He left work that day and took the bus home in high spirits. He may have had little to offer, but his determination to succeed was great. He was tired now. Tired from a day’s solid physical and mental labor. He hoped to shower and maybe eat something. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to sleep tonight. He began to plan his next visit to Pogo’s that weekend on the bus ride home. He still wasn’t able to get a seat. But it didn’t matter so much now. He’d have a lot to tell his mother when he got home.

He’d made Lauretta smile.

Fracture 1 | Fracture 2 | Fracture 3