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winifred “freddie” flores writing blog for bleedingheartsfm.

[calicoegg]

WINIFRED "FREDDIE" FLORES, 26, WORKER @ THISTLE & THREAD

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[spanglehoney]

What Freddie deems embarrassing, her reaction full-bodied and fierce, Ken soaks up with easy delight. It’s hard not to, especially when they’re given the opportunity to study her in the fuzzy candlelight; her shoulders are locked up high and her expression is goofy and there very well might be some poltergeist behind them, and yet all they can think is you’re so cute it hurts. Freddie’s hands lock tight around their own and they feel a rush that most certainly has nothing to do with any lingering spirits.

Still, though, they picked this place for a reason. They haven’t been here since before Fred essentially disappeared for five whole years, and knew it would be a hit not just for the nostalgia factor but for the potential of a sighting or two— which, though frightening, they know she secretly enjoys.

“So maybe that means this guy is a romantic,” they reply with a shrug, a little tense themself as they sit there refusing to turn around. It’s not like they’ll be able to see what Freddie’s seeing, anyway, even though they’re the one who found the stupid grimoire and dragged the chalk along the boards. Romantic. Is that what this is? They sure hope so, because they’re a little clueless on how to get any closer.

“Maybe he just wants a brownie,” they whisper after a few dawdling seconds, keeping one hand locked within Freddie’s as the other moves to rest against her knee, biting back a smile. It’s casual, perhaps even unnoticeable in the grand distraction of this spectral stranger, but their comfort is hers to keep anyway.

[calicoegg]

The simple, human gesture of a gentle hand on her knee does not go unnoticed. In truth, it’s what she needs to remain tethered to earth, to keep from being whisked off to where the spirits reside, or left in an empty-eyed stupor. There were childhood nights spent clutching patchwork quilts in balled fists, frozen in fear, quiet cries for her parents going ignored. All she really needs is a warm touch to bring her back around—to keep the fear from taking her under.

She places her own free hand atop Ken’s, although her eyes remain glued on the spot. It’s a touch to say thank you for being here, thank you for always being here. And that brief contact—that connection, that warmth—is enough to bring the figure fully into focus.

And what she sees… well, she wouldn’t quite call it romantic. His face is a mess of gore, centralized around a massive gash on his jaw. In her absolute state the last time she’d seen him, she’d failed to notice the near dent in his chest, outlined by a smattering of blood on his white linen shirt. And with the safety blanket of Ken’s presence—alongside the bravery that comes with a few more years on the planet—she feels confident enough to meet his eyes.

What she finds is something soft, sincere. Maybe a little scared.

Her body deflates, shoulders falling and a long-held breath escaping between tight lips. She meets Ken’s eyes for a moment—a look to say that this is OK, that maybe they should try and see for themselves—before looking back toward who she now recognizes as nothing but a boy.

“Do you, um,” she clears the slight catch in her throat, “d’ya want a brownie?” She nods her head toward the pile of snacks. “We got regular and uh… special?” Did they have weed back then? “Did you guys, um, have weed back then?”

[wldngmn]

Sweet cheeks. Sweet cheeks!

Quentin both flushes and hides behind a large palm while a weak sound escapes around the edges. “This is a horrible idea,” they lament, fingers pressing into their eyes like they might claw them out but think better on it and leave their eyes where they belong.

It’s a great idea. Horrible but great.

“Alright,” they square their shoulders outside the tent and give Freddie one firm but definitive nod, “Let’s do it. Wait–” they take hold of Freddie’s hand, because, obviously, couples hold hands. Their hand encompasses hers like an oversized jacket. “Okay. Ready.”

Q’s resolve is about as strong as a stalk of wheat when they step through the thick curtain draped entrance. Immediately they’re swallowed by the thickness of incense and smoke, curling through the air so palpable they can’t help but sneeze and it shakes the very marrow of their resolve.

Perhaps it’s simply because Miss Fortune really is made of magic but she knows immediately that they are not romantically involved. Really, any stranger passing by would be able to tell. Q’s never been good at falsehoods. Lies sit uncomfortably in their gut and unsettle it so the point of actual physical discomfort so they can’t sit still at all the entire reading. Miss Fortune, thankfully, didn’t seem to linger on this and alarming, or rather, thankfully, skipped the misfortune of their lie and instead dug straight into the actual  meat of their friendship. Pulling truths out like a divining rod with such striking accuracy that by the time it was all over and Q holds the curtain of the tent open for Freddie to pass through, their face is about two shades paler than it was upon first going in.

“Freddie, darlin’, I got goose pimples. Look,” they hold out their arm and sure enough, their skin is blooming like raw chicken skin, pinpricked with their shock. “I’m never doubting Miss Fortune again. I need to sit.”

[calicoegg]

She steps out of the tent in what can only be described as a stupor—bleary-eyed and off-kilter, her world rocked off its axis. It really should come as no surprise to her that Miss Fortune is the real motherfucking deal, as someone who sees ghosts on a regular basis, but she's still shell-shocked at the otherworldly correctness of everything that was just said in that tent.

And said so nonchalantly, too, like this is just another easy breezy day. Like these absolute soul reads were barely scratching the surface of her abilities.

Freddie observes Q's bumpy arms through a slightly fuzzy gaze, before moving her eyes to meet his, life drained from her expression. "I'm right there with you." Then, with a loose hand wrapped around Q's wrist, she pulls them both toward a newly vacant bench, plopping down with a soft thump.

Her body immediately falls into a slump, and she takes a beat to run back everything that was just dropped on them like a spiritual anvil. Miss Fortune had said some very pointed things about Freddie consistently taking more than she gives, and always thinking about herself first and foremost—hit a little too close, felt a little too real. And a couple of other, much kinder things about Q's warm, generous nature potentially leading them to be taken advantage of, and well... well, Freddie's feeling guilty but also a bit indignant about it all. Like, are her flaws that obvious? ....Does she take advantage of people? Of Q?

Shit. She really needs a minute to think about this.

".....I think we could use some funnel cake or somethin' after that."

[spanglehoney]

"Yeah, I remember." Or, more rather, they remember her in-depth description of him back when he first made his appearance, her hair basically going vertical with how truly freaked out she was. There's always a Scooby-Doo-esque charm that goes hand in hand with Freddie's fear, cartoonish and wide-eyed and typically very funny. "Pro'lly thinks his name is Holy Fuck after last time."

They’ve never actually seen the horse guy. But there’s a distinct, impish quality to the air in this busted old house that has them hesitant to call it anything other than haunted. Freddie’s grasp is as playful as it is necessary. "Been a long while," Ken notes, the quirk of their brows hardly shielded through the candlelight, the clasp of their hands gentle but firm, like they're tethering each other to earth. “Never know who might show up… Or maybe someone even followed you back here.”

As if on cue, there’s a crrrreeeeaaaakkkkk of a distant door, and they scoot in just an inch or two closer, mentally blaming it on the wind even though their eyes are meeting Freddie’s with a twinkle of who was that lingering in their gaze. She hasn’t noted any presence yet, at least not out loud. Do you see me? They wonder, brief and almost lugubrious, sitting on the floor of this rotting shell like a fool for you?

"It's not Leland. I'm serious about the sonar." They've been trying to meditate more, or whatever. Manifesting and all that. If they really, truly think about it hard enough, with honesty in their heart and empathy in their soul, they can keep him away with the sheer power of their mind. "I don't think he'd come around on Heart Day, anyway. More of a Spirit's Eve guy."

[calicoegg]

Freddie tries to keep her cool. Really, she does, especially in front of Ken. Yeah, they've seen each other at their most vulnerable—late-night, tearful vent sessions, or the time she got a little too high and really started wigging out, begging Ken to take her to the clinic—but it's still a little embarrassing to go full bug-eyed and slack-jawed in front of the person she's trying to court.

Honestly, she's not sure if she'd ever come back here if Ken wasn't with her, setting up the candles and holding her damp hands and providing reassurances. As much as Freddie finds a sense of purpose in honing these skills, in discovering these long-lost people and unearthing their stories, it's still, frankly, terrifying. (And Ken's not wrong about people following her—there's a ghost in her bedroom that was not there before she left town—so there's always the worry that she'll tug someone out of the house and into the world, let loose in the Springs.)

All that to say, this is still mostly an excuse to sit, knees knocking in the dark, and enjoy the closeness that's harder in the daylight.

Then there's the crrrreeeeaaaakkkkk, and the hairs on her arms are popping up, seemingly one by one, trailing up toward her head. There's a feeling of cold, almost liquid, traveling up her spine. She meets Ken's eyes for a moment, reading that look of recognition—someone is here. When she looks at the candles that surround them, the flames are bobbing gently, up and down, but none have gone out.

And her eyes are most certainly bugging.

There's a figure, vague and misty, hovering by the doorway past Ken's shoulder. It hasn't fully materialized—just the outline of a body—but it's broad enough that she knows it's a man. But she's got faith in Ken's sonar. It can't be Leland. So either George or the farrier or, she guesses, someone new.

Almost unconsciously, she squeezes Ken's hands tighter. Comforting. Grounding.

"It's definitely a guy," she says, hushed, because he can hear her. "But I'm with you. Leland isn't a romantic. That man's got no love in his heart." Her voice is wavering, and she's keeping her eyes glued on the figure, although everything in her is telling her to look away. "Can't tell who it is yet, though. Hasn't fully formed." She's narrowing her eyes, then opening them wide, but the figure remains blurry. God, why can't she focus?

[wldngmn]

A deep chuckle bellows from their belly, “I don’t think we look like a couple.” They can’t help but question it with an idle scratch to the side of their temple. Quentin is not a small person, they’re a rather large person, all broad shoulders and broad chest and Freddie is not only quite a small person but also quite a young person. It would be pretty substantial if they tread into Miss Fortune’s tent and declare themselves a couple but, he has to admit, the temptation of testing out the reading skills of this psychic is exactly up their alley.

“You should call me by a pet name,” Q offers, “Couples always call each other by pet names, ain’t that right, darlin’?” Quentin normally does call most people either darling or hun, but saying so now to Freddie in the context of being a couple feels different and draws out a ridiculous sounding giggle. They rub their face with their hand, "Oh, lordee."

[calicoegg]

She also can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, loud and unrestrained. Aside from the height difference and the age difference, she's also pretty clearly gay as hell. But stranger things have happened, and honestly, in this context, she probably just looks like Quentin's twink boyfriend.

"That's a great point... sweet cheeks," she returns, smiling ear to ear. "...Dude, I really think she might buy it. I hope she tells us we are gonna be together forever."

And then they are standing in front of Miss Fortune's tent, draped in multicolored velvets and silks, smelling warm and aromatic—sandalwood and jasmine. And she's suddenly feeling a bit nervous, because what if she does tell them that they are meant to be? That would be a real upheaval of self.

But, y'know, Q is objectively good-looking. It could certainly be worse.

There's a voice from within the tent, low and mysterious: Step inside.

"Well... moment of truth, yeah?"

[moonlitmontana]

Aw, shit. Tanny loves Freddie like her own blood, but what she doesn’t love is the festival. Her hair’s already plastered to her neck with sweat, and she’s only just made it to the town square with her costume on. Besides the costume walk, the other thing she admittedly can tolerate is the games.

“Thanks, Fred,” she does an exaggerated bow before holding the shield out to show her. She was headed to relieve Huck at the booth, but playing hooky for a few minutes never hurt anybody (she can already feel The Look waiting for her when she finally saunters over).

“I could toss a ring or two,” she says, reaching up to tap one of Freddie’s petals. “This is real fancy. I couldn’t tell ‘ya apart from the real thing.”

[calicoegg]

Freddie is also, predictably, sweaty as shit. The tight lycra of her sunflower costume feels nearly plastered onto her skin, and her forehead is dotted with moisture. But she's sweaty a lot, and usually for much less fun reasons, so she's not letting it get her down.

"Shit, thanks, Tan!" She returns the exaggerated bow, yellow foam petals bobbing with the movement. "Pulled this one out from the archives. Think I last wore it... damn, probably when I was, like, sixteen?" God, that makes her feel old. OK, less focus on the process of aging, more enjoying the final hurrahs of youth. She sticks her arm out for her festival companion. "Now let's get goin' before the kids scoop up all the good prizes."

After a quick romp over to the games—although the festival feels endless, the town square really isn't all that big—she's posting them both up in position to scope all the available games (and, most importantly, all the available prizes).

"Which one is callin' to you?" There are stuffed animals of nearly every variety. "You pick it, we will win it."

[calicoegg]

event: rain of petals festival status: closed, @moonlitmontana

Coming hot off a wild fortune-telling adventure with Q, Freddie seeks more excitement, more whimsy, just more! Town festivals have always been the one thing keeping this town alive, and she’s gonna make the most of them while they’re here, because tomorrow, she'll be back slumped over the counter at T&T. And with Ken busy manning the Healing Hive booth and Frankie off doing god knows what (probably gorging himself on whatever grub he can get his little mitts on), she’s gotta find someone else to pull into her shenanigans.

And there walks Tanny, dressed—shit, dressed like a knight? That’s cool as hell. Makes her crusty old sunflower getup look entirely played out.

“Dude, Tanny,” she says through an ear-to-ear grin, after hopping in front of her and blocking her path. “You look cool as hell. Where ya headed? Wanna go play some games?" OK, so maybe the half-eaten cotton candy in her hand has contributed to something of a sugar high.

[wldngmn]

event: rain of petals parade

with: freddie ( @calicoegg ) & quentin

Quentin mans their family's booth with a warm and ready smile to every approaching visitor. Their younger sister is nowhere to be found, as per usual, and their two mamas are chipper and chatty as per usual. All in all, it's all going as per usual. The Rain of Petals Parade comes by every year and the Hennessey family deals with it in stride, passing out coupons and vouchers for wine tasting and selling their more popular vintages straight from the booth with an extra corkage fee for those eager folk who want to dive right into their purchases now. It's all jovial and lively and Q has to be chased away from the booth by their mama, insisting upon their taking a break to go and do something foolhardy and not be stuck helping them the whole time.

They lumber over to the first familiar face they see and loudly issue a hushed plea to their direction paired with a closed fist for a bump in greeting, "Save me from my mama, Freddie. She's out to give me a stitch if I don't go off and do something. How about you and I sniff out that fortune teller I heard about? Reckon they're the real deal?"

[calicoegg]

Freddie's not even sure why Thistle & Thread has a booth at this event. OK, well, that's a lie. She knows exactly why—her dad just wants to offload some excess stock, and this event is the perfect excuse. But honestly, she's not sure why the town allows it. They aren't artisans or farmers, and he's really just pawning off unwanted, dusty candies to the town's children. Y'know, malted milk balls and candy-coated licorice and the other shit no one wants.

Still, their booth is set up right next to Happy Apple's, and the bright smell of lemon is wafting in the air. And the weather is perfectly temperate—a final hurrah before the summer heat fully sets in—meaning she's not sweating her ass off in her sunflower costume. And she's already done her fair share of helping out, convincing town children that if they spend some of their loose change on circus peanuts, they will be whisked away in the night to join the circus. So she's earned a break, and Q arrives at the perfect time to take it.

"Hey, man, you're the one savin' me. Dad's runnin' this shit like the damn military." She returns the fist bump, spirits already lifted. "And, dude, Miss Fortune? I’m pretty sure she’s the real deal." She's already turned around onto the path toward the fortune-telling tent, speaking over her shoulder knowing Q will be in tow. "Maybe we should try gettin' a couple's reading to really test if she's legit."

[spanglehoney]

Ken digs around in their bag for the chalk, swiftly easing lines across the floor between each candle until there's somewhat of a star between them all. There are seven candles now, so tonight's star is a heptagram— in Pioneer some fifteen years ago, they'd discovered a brown-leather-bound book, old in appearance with even older script throughout, the front page donning a supremely faded Woodland Volant Essais & Grimoire. It's lodged in the front pocket of their bag just in case, but it's been flipped though so many times that there's hardly any point anymore. If there be a ſup'rnatural bond to be found, do not fear ſucceſſ~ guide thy light together with limeſtone and hook hand or limb~ and one may find connection and protection under cover of darkneſſ.

"Hm... Nope, I banished Leland with my brain waves. Reverse sonar," Ken says as they finally take a seat, a hand lazily shooing the dust away from their face with a soft "pfffft" before Freddie's all but tossing the box into their hands, and Ken can already sniff out that they're not just any ol' brownie before they've even fully opened the lid. "Shit, man. Thank you," they chuckle softly, taking a moderate bite out of one of them before closing up the box dutifully and with quickness. "Mmm. Save the rest for tomorrow," they mumble, mouth full. How they're not chocolate'd out by now, they have no idea.

Maybe it's just because there hasn't been a Heart Day that really hit in a while. Ken had almost been convinced they'd lost their taste for sweets altogether (besides honey, of course, which is essentially part of their bloodstream and vital to live). But as their fingers momentarily run over the cute little drawings on the box, the brownie just tastes even better, as if it's the sweetness they've been seeking out all along.

Now, is this just an excuse to sit close to Freddie, clammy hands clasped together under the dim and romantic candlelight? Maybe so, but her excitement is always energizing to witness, sparkling blues dancing around the room, offering weight and names and personalities to those who might've otherwise been forgotten. Ken doesn't care as much about all them; they had their time, once. They care about the girl sitting in front of her: solid, tangible, breath close enough to swallow if they lean in close enough. But they're still licking brownie remnants out from between teeth. "Anyone you do wanna see?"

[calicoegg]

A pleased grin spreads across her face as Ken opens the box, takes a bite. Freddie has never been the best at giving gifts. Everyone gets some variety of weed goodie—usually brownies, because Granny’s recipe has been embedded in her memory since youth. But she’d tried to add a special flair to Ken’s, hence the heart shapes, all done by hand with a blunt kitchen knife. (The threat of injury makes it all the sweeter.)

“Definitely the horse guy.” She doesn’t even have to think about it; a lingering mystery will always be more interesting than visits from the ghosts she already knows. He’s nameless, with the only real piece of information being that he got his head bashed in by a working horse, likely in the burgeoning days of Bleeding Hearts. More than his name, though, she’s wondering why he still lingers.

There’s a lot of talk in the ghost-hunting world about “unfinished business.” Spirits hang around because there’s something they have yet to do—some cause or mission they must undertake before they can leave the mortal coil. Freddie has always thought that was bullshit. George was old as balls when he kicked the bucket; what kind of unfinished business could he possibly have? Making sure there aren’t any kids on his lawn?

But being back in this town after so many years … well, she thinks she gets it a bit more now. She has unfinished business of her own. (… Hopefully she doesn’t ascend to the heavens after she’s made things right. Although that would be pretty romantic in its own way.)

“You remember him, right?” She takes Ken’s hands into her own, gives a small squeeze, unsure if she’s feeling her own sweat or Ken’s. Or some intermingling of sweat, which is kinda sweet. “Tall, young … all legs and arms and then that massive gash in his head." There’s a slight grimace at the thought. She’s seen some rough stuff, but that was particularly gnarly. "I’d like to figure out why he’s still hangin’ around.”

“Or maybe ... someone new?” She furrows her brows, gaze shifting to the crumbling architecture, the collapsed staircase. “...I dunno if there’s anyone else to see, honestly, but I think that’d be a pretty sick Heart Day memory.”

[ameliahiatt]

location: honky tonk records status: closed w/ @calicoegg

When Freddie agreed to hang out after Molly's run in at Thistle & Thread earlier in the week, Molly was delighted find that they were up for meeting her at Honky Tonk Records. Molly knew she had been there a million times - Freddie probably knew the stock just as well as those who worked there. But Molly was in desperate need of a new record and she had discovered, through a short but insightful chat, that Freddie had the taste in music of someone who had grown up right alongside Molly, despite the near fifteen year age gap.

Though Molly found quickly that didn't make much of a difference when it came to friends. Post divorce she was nervous as hell about making friends - and even more so upon her move to a completely new place. Her inner circle in Nashville had been fairly homogenous in terms of age, mostly because of the fact that her and her ex-husband had gone to school there and made friends together along the way. So at first it felt strange to connect with younger people but she had grown more comfortable. If anything, maybe she could offer some wisdom.

"Oh my god," She mutters with a laugh, "Okay, this is a little embarrassing, but this record contains the go-to karaoke song that my best friend and I used to duet." She's holding up a copy of The Queen is Dead by The Smiths. "It's not a duet at all, but we would always sing There Is a Light That Never Goes Out together." Roger would joke about Molly enjoying singing with Jo a little too much. And in hindsight, he was correct. And probably right for being a little jealous, because he definitely had been the first time he brought it up - and the seven other times after, though Molly was none the wiser to it until recently.

[calicoegg]

When your family owns a general store in an exceptionally small town, you quickly learn how to get along with people of all ages. Whether it’s the rug rats begging their parents for gumballs or the crabby old ladies who will haggle over a $1 can of beans, Freddie can get on the same level as people from all phases of life.

Not that Molly is that much older than her, really. It certainly doesn’t feel like it, living in a town that is trapped in a bygone era. And, even more so, being a person who is trapped in a bygone era—the mountains of old media piled in her bedroom would make anyone think she’s a decade older than she actually is. (But the plushies on her bed would give up the game eventually.)

Still, she was thrilled that Molly asked her out. (OK… not like that. Although she wouldn’t be opposed.) It’s rare that a regular customer—of any age, really—invites her to hang. Of course, it had all began with Molly hearing Freddie’s playlist over the shoddy old speakers at T&T, Dreams by The Cranberries coming out slightly warbled but still recognizable. Freddie isn’t nearly as much of a music nerd as Ken, but when a pretty lady compliments her playlist and asks her to hang out and talk about music… well, how is she possibly gonna say no?

She’s thumbing through the B stacks, searching for Never for Ever, when she’s pulled away, as if summoned by the demon Morrissey.

“AND IF A DOUBLE DECKER BUUUUUUS,” the notes are far, far off from what they should be, reverberating off the walls of the tiny shop, “CRASHES INTO UUUUUS...” The last note is held for much longer than is necessary, then there’s a brief pause before she continues on like nothing even happened.

“S'not embarrassing at all." Clearly, nothing is embarrassing to Freddie. "If that’s a best-friend exclusive, I totally get it, but we could tear up open mic night with that one.” There’s an overly confident nod. “I got other suggestions too, if you wanna switch it up. Also not real duets, probably, because they all kinda suck.” There’s a beat, an inquisitive look thrown her way. “Unless... you like any real duets? I'm willin' to change my mind."

[spanglehoney]

"What? I thought we established Adeline was cool! Y'know, after leaving all those oranges that one time. They were gone the next day," they shrug, still slightly breathless as they ease their backpack onto the floor. For a few seconds, they stand there just staring, a good six feet apart, and then their shoulders fall, holding out the small white box clutched in their hand. "I'm sorry I'm late." Happy Heart Day goes unsaid, and so goes the visible burning of their cheeks under cover of darkness. "Um— should probably get the candles out before, uhh—" they mumble distractedly. Freddie's got them all flustered and nothing's even fucking happened yet. All they're doing is sharing a space that hasn't been shared since they were entirely different versions of themselves.

The house, however, is the same. To Ken, it's really more gross than scary. It's clearly been flooded a few too many times, as the wood is all crusty with lichens and, in certain parts of the floor, still a bit damp. Not to mention the bugs, but that's nothing. Ken thinks they could ward off a whole scorpion with a gentle pat and some kind words, at this point. It's really the raccoons they're worried about. One: they're evil. And two: their clattering and chattering often makes Freddie think the ghosts are really coming for her.

It's not that they don't believe her when she talks about the ghosts she knows, but Ken has known Freddie far too long not to note her very broad imagination. But sometimes, they get it. There'll be a glint in Fred's eye that's different than the dopey act she might put on if it weren't legit. And they like to think they're in tune with their senses and surroundings. Occasionally, it does get a bit hard to justify certain drafts or noises. "Maybe George'll show up, too," they add, lighting up all the candles in a circle just big enough for the two of them to sit in. "That's the nice one, right?"

[calicoegg]

True, Adeline enjoyed the oranges, but Freddie suspects she won't be happy that they didn't bring more. But any further argument at the tip of her tongue fades away with the outstretched white box, the soft apology. As she takes the gift, she's also feeling grateful for the darkness—great for pranks and hiding the embarrassing warmth creeping up her neck. She moves away quickly, under the guise of setting the box gingerly by her strewn backpack, of sitting in her spot so Ken can get the candles set up proper.

The floor creaks loudly underneath her weight as she lowers herself, but the sounds aren’t any bother to her now. Any threat this house presents fades away when she's here with Ken. The ghosts are real; there's no question about that. Miss Adeline, farmer George, creepy Leland, and that farrier who'd been taken out by a swift kick to the head. (Still nameless, unfortunately.) And the stink of mildew is certainly real, sticking to her clothes long after she's left. But the rotting rafters and the lingering spirits can’t touch her when she’s got Ken by her side.

Of course, she knows Ken might not fully believe her stories—she knows them well enough to see the slightest glint of skepticism behind their eyes when Freddie mentions a new addition to the cast of paranormal characters. It doesn’t bother her much, though, because at least when they’re around, it doesn’t feel like the spirits will whisk her away.

Ken is really the only person she feels that way with.

Fuck. The heat prickling at her skin has only intensified. At least now she can blame it on the candles.

“Nice, but grumpy.” She nods, eyes flitting around for any sign of him. “But in that typical old man way, so not really threatening. Just…” There’s a moment, lip pulled between teeth, and then she finds the word, finger pointing up. “Crotchety.” Another nod. “He got real mad when we accidentally broke that china cup, remember?”

As Ken continues setting up the candles, she leans back on her hands, peering up at the way the candlelight dances on the ceiling, making even this rotted building look strangely beautiful.

She snaps out of the daze once Ken has plopped down across from her, releasing a small puff of dust. “I’m just hopin’ we don’t see Leland tonight. That guy sucks.” Massive understatement—he was toeing the line of legitimate threat. Luckily, she’s only seen him once, and he was not about to ruin her Heart Day—

“Oh, yeah!” She digs into her bag, extracting a cardboard box decorated with supremely shitty but intricate drawings of bees, rollerskates, music notes, and a smattering of colorful hearts. Inside are the aforementioned weed brownies. “Don’t go thinkin’ I forgot you.”

[spanglehoney]

location: house on briar end status: closed @calicoegg

The bulkiness of Ken's fraying backpack is apparent the second they begin their trek across town towards the infamous, dilapidated house on Briar End. The night's slow breeze washes away the sweet stickiness of the day, dusk easing into nothing but moonlight the longer their busted ass, decade-old vans pad against the dirt road. It's almost weird not just skating around, but they're sure they'll prefer shoes once they're inside that beloved old piece of shit house.

Besides, they're stuck carrying Fred's Heart Day present and definitely don't wanna be caught dropping it. Hers is a little extra special, with more chocolate on the inside than all the others, and a subtle glaze of the dreamsicle honey she'd enjoyed so much. No way it's getting crushed between everything else that had been quickly and unceremoniously stuffed into the main pocket of their bag. Chalk, candles, lighter, tape player, tapes. The essentials.

It’s an easy list. One they came equipped with every time the two of them used to spend sprawling afternoons after school here. And this certainly won’t be their first late night excursion. But it’s been a few good long years. Ken’s anxiety is familiar, hopeful, and stomach-flipping, and it’s nothing to do with the property.

The near distant headstones dotting the graveyard are just barely visible at this hour— almost ten minutes after nine, shit— and they're climbing through the semi-detached sheet of old screen on one of the back windows with a grunt straight from the soul. Clicking on the flashlight as their feet land against the creaky wood, the beam immediately lands on Freddie, and Ken jolts. “Gah! I knew you were gonna be in here already,” their words vibrate with laughter, the light momentarily dancing across the ceiling. “Damn, it’s dusty.”

[calicoegg]

She’s been here since a clean 8:45—her sheer excitement almost compelled her to show up even earlier, but fifteen minutes already felt a bit too eager. But she’d wanted a little time to set up, to get in position, to look pretty.

Her list has always been snacks, drinks, and weed, to round out the essentials. Everything has already been pulled out of her ratty plaid backpack and arranged neatly on the floor. Today, however, she also comes toting heart-shaped weed brownies, made with hearty dollops of Ken’s autumn honey infusion, lending them a spicy, earthy flavor.

And, yeah, maybe she’d snuck a little bite… or two… before she headed over, and it was starting to hit as she sprawls out on the dusty wooden floors. And, yeah, maybe she’s already seen Miss Adeline out of the corner of her eye, floating through the foyer and up the stairs. It doesn’t take long to start seeing the residents—this house reverberates with spiritual energy. That’s why so many late teenage nights were spent surrounded by candles, seeking information from the long-dead occupants of Briar End. (But, mostly, stealing quick, longing glances in the dim of candlelight.)

The flutter in her stomach begins to become more about the incorporeal company when she hears a rustle outside. Thank the goddess. And so she assumes position, settling in the darkest part of the room and making a spooky face—which leans less scary and more constipated.

The light flashes on her and she gets the exact response she wanted—a flurry of giggles, accompanied by, although she can’t see it in the darkness of the room, a small scrunch of their nose.

“Well, duh, you’re late,” there’s a mock-accusatory tone, a pointed finger. “I’ve been sittin’ in the dark—ALONE! Adeline coulda snatched me up!” She pulls herself onto her feet, wiping the dust off her pants. “Don’t even know if I should give you your gift now…”

[doctorstrangebun]

"Well, actually, I was doing this before you walked in," Wes says, ferociously locked in as he scrapes out the rest of what he can of the seaweedy muck. "Blending it just makes it easier to work with later... I'm trying to power a— well, hopefully you’ll just see it when it’s done.” He doesn’t like revealing too much about his plans before they’re complete. Besides, he’s still pretty green on the whole biofuel front.

Freddie’s description of her current ailment, however, has piqued his interest. Perhaps he should’ve also sampled the goo, just to know firsthand… It’s too late, now, crusted up into a doughy sculpture on his desk. From stress ball to paperweight, the false advertisement versatility of Mr. Scammahorn’s deliveries remains unrivaled. Stomachaches? Sour taste? Freaky dreams? This sounds like a job for one of his many elixirs.

He shucks off his gloves into the trash, immediately moseying over to a locked cabinet and rummaging through his keyring for the right fit. Smallest silver key on the right. Click. Myriad shelves hold an army of jars, all with near-illegible labels and varied contents. “When you say sour, I’m assuming you mean in an unpleasant way…”

[calicoegg]

She doesn’t know Wes that well, but she knows him enough to not pry for more information. At best, he says he can't tell her anything yet, and at worst, he starts rattling off words she doesn’t understand, her eyes glaze over, and then they both feel unfulfilled. Better to just let his mind work without interference.

So she just watches him scrape the rest, scrap the gloves, and trod over to his shelf of potions. At least, that’s what they look like to Freddie—full-blown witches' brews, stored in glass containers of all shapes and sizes. She gathers that she will likely be drinking one of these.

(She hopes it’s the one that looks like bubblegum.)

“Hm… mostly, I guess?” She tilts her head, still watching him peruse his elixirs. “Sometimes it was cool. Like, I bit into an apple, and it tasted like a weird lemon? But Granny’s beef stew tasted like straight-up vomit.” Hopefully Granny isn’t listening. “So… yeah, I guess unpleasant.”

[osvaldo-rivas023-deactivated202]

“A day and a half, by the looks of it,” glancing over her sun flushed face. “You got yourself a well earned break right here.” He placed the large tray of fries near Fred, picking a couple off the top. "Only slightly more interesting. I had to head out to Corpus Christi for a couple of weeks but took advantage of the drive back and did some sight seein’. Stopped at New Orleans and all that. Actually took a bunch of pictures on my phone but it disappeared after I picked up this hitchhiking couple,” he wiped a ketchup stained hand on a napkin, “They were a real riot so I ain't too broken up about it.” His ineptitude when it came to apps and his phone in general served as a silver lining to it all. The only thing of gain were the hundreds of random pictures ranging from old relics merchandise to blurry portraits of Penguino.

Unable to ignore Fred’s yearning expression toward the chilly drink any longer, he passed it along to her, “Consider it a thanks for today’s route, huh? Speaking of which, I need to stop by Thistle afterwards n’ pick myself up some groceries if you wanna hitch a ride."

[calicoegg]

As he regales the tale of his adventure out of town, she stuffs fries in her mouth with speed and greed—not even stopping for a ketchup detour en route to her mouth. The first fry was like a kiss from the Goddess herself, so she’s having a hard time slowing down.

She is genuinely interested, though. Her only real venture outside of Bleeding Hearts was her college town, and it seems pretty unlikely that she’ll be heading back out into the world anytime soon. (Not that she minds, with people who keep her from ever wanting to leave again.)

“Oh, shit, dude, that blows,” she says, after swallowing the massive wad of potato in her cheeks. “I would’ve liked to see ‘em!” She pauses to grab another fry, actually swiping up some ketchup this time. “Y’know, I hope the new owners are at least takin’ some cool pics on it.” She punctuates her point by pointing the ketchupy fry at him. “And that they appreciate the pics you already got on there, yeah?”

And then the coveted float is being pushed her way—just pure kindness, after he had a long drive home, after she just housed half his fries at Mach speed. She looks at him with genuine adoration in her eyes.

“Dude…” There’s a moment, eyes darting between him and the float, where the expected small-town hospitality overtakes her selfishness. “I… I can’t take your float.” She pushes it back to him, shaking her head. “You haven’t had one in weeks—you gotta replenish."

“I will take you up on that ride, though. My legs are really killin’ me." Although T&T is a mere stone’s throw from Granny’s, she is nothing if not profoundly lazy.

[calicoegg]

Left on her doorstep, a small, stuffed brown bear holding a cellophane bag of scotcheroos stares up at the door with an unblinking smile. It would be almost unnerving if it weren't for the neon orange ribbon tied in a bow attached to one of its sagging ears. The afternoon sun has caused the chocolate to melt against its packaging, leaving unsettling, brown streaks. A lined piece of paper is tucked underneath its arm, with blue pen written on it reading,

“To Thorgy, Fredward, Winnifred the Pooh,

I haven't told you just how glad I am to have you back in town, so nothing is as good as a holiday to say it. Sorry if the chocolate got smeared, I beefed it on my bike on my way here but I think it should be okay.

Love you,

Gorgy, Frankfurt, Franklin B. Roosevelt

P.S. The B stands for Beatrice. Except I don't like Beatrice. I just like B and that's all.”

She's heading back around for lunch after the first half of her shift, ready to absolutely house a turkey sandwich. As she rolls up on her family's home, she sees something suspicious waiting on the stoop—something... brown? And orange? Oh god. Hopefully not another bizarro item she drowsily ordered in the middle of the night from that Scammahorn goon.

But as she gets closer, hops off her bike and props it on the fence next to the mailbox, she sees that it is, in fact, a stuffed bear, holding a bag of brown goop.

Oh, sweet baby boy Frankie.

She hops up the steps to the porch and scoops up the bear, giving it a closer look. It takes a mere second of eye contact to decide that this is now her #1 favorite plushie, and he will be strapped to her bike basket—a constant companion. A mascot for T&T, even. He's perfect.

And then she extracts the paper from under its arm, eyes quickly scanning and then just as quickly getting misty. She wipes them with a ratty sleeve before tucking the note safely in her jeans pocket. Frankie always knows how to hit her right in the softest spot of her heart. After a beat to fully suck up the tears, she heads inside, ready to enjoy some melted-chocolate-surprise alongside her sandwich.

And, obviously, the bear's name is Beatrice. Duh.

[calicoegg]

On the Flores front porch, there's a box that says 'from Ken'. Inside, there's a card, the cover of which says 'SIKE!' On the inside, it says: meet me at the house on Briar end tonight at 9. bring a flashlight! <3

She's heading out the door to start her shift and drop off goodies for Frank and Ken when she spots the box, tucked neatly beneath the doorbell. Immediately, she's got it in her hands and is tearing into it, only to be met with a large SIKE.

Classic Ken.

Then she opens the card, and can't help the cheek-to-cheek grin that spreads across her face—so giddy and unrestrained that it would be embarrassing if she had any shame. She sets Ken's gift back inside, with the promise of getting to deliver it to them face to face later in the evening.

God, how is she supposed to get through her shift now?

[doctorstrangebun]

The door is jingling. Wes slowly leans over to assess, through the doorway of his little lab behind the counter, and— it's deja vu. Or, should he say, deja goo. Scammahorn had really done a number on the neighborhood, and Wes is anxious to see the 'do not eat' label on the incoming fertilizer. Only time will tell. All he knows for sure is that the one walking in is someone who needs it most.

"Freddie." He's clearly in the middle of something, a gloved hand deep in a jar of algae from his most recent lake excursion. "What are your symptoms? Fever? Ears leaking? Has your tongue changed color?" He scoops the algae into a nearby blender, safety goggles strapped to his face over his glasses. "Anything more than that and you're better off in Grampleton. But I might have something." Another scoop. "I'm almost done with this, if you'll give me a moment..."

[calicoegg]

“No, no, and…. no.” She rattles her answers off with speed as she starts heading around the counter toward his open office. Although…

A quick pause, “ahhh,” and a downward glance at her tongue reveals that it is a normal shade of reddish-pink. Whew. (Would’ve been kinda sick to have a purple tongue, though, even if it meant making the trek out to Grampleton.)

“Mostly just weird stomachaches. And, like, everything tastes sour. And I’ve been havin’ super freaky dreams about….“ She cuts herself off at the sight of him fist deep in green muck, with loud, wet handfuls being shoveled into an awaiting blender. She points a singular finger. “Do I gotta drink that?” A simple “do not eat” label will clearly not be enough to stop her from consuming mysterious goos.