cindy

hello ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ | she/they | rp account for cindy campbell from the hobnob affair

[campbellcindy]

um hello!! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) i’m cindy campbell :))

i use she/they (mtf), i’m 18, and pan <3

i work with my father and his best friend and john james at campbell’s blacksmith-bakery where we make pastries using the old ways

i’m here on tumblr to answer any questions or to post silly stuff now and then (˶˃⤙˂˶)

mod info: (find cws here, masterpost here)

*points at cindy* this baby can fit so much projection

account ran by @poetozzy (hii i’m oliver, i use they/it/neos)

i’ll be in purple (tags will always be from me, unless specified otherwise)

cindy will be in normal text

angus will be in blue

john james will be in green

victor (sam's character) will be in red

maisie/may (cindy's mother) will be in pink

italics/posts titled in italics will be characters interacting in person

no patreon references (i don’t have it so i can’t really say anything interesting)

nothing explicit (suggestive is fine, just use your common sense)

totally cool interacting with other rp accounts so feel free to say something!!

also i’ve literally never baked in my life i don’t even have a functional oven and am not british so bear with me if i get something wrong lol :p

tags:

#double sided hobnob | asks

#filo pastry | posts

#flapjack | reblogs

#fairy cakes | scenes

[campbellcindy]

a daughter and a friend and a husband walk to a cemetery. they do not walk together.

indeed, they just miss each other—seconds, minutes, entire hours. it does not matter.

time does not bind them. a worse, more vapid thing does.

it is one woman they have journeyed for.

she smiles, a proud thing, when she sees her daughter.

this daughter, reverently, wipes a gravestone; they are the killer of time, hoping to return an inanimate object to a state of newness, hoping to return a ghost to a state of solidness.

yet, they are the embodiment of time, for they have changed the most—grown the most.

not much is said beyond customary wishes, as this daughter spends an early morning lying in soil, sunbathing in their mother's company.

before the daughter leaves, incense is burned and wafts vanilla into the air (too sweet, but pleasantly sickening).

they rise from the ground and go, footsteps perfectly silent from practice.

the woman considers, out of the two of them, who is really the ghost.

she smiles, a longing thing, when she sees her friend.

this friend, carefully, touches a gravestone; they are the killer of partings, hoping to return an inanimate object to a state of warmth, hoping to return a ghost to a state of familiarity.

yet, they are the embodiment of partings, for they have lost the most—been haunted the most.

much is said, everything from mundane gossip to first achievements, recollections and many regrets.

before the friend leaves, banknotes ignite into a small metal box (which had been put there many years before).

they rise from their seat and go, footsteps steady in long-held mourning.

the woman considers, out of the two of them, who is really more lonely.

she smiles, a sorry thing, when she sees her husband.

this husband, absentmindedly, watches a gravestone; they are the killer of grief, hoping to return an inanimate object to a state of breathing, hoping to return a ghost to a state of living.

yet, they are the embodiment of grief, for they have danced with it the most—tired the most.

nothing is said, and instead this husband repents, begging for forgiveness.

before the husband leaves, a series of pastries are put out and subsequently stolen by ants (who never feast alone if it can be helped).

they rise from their waters and do not go, eyes on a spot of pinks and oranges and reds and blues. flowers are blooming here.

he walks, and where he does, the grass dies, and just as soon as it does, the woman watches green return.

it isn't until he has left that white finds a home. she does not need all this Hope, but lets it find roots before spreading.

the woman is confident it will reach a bakery, an upstairs apartment, a table.

all she can do is wait, which she has never really enjoyed, but endures nonetheless.

[eggtartsandwitches]

and now that it’s not december

i wonder if it’s possible to guess who everyone is dressed as 🤔 (I'll put a list here \o/)

[campbellcindy]

happy new year!! (•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑ we did it!! (ദ്ദി˙ᗜ˙)

[campbellcindy]

an old cardboard box—some shipment for the bakery, breathed into with a new purpose—holds a collection of video tapes.

what do you look at first?

i love you through hunger

cradle me like a mother would

scavenge my sense of worth

Voting ended onJan 3

[eggtartsandwitches]

hi @gottagobackintime! i was your secret samta! :) here's a cindy-centric fic, i had a lot of fun writing it, i hope you enjoy <3

read on ao3! (2053 words)

(@secret-from-the-samta :))

so sits the ghost calling love home

At 3:00 PM, Cindy sits on the cold dirt before her mother’s grave, as she has for six years past. Christmas is a time for family—her indulged delusion. If nothing else, the dead cannot disappoint her or hurt her the same way the living can. This pain aches a different way, sand scratching at her skin and ocean waves crashing over her head and pulling her under.

December 25th, 2022 for Cindy Campbell.

—☃—

haunt (v.) of uncertain origin, perhaps from Proto-Germanic haimatjanan "to go or bring home"

—𓉸—

Christmas Day for a family that barely celebrates goes something like this.

In the morning, Cindy climbs up into the rafters and lies down on the wood that has held her weight for over half a decade, staring at the ceiling and listening as the forge comes to life. It is almost as if she climbed out of her bed only to return to it. The forge is her cradle in a way that goes deeper than her bones and will never leave her. She is spun from its sugar and steel and splinters—far more, she thinks some days, than even her parents’ blood.

The blacksmith-bakery is loud in a different way than her father can be. The clanging metal and spinning gears can be a kind of deafening that drowns out the grief instead of creating it—the tide and storm rather than the wreckage itself. Though her father’s fury leaves sea-soaked planks strewn across the beach among the seashells and oysters, his hammer has only ever echoed through Cindy’s ears and curled up in her skull—a clamor called home.

Her father is a wreckage as much as she is splinters. Cindy can read between the lines; she is no longer a child who cannot hear pain in an angry voice. When he tears into her soft tissue and rips feather from plumage with spitting rage and cutting remarks, he is bleeding with grief so palpable that it could nearly be smashed with a hammer. And though she bleeds that same grief, it isn’t any less unfair.

Cindy doesn’t watch the two of them work below her. She doesn’t need to. After so many years, she doesn’t need to look to know the routines her father and Victor go through—fire, butter, sugar, chocolate, milk—whose movements she has memorized and copied and practiced, nor to know that her father will never look up and see her there. On Christmas, though it is far from the spring days her mother died on, her absence cuts deeply enough that the sight of the smelting pot would twist the knife further than Cindy can allow it to go.

Sometimes Cindy thinks: What does it feel like to burn away?

Her mother died in the heat and the crush and so too has the fire burned Cindy’s hands, unforgiving and unkind. Fire does not obey willingly; it is brought to heel. Like so, her father does not seem to know how to curb his harshness when he has lived by the flame and will die by it. Not so for her—fire is not her inheritance. Hers is the blood of hunted things, of haunted things. She sees the shape of it all too clearly: the ghost of her mother sitting by the smelting pot. It clings to her father like pearls around the neck and guides her hands in stolen hours.

Cindy lifts her hand above her, staring at the smooth skin, uncallused and unworn. How infuriating it is to have a body that betrays her, a body that cannot have the time it needs dedicated to building it up. She cannot afford the years of daily work when all she is afforded is scant hours hidden in the rafters to learn in scavenged glances.

At noon, she climbs down carefully and slips into the forge while her father and Victor pause for lunch. Her craft is quieter and gentler than theirs—through necessity more than preference. Beyond lacking the strength for such force, the booming noise would attract their attention. Hers is delicate work, closer to glass than wrought iron or steel, ever so slowly melting it all until even the hardest metal has softened under the fire and bends to her will. She puts her creations into a little plastic bag and ties it up with a ribbon, already pushing it for time as she is.

“What’re you doin’ in here?” Her father’s shout is thunderous. As usual, it asks no explanation of Cindy, only incisive judgment. She is guilty by existence.

It is times like this that her father seems a tiger, made only of wrath and biting—the weight of a beast trapped in the cage of a man and bearing down on mere flesh. Cindy is not afraid of her father; she refuses to be. But in the rush of air into his lungs, the growl rolling from his throat, the scorn for her—a miserable, pitiful creature—

Is a ghost a monster? Are the dead—by nature, by instinct, by compulsion—malicious? Did her father die the same day her mother did?

At 3:00 PM, Cindy sits on the cold dirt before her mother’s grave, as she has for six years past. Christmas is a time for family—her indulged delusion. If nothing else, the dead cannot disappoint her or hurt her the same way the living can. This pain aches a different way, sand scratching at her skin and ocean waves crashing over her head and pulling her under.

She sweeps the dirt and debris off the stone before setting two one-and-half sided hobnobs, a strawberry tart, and a white chrysanthemum on the base just below the words etched into the gravestone. With a lighter she burns banknotes for her mother to use in the afterlife. She drops the paper into a small metal box—she remembers her father leaving it there on the grass the one and only time they visited ma together—where it crumples and smolders.

A thousand years ago, people might’ve been burned or buried and sacrificed along with a noble’s death. In such a way, Cindy supposed that should the fire consume her or her father one day and melt their flesh and bones into molten iron and caramel, it was only the path that would lead them straight to ma—a far clearer path than the aching, muddied ones they trudged along now. If Cindy walked a line beside her father that had not yet crossed, were they parallel, destined to never meet, or did they cross in the past, somewhere she no longer can reach and already missed?

Were her yearly rituals even meaningful to someone whose heritage had never asked for them?

At 5:04 PM, it starts snowing.

At 6:21 PM, Cindy rises from the ground. The smoke that floated from the ashes had long since blown away. She walks home, leaving a trailing procession of footprints in the snow. Superstition was not something Cindy necessarily believed in, but if the unsleeping ghost of her mother were to trace her steps and follow her home, Cindy would not mind inviting such a spirit home for a night. Then, maybe the ghost of her father too would follow and settle on her shoulders in a facsimile of embrace and find his way home.

And so, Cindy does not stop anywhere on her way home, does not linger in town, does not pause to step over a fire before entering her home. She simply shakes off the snow from her boots on the doormat before slipping them off her feet and slinks near silent towards her room.

Before dinner, she stands just out of view from the kitchen doorway and watches her father move with fluid familiarity beside Victor in the kitchen. Where hunger lies, something ugly and vicious rears its head. Victor is as much family as her mother was and is more family than she herself has ever been. It is less that her father only knows love in calluses and providing that stings like lemon juice dripped on cuts and more that her father doesn’t only know how to love in one way. The only one he doesn’t know how to love, it seems, is her.

The worst part is that she remembers a time when her father had held her with arms stronger, more protective, and warmer than any bed frame or blanket. In the middle of a thunderstorm that boomed and rumbled, he kept her from being torn out of the ground or split by cracks of lightning. For the daughter that exists now, her father only held the whole weight of a ship bearing down and carving a gouge into the soft sand of her belly and guts.

And despite all this, she often feels that in his eyes, he is hunted—that she is the one hunting him. To convince prey that it remains prey, that it cannot grow teeth and eat that which is larger than it, that grief cannot touch it if another pain bites in first, her father is a snarling beast, pacing the forge like a forest. The only line between becoming the tiger herself is that she will not let it.

They sit at a table for four, her father and Victor elbow to elbow and the seat across her father empty. As always, she is diagonal to her father, the furthest from him. As always, the ghost of her mother takes her seat next to Cindy.

Her father is unpracticed at kindness and the shape of it forms clumsy and misshapen in his hands. Countless rituals play at affection: the bowl he places in front of her without a word filled to the brim with steaming rice, the peeled orange he sets down beside it—as if the juice could run golden in her body as the ichor of immortality—a carp that wishes fortune.

It is not like she is unfamiliar with the exact arrangements of her father’s anger. It does not bruise her skin, but rather breaks on wood and porcelain like shrapnel. Collateral shatters at her feet even as he pushes her back from the danger, as if he does not know how to balance fear and rage—as if she cannot learn cruelty and grief as easily from his mouth as from his knuckles.

If her father does not wish to talk above the clatter of chopsticks on plates and the shouts of the day, then Cindy is more than happy to fill the silence and talk around the things they refuse to mention.

“How was your day, Vic—”

“Stay out of the forge, Cindy. Don’t touch anything in it.” Her father’s tone is sharp and snaps against her fingers as hot as sparks of oil jumping from the pan. “You’ll just hurt yourself without managing to do anything useful.”

This is how she knows that superstition is not real, that she cannot eat luck by swallowing fish eyes or bring home ghosts. She has grown tired of picking the fish bones out, resigning to swallowing them whole and letting them prick her throat. She has grown tired of the burn that comes with breathing in salt water and fighting against the current that won’t abate—what use was there in asking the sea to relent its terror? To drown did not require water to flood the lungs, only the lack of air—just as a fire instantly extinguishes without oxygen. With a tongue made more of thorns than muscle, how does he know she won’t bleed out and burn away into nothing more than cinders? How does he know that the taste of fire will not be sweeter than that of his grief?

Before bed, she gives Victor his gift. In return, he hands her a small box wrapped in Christmas paper. Every year, she wonders if he has ever wished for a more festive family than theirs—if, for him, this mockery of merriment is a disappointment as bitter as she is to her father.

For her father, her foolishly, nonsensically persisting love and longing is worn into the dishes she scrubs with soap and places with care back into their cupboards. His gift she leaves on the table for him to find in the morning just as she has years before. Between her father and her, she does not know a love that exists in words.

At 11:11 PM, Cindy slips into her bed, quiet as a grave buried with a wish under her tongue. Tomorrow morning, she will lie in the forge’s rafters like the heart rests in the ribs and her hope will bloom and wither again like white orange blossoms.

if i am homesick, were you once love?

[campbellcindy]

fairy lights blink along the outside of the bakery, while a small dusting of snow covers the roads and the roof.

an open sign glows ambiently against the window, and soon a chime bounces off the brick walls.

it startles a young woman behind the counter, but they quickly smile, making idle chatter about the cold.

"what are we looking for today?"

a tabletop chalkboard, with drawn snowflakes and a santa hat balanced atop the wooden frame, lists various holiday-themed goodies.

the customer orders, and in the silence inquires about the young woman.

"ah, um, i don't have much going today. we don't tend to celebrate or anything…"

she trails off at the startling look of pity across the customer's face, who soon speaks up—something about the importance of family, about how they wish they could see their son who’s left for college, about how you should cherish what time you have with your loved ones.

the young woman smiles, perfectly polite, bagging the baked goods, before wishing the customer a good day.

eyes glance upwards, to a flight of stairs, to an undecorated apartment, to a shut door.

"family, huh? yeah, real merry fucking christmas to me, i guess."

[campbellcindy]

h. hey. hey cindy.

y.

your.

your dad is hot *BOLTS AWAY*

NO.

GET BACK HERE. PAY FOR YOUR CRIMES.

[campbellcindy]

Off the trio went, going down the fire escape, led by the over-excited adhd ridden Donnie, him being decked out with a swim shirt, and what certainly looked like hand-me-down swim trunks tied around his waist as tight as possible.

Frankie is definitely a lot more laid back than Donnie's reaction, taking to carrying what little beach supplies he could round up in a moments notice, wearing a muscle shirt, sunglasses, and a pair of Christmas tree swim trunks.

they made it through their journey on the subway and to Coney Island beach.

"Here's the beach, Kid, It got everything you'd ever want, a giant crowd, sand to get everywhere, screaming children. Everything."

Frankie said, somewhat sarcastically, Cindy probably gets the feeling that Frankie definitely likes the beach a lot less than Donnie does.

"Knock it off Frankie, they're gonna have fun! Plus a lot more cool stuff happens then you think!"

Well, it's time to get their beach on.

-@xmas-tree-bandits

cindy watches the two brothers, clearly amused. she's in a two-piece pink swimsuit, with slight ruffles at the edges, and a white sarong tied over their lower half. it's a bit big on her, but it's…nice. really nice, actually, getting to see herself like this.

coney island is equal parts bright, loud, and—above all—crowded. the beach is much the same.

her eyes scan over the people around them, while frankie lays down a couple of old towels on the sand.

donnie, never one to stay still for too long, spots a kid building a sandcastle a bit away from their spot, and gets a look on his face.

oh dear.

before cindy knows it, they're being dragged around by donnie towards the kid.

this will be…interesting.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Rupert Jr. is building a sandcastle, and not too far away Sr. Is keeping an eye on the two kids approaching while their mom is idly chatting with Reggie "No Pants."

"Oh hey! How's it going! I... nummm.... I'm Rupert, that's my brother Rupert, that's my mom, and that's the guy my mom kisses that isn't my dad because my dad isn't around a lot."

Jr. points at everyone in his family.

"What's your guys' names?"

(@-ing myself so I respond next, lol @xmas-tree-bandits )

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie immediately starts helping the kid with building a moat around the castle. Yeah, he wants to build a better one, but they don't have sandcastle tools, so they gotta borrow or maybe even steal some.

"I'm Vinnie Makeupnamie. This is my sister Carly."

Donnie shoots Cindy a look that screams, please just go with it.

Rupert Jr. gives Donnie a look. He really isn't stupid.

[campbellcindy]

cindy takes in the odd family, eyes scanning over rupert and his brother, also rupert, then their mother and— wait. is that...reggie?

before they can even begin to process that, they're distracted by donnie's voice.

vinnie makeupnamie.

vinnie makeupnamie.

the "really?" is plain as day on her face, but upon seeing donnie's expression she simply gives a nod.

it...doesn't look like the lie is working, anyway.

they can't help the soft flutter of their heart at the word sister.

she crouches down, helping with the moat. they're not quite sure what else exactly to do, so she lets donnie take the lead here.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Really? Vinnie Makeupnamie? Does he think he's 3?

"What???"

Jr giggles a bit, as he couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous name. Then he leans in, conspiratorial.

"Are you guys like, super spies or something? Cause if you are, then you really need to work on your fake names. Cause that one is really lame."

( @xmas-tree-bandits )

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie sees this as an opportunity.

"Yeah... yeah! We're super secret super spies, and we gotta borrow these shovels and buckets for a prolonged period of time for our super secret mission, alright?"

Jr looked skeptically at Donnie, he's 5, not 3. He's a smart boy but ultimately nods.

"Oh, okay. But how many dollars do I get for helping the super secret super spies?"

Oh no, Donnie's weakness. Numbers.

( @campbellcindy )

[campbellcindy]

cindy nods along to donnie's lie.

she feels kinda bad about tricking some kid like this.

they quickly rack their mind at how much money they brought along, pulling out three dollars from her bag. that'll be enough, right?

for some reason it sounds...correct.

why? cindy hadn't the slightest clue.

regardless, she waves the bills out in front of her, and watches for rupert jr’s reaction.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Rupert Jr instantly lit up, "THREE WHOLE DOLLARS??"

The boy turns to try to tell his older brother but doesn't manage to see him as he's made his way to the shoreline. "Woah! that's so many dollar bucks!" He gathers all of his buckets and shovels and holds Them out to Cindy. "Here! I hope your super secret spy mission works really well!"

@xmas-tree-bandits

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie felt kinda bad, Cindy's using her own money to bribe this kid into giving them his sandcastle making stuff... he's not gonna be suspicious about it now though. He wipes any look of concern off his face as he does his best acting performance he can muster. (He's not really good at it) "Thanks Kid, You're really helping the USA out allowing us ta use your stuff and make sure we beat those other guys." When Rupert Jr finally looked satisfied and had the 8 whole dollars... no, three? fuck if he knew he sucked at math. Donnie pulled Cindy away with the prize in hand. "Thanks... for ya know... Spendin' your money on that... You really didn't have ta do that."

[campbellcindy]

"well, we did basically trick the poor kid. three dollars seems like a fair deal to borrow his stuff."

she takes a look at the items—some buckets, shovels, and a few molds.

"what, uh— how do we—"

cindy flounders, never having done this before, and simply gestures at the objects.

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie sighed and nodded, "I guess you're right."

Donnie watched Cindy flounder and immediately puffed out his chest a bit proudly. "Okay, so we need some water first to mix with the sand. If we make it moist, it'll stand up a lot better."

Donnie grabs a bucket and hands it to Cindy. "While you do that, I'll start making the moat."

[campbellcindy]

doing as she's told, cindy heads down to the ocean, sparring a brief glance at the shoreline where a young boy and rupert sr are conversing.

with the bucket in hand, they quickly scoop up some of the salt water. a small but perfect looking shell lies a couple inches away from her. cindy grabs it, figuring it may prove nice for decoration.

upon turning around, their eyes land on frankie—still where the two of them had left him. he's lightly surveying the crowd, occasionally glancing donnie's way, but ultimately relaxing.

she also spots a man and a woman, sitting a bit farther away. both of them hold an ice cream cone in their hands, yet are paying more attention to each other than their surroundings. something about those two reminds her of before.

quickly, they make their way back to donnie, setting the bucket of water down equidistant between her and his bent body—hard at work on their moat.

the shell is gingerly placed next to the bucket, the soft white contrasting with the bright, plastic blue.

together, the two of them finish up the last stretch of the waterless moat.

“now what?”

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Frankie, when he spots Cindy watching him gives her a little wave but then continues to let them make that sandcastle together.

"Now we combine the water and the sand." Donnie grabbed the bucket of water, dumping it into the moat, causing the sand to become a lot easier to compact. He then used the wet sand to construct a spire, which, at first didn't look very castle like, but when he filled the sandcastle mold and gingerly placed it on top, lightly tapping on the mold; a shape of a castle began to take form. "Now you try!" Donnie handed over the shovel and the molds and the buckets with a smile.

[campbellcindy]

cindy copies donnie's demonstration, and soon enough the two get into a rhythm. a castle slowly forms, a little shoddy in some places, but clear in what it's meant to be.

as the final step, they place the shell into the central spire, pushing it in with a gentle amount of pressure.

it's complete, their sandcastle.

donnie starts cheering, offering her a high five to which she returns—equally excited.

a voice startles them, though it's rich in a quiet warmth.

[campbellcindy]

i'll say sorry until you're sick of it

They are contrary motion. Or something like that.

Perhaps, it is in the weightlessness of diction that, inexplicably, one’s own gravity forms.

Before her is not just a tamed dog—he hasn’t been, for a long time now—but someone ready to be put down.

Where ma’s bones were hollow, ready for takeoff, he could only ever form his hands as birdcage bars—reaching out to an evanescent woman.

Cindy stares, at the approximation of a father—a man, in his lost glory, adrift because of his dearly departed—and cannot understand why the word is pulled in his direction.

She, briefly, considers the other road in a forked path. Who else could hold such a moniker? He is in the bakery below—just as eager for a better child.

Have they lost another hand to hold, by turning their back on Victor just now?

There are so many apologies to be given, and so little aching adrenaline.

Prey. Praying. Stitched fear into DNA—it rests, now, awaiting eventuality. She is still to be hung at the gallows, for when the future booms in a loud voice across the heavens and splits open the night sea, parting the waves and revealing the lone shipwrecks.

Bitterness, if they were less her mother and more her father, has room to flood at the notion of being second choice—to whom? A coworker?

The word stings, lemon squeezed into an open wound. Too little an honour to bestow upon Victor, who has seen, and moreover stayed. Another form of gravity, likely, these strings around the ankles. It is what still drags father to collapse, or to the skies—that chain to a flight of life.

In this world, it is that dipole which keeps him rooted to the ground. A simple tiger, who has lost the ability to give chase, and can only prowl where he feels unseen.

His eyes flicker behind her, and a sturdy hand rests atop their shoulder. It is only at Victor's call that father is present once more, another thread which tethers him to this mortal cradle—where all are held and rocked to the long sleep, and it is in that sleep one dreams.

Even in a falsity, it is anything but her which keeps him.

⋆

Often, it is her father who spends his early evenings fiddling with the stove, or their old rice cooker, or in a sweat from the sweltering of making dinner.

Today, she cooks, because it is how she has been taught to love—through burns from metal, and flavoured steam which travels upwards into the range hood. It has overcome gravity, for a moment. Yet, perhaps, this is just another form of gravity still—the nature of heat to be drawn towards the cosmos, to the vent hood.

With every repulsion of warmth, pulsing and emanating, they say sorry.

Beg, begging, begged. It is a plea for forgiveness, packed in small bowls of rice, in a ladle filled with hot soup threatening to spill, in a dinner table with its wood covered by so many plates. They ponder her father's hands, calloused from years of unseen adoration, or simply years of labor. Can the work be enough, or must the inexorable pull keep them—bent over pots and pans, enduring the sizzle of oil and the bubbling of boiling water?

Her father is not in any state to cook tonight, and Victor is tired—so, so very tired. When they cannot continue to hold the ceiling, and the walls have grown mold from the leaks, she takes a walking tour of their efforts and how in the end it has not mattered.

Cindy rebuilds. They are not an expert at wielding a blade—but she has patience, and uses her mortal violence like a shield. Decay is carved out, dug into like heart surgery.

There is a line somewhere—when wielding a blade—one her father has stepped over many times before. Bargains get made, and with each the point of no return is simply moved. No going back. Nowhere to rest his tired wings.

It is the easier thing to do. Or, perhaps, it is just as difficult.

Four bowls wind up on the table. Cindy is rebuffed by the negative space. It is a black hole, pulling every inch of light towards it. It is the creature. It is ma. It is none of those things, and all of them at once.

Ma stays a black hole, growing in gravity and unmeasurable in size, yet unspeakable—any attempt at words gets ripped apart by the many teeth—like skin, like meat, teared into.

The extra bowl goes back into the rice cooker, for anyone who wants a second helping, and what remains after that goes into the fridge—covered in saran wrap. Leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Cindy feasts more on the quiet nod from Victor—some sort of thank you, some sort of acceptance, some sort of forgiveness—than the meal. Father is more on his feet, more present, though there is still glass between the world and his eyes.

He stares at the empty, where there is no bowl placed.

Retreat comes after, where each of them return to their own rooms, and unwind in their own ways. It's past midnight, a later day by a couple minutes. Another failure in form and dignity. They assemble a records wall made of only memory, gleaming alabaster and polished wooden frames—recounting.

She does not sleep yet, instead, moving to their desk and taking out a singular sheet of cardstock paper. Briefly, she fiddles with the pen, trying to focus on writing—she stops, considers how one addresses the intangible. Do they just write John's name? Something more? If so, what?

They write John James, and move on to the next line.

Slowly, the white gets overtaken by pink ink. There are a few bits crossed out, and it's all slightly tilted, but it'll have to do. They sign their name, and doodle a small cat next to it.

Next comes the box. What to give? Nothing has enough gravity on its own—too much air still remaining.

In the end, she makes—creates, like she has been taught to.

⋆

Cindy is nervous for the final judgment.

Enough so she ducks out of sight—tucked away into the shadows only they know of the bakery, having grown up in its arms. Yet, there is a pulsing, an incendiary heart, which causes her to watch for John.

The bakery is unsettlingly quiet, without the two of them working in tandem and filling the air of idle chatter (before a customary light reprimand of being unfocused at work).

It's been long enough she's certain John has seen the offering. Drawn out rejection, then.

Ironic.

Angus is first of the two older men to arrive today, but there is little comparatively to do. Beyond the usual, at least.

He settles into the burn of work, the heat of the ovens, and the casual exuding warmth of the bakery's kitchen. It is only at his buffer of a presence that she walks, into the broad daylight, exposed to the town—today's spectacle, her impending doom.

Quietly—a mirage of living—she sidles next to where John is working, passing him the whisk he's very obviously searching fruitlessly for. Bashfully, he takes the item from her hands and mouths a quick thank you, before resuming mixing batter.

Perhaps, he is attractive while working, effortlessly turning the ingredients in his bowl into a nice consistency for bread. Or, it's something about the lighting that makes this worth paying attention to.

Vaguely domestic, they settle on.

She wonders if the kitchen has seen a pair like them before.

The bricks are as plain as always, but the bakery's age still strikes Cindy.

Maybe, they're nobodies. Or, they're the main characters.

John is looking at them, though, and it doesn't cause her breath to hitch like it should, but they can't help taking him in. His face doesn't seem mad, that's something.

A bud in a wasteland pokes out from the blank expanse of what used to be soil.

He offers her a smile, and she returns it.

Gentle hands feed, becoming a sun.

They mouth "friends?" at him, and he mouths it back with a nod in her direction.

In the far future—which is time, which is distance, which is change—Hope blooms into a white flower.

⋆

Angus watches his daughter and John James work, sat in one of the bakery's armchairs. It's before opening, still, and there is little left to do.

He is not alone in company, however.

A being of light, who pays him no mind, sits in the complement—staring at a daughter which can not see her.

If Cindy were to look over at their father—a rare thing, he feels, nowadays—she'd see the creature, the hollowed, the carved, the void between void itself, the limitless.

To one, the woman is starlight, and to the other she is what sits between.

Outside, on a nearby tree, a mourning dove peers into the window. A soul, uncorrupted, calls out to her loved ones.

Neither hear a thing.

⋆

A week later, Cindy meets John—again—outside of work.

It's a tentative second chance, this redo picnic (as they've taken to calling it).

Both of them sport their new keychains, his dangling from a belt loop, and hers fashioned as decoration for their phone.

please tear out my vocal chords

[campbellcindy]

Off the trio went, going down the fire escape, led by the over-excited adhd ridden Donnie, him being decked out with a swim shirt, and what certainly looked like hand-me-down swim trunks tied around his waist as tight as possible.

Frankie is definitely a lot more laid back than Donnie's reaction, taking to carrying what little beach supplies he could round up in a moments notice, wearing a muscle shirt, sunglasses, and a pair of Christmas tree swim trunks.

they made it through their journey on the subway and to Coney Island beach.

"Here's the beach, Kid, It got everything you'd ever want, a giant crowd, sand to get everywhere, screaming children. Everything."

Frankie said, somewhat sarcastically, Cindy probably gets the feeling that Frankie definitely likes the beach a lot less than Donnie does.

"Knock it off Frankie, they're gonna have fun! Plus a lot more cool stuff happens then you think!"

Well, it's time to get their beach on.

-@xmas-tree-bandits

cindy watches the two brothers, clearly amused. she's in a two-piece pink swimsuit, with slight ruffles at the edges, and a white sarong tied over their lower half. it's a bit big on her, but it's…nice. really nice, actually, getting to see herself like this.

coney island is equal parts bright, loud, and—above all—crowded. the beach is much the same.

her eyes scan over the people around them, while frankie lays down a couple of old towels on the sand.

donnie, never one to stay still for too long, spots a kid building a sandcastle a bit away from their spot, and gets a look on his face.

oh dear.

before cindy knows it, they're being dragged around by donnie towards the kid.

this will be…interesting.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Rupert Jr. is building a sandcastle, and not too far away Sr. Is keeping an eye on the two kids approaching while their mom is idly chatting with Reggie "No Pants."

"Oh hey! How's it going! I... nummm.... I'm Rupert, that's my brother Rupert, that's my mom, and that's the guy my mom kisses that isn't my dad because my dad isn't around a lot."

Jr. points at everyone in his family.

"What's your guys' names?"

(@-ing myself so I respond next, lol @xmas-tree-bandits )

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie immediately starts helping the kid with building a moat around the castle. Yeah, he wants to build a better one, but they don't have sandcastle tools, so they gotta borrow or maybe even steal some.

"I'm Vinnie Makeupnamie. This is my sister Carly."

Donnie shoots Cindy a look that screams, please just go with it.

Rupert Jr. gives Donnie a look. He really isn't stupid.

[campbellcindy]

cindy takes in the odd family, eyes scanning over rupert and his brother, also rupert, then their mother and— wait. is that...reggie?

before they can even begin to process that, they're distracted by donnie's voice.

vinnie makeupnamie.

vinnie makeupnamie.

the "really?" is plain as day on her face, but upon seeing donnie's expression she simply gives a nod.

it...doesn't look like the lie is working, anyway.

they can't help the soft flutter of their heart at the word sister.

she crouches down, helping with the moat. they're not quite sure what else exactly to do, so she lets donnie take the lead here.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Really? Vinnie Makeupnamie? Does he think he's 3?

"What???"

Jr giggles a bit, as he couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous name. Then he leans in, conspiratorial.

"Are you guys like, super spies or something? Cause if you are, then you really need to work on your fake names. Cause that one is really lame."

( @xmas-tree-bandits )

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie sees this as an opportunity.

"Yeah... yeah! We're super secret super spies, and we gotta borrow these shovels and buckets for a prolonged period of time for our super secret mission, alright?"

Jr looked skeptically at Donnie, he's 5, not 3. He's a smart boy but ultimately nods.

"Oh, okay. But how many dollars do I get for helping the super secret super spies?"

Oh no, Donnie's weakness. Numbers.

( @campbellcindy )

[campbellcindy]

cindy nods along to donnie's lie.

she feels kinda bad about tricking some kid like this.

they quickly rack their mind at how much money they brought along, pulling out three dollars from her bag. that'll be enough, right?

for some reason it sounds...correct.

why? cindy hadn't the slightest clue.

regardless, she waves the bills out in front of her, and watches for rupert jr’s reaction.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Rupert Jr instantly lit up, "THREE WHOLE DOLLARS??"

The boy turns to try to tell his older brother but doesn't manage to see him as he's made his way to the shoreline. "Woah! that's so many dollar bucks!" He gathers all of his buckets and shovels and holds Them out to Cindy. "Here! I hope your super secret spy mission works really well!"

@xmas-tree-bandits

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie felt kinda bad, Cindy's using her own money to bribe this kid into giving them his sandcastle making stuff... he's not gonna be suspicious about it now though. He wipes any look of concern off his face as he does his best acting performance he can muster. (He's not really good at it) "Thanks Kid, You're really helping the USA out allowing us ta use your stuff and make sure we beat those other guys." When Rupert Jr finally looked satisfied and had the 8 whole dollars... no, three? fuck if he knew he sucked at math. Donnie pulled Cindy away with the prize in hand. "Thanks... for ya know... Spendin' your money on that... You really didn't have ta do that."

[campbellcindy]

"well, we did basically trick the poor kid. three dollars seems like a fair deal to borrow his stuff."

she takes a look at the items—some buckets, shovels, and a few molds.

"what, uh— how do we—"

cindy flounders, never having done this before, and simply gestures at the objects.

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie sighed and nodded, "I guess you're right."

Donnie watched Cindy flounder and immediately puffed out his chest a bit proudly. "Okay, so we need some water first to mix with the sand. If we make it moist, it'll stand up a lot better."

Donnie grabs a bucket and hands it to Cindy. "While you do that, I'll start making the moat."

[campbellcindy]

doing as she's told, cindy heads down to the ocean, sparring a brief glance at the shoreline where a young boy and rupert sr are conversing.

with the bucket in hand, they quickly scoop up some of the salt water. a small but perfect looking shell lies a couple inches away from her. cindy grabs it, figuring it may prove nice for decoration.

upon turning around, their eyes land on frankie—still where the two of them had left him. he's lightly surveying the crowd, occasionally glancing donnie's way, but ultimately relaxing.

she also spots a man and a woman, sitting a bit farther away. both of them hold an ice cream cone in their hands, yet are paying more attention to each other than their surroundings. something about those two reminds her of before.

quickly, they make their way back to donnie, setting the bucket of water down equidistant between her and his bent body—hard at work on their moat.

the shell is gingerly placed next to the bucket, the soft white contrasting with the bright, plastic blue.

together, the two of them finish up the last stretch of the waterless moat.

“now what?”

[campbellcindy]

Off the trio went, going down the fire escape, led by the over-excited adhd ridden Donnie, him being decked out with a swim shirt, and what certainly looked like hand-me-down swim trunks tied around his waist as tight as possible.

Frankie is definitely a lot more laid back than Donnie's reaction, taking to carrying what little beach supplies he could round up in a moments notice, wearing a muscle shirt, sunglasses, and a pair of Christmas tree swim trunks.

they made it through their journey on the subway and to Coney Island beach.

"Here's the beach, Kid, It got everything you'd ever want, a giant crowd, sand to get everywhere, screaming children. Everything."

Frankie said, somewhat sarcastically, Cindy probably gets the feeling that Frankie definitely likes the beach a lot less than Donnie does.

"Knock it off Frankie, they're gonna have fun! Plus a lot more cool stuff happens then you think!"

Well, it's time to get their beach on.

-@xmas-tree-bandits

cindy watches the two brothers, clearly amused. she's in a two-piece pink swimsuit, with slight ruffles at the edges, and a white sarong tied over their lower half. it's a bit big on her, but it's…nice. really nice, actually, getting to see herself like this.

coney island is equal parts bright, loud, and—above all—crowded. the beach is much the same.

her eyes scan over the people around them, while frankie lays down a couple of old towels on the sand.

donnie, never one to stay still for too long, spots a kid building a sandcastle a bit away from their spot, and gets a look on his face.

oh dear.

before cindy knows it, they're being dragged around by donnie towards the kid.

this will be…interesting.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Rupert Jr. is building a sandcastle, and not too far away Sr. Is keeping an eye on the two kids approaching while their mom is idly chatting with Reggie "No Pants."

"Oh hey! How's it going! I... nummm.... I'm Rupert, that's my brother Rupert, that's my mom, and that's the guy my mom kisses that isn't my dad because my dad isn't around a lot."

Jr. points at everyone in his family.

"What's your guys' names?"

(@-ing myself so I respond next, lol @xmas-tree-bandits )

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie immediately starts helping the kid with building a moat around the castle. Yeah, he wants to build a better one, but they don't have sandcastle tools, so they gotta borrow or maybe even steal some.

"I'm Vinnie Makeupnamie. This is my sister Carly."

Donnie shoots Cindy a look that screams, please just go with it.

Rupert Jr. gives Donnie a look. He really isn't stupid.

[campbellcindy]

cindy takes in the odd family, eyes scanning over rupert and his brother, also rupert, then their mother and— wait. is that...reggie?

before they can even begin to process that, they're distracted by donnie's voice.

vinnie makeupnamie.

vinnie makeupnamie.

the "really?" is plain as day on her face, but upon seeing donnie's expression she simply gives a nod.

it...doesn't look like the lie is working, anyway.

they can't help the soft flutter of their heart at the word sister.

she crouches down, helping with the moat. they're not quite sure what else exactly to do, so she lets donnie take the lead here.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Really? Vinnie Makeupnamie? Does he think he's 3?

"What???"

Jr giggles a bit, as he couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous name. Then he leans in, conspiratorial.

"Are you guys like, super spies or something? Cause if you are, then you really need to work on your fake names. Cause that one is really lame."

( @xmas-tree-bandits )

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie sees this as an opportunity.

"Yeah... yeah! We're super secret super spies, and we gotta borrow these shovels and buckets for a prolonged period of time for our super secret mission, alright?"

Jr looked skeptically at Donnie, he's 5, not 3. He's a smart boy but ultimately nods.

"Oh, okay. But how many dollars do I get for helping the super secret super spies?"

Oh no, Donnie's weakness. Numbers.

( @campbellcindy )

[campbellcindy]

cindy nods along to donnie's lie.

she feels kinda bad about tricking some kid like this.

they quickly rack their mind at how much money they brought along, pulling out three dollars from her bag. that'll be enough, right?

for some reason it sounds...correct.

why? cindy hadn't the slightest clue.

regardless, she waves the bills out in front of her, and watches for rupert jr’s reaction.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Rupert Jr instantly lit up, "THREE WHOLE DOLLARS??"

The boy turns to try to tell his older brother but doesn't manage to see him as he's made his way to the shoreline. "Woah! that's so many dollar bucks!" He gathers all of his buckets and shovels and holds Them out to Cindy. "Here! I hope your super secret spy mission works really well!"

@xmas-tree-bandits

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie felt kinda bad, Cindy's using her own money to bribe this kid into giving them his sandcastle making stuff... he's not gonna be suspicious about it now though. He wipes any look of concern off his face as he does his best acting performance he can muster. (He's not really good at it) "Thanks Kid, You're really helping the USA out allowing us ta use your stuff and make sure we beat those other guys." When Rupert Jr finally looked satisfied and had the 8 whole dollars... no, three? fuck if he knew he sucked at math. Donnie pulled Cindy away with the prize in hand. "Thanks... for ya know... Spendin' your money on that... You really didn't have ta do that."

[campbellcindy]

"well, we did basically trick the poor kid. three dollars seems like a fair deal to borrow his stuff."

she takes a look at the items—some buckets, shovels, and a few molds.

"what, uh— how do we—"

cindy flounders, never having done this before, and simply gestures at the objects.

[campbellcindy]

Off the trio went, going down the fire escape, led by the over-excited adhd ridden Donnie, him being decked out with a swim shirt, and what certainly looked like hand-me-down swim trunks tied around his waist as tight as possible.

Frankie is definitely a lot more laid back than Donnie's reaction, taking to carrying what little beach supplies he could round up in a moments notice, wearing a muscle shirt, sunglasses, and a pair of Christmas tree swim trunks.

they made it through their journey on the subway and to Coney Island beach.

"Here's the beach, Kid, It got everything you'd ever want, a giant crowd, sand to get everywhere, screaming children. Everything."

Frankie said, somewhat sarcastically, Cindy probably gets the feeling that Frankie definitely likes the beach a lot less than Donnie does.

"Knock it off Frankie, they're gonna have fun! Plus a lot more cool stuff happens then you think!"

Well, it's time to get their beach on.

-@xmas-tree-bandits

cindy watches the two brothers, clearly amused. she's in a two-piece pink swimsuit, with slight ruffles at the edges, and a white sarong tied over their lower half. it's a bit big on her, but it's…nice. really nice, actually, getting to see herself like this.

coney island is equal parts bright, loud, and—above all—crowded. the beach is much the same.

her eyes scan over the people around them, while frankie lays down a couple of old towels on the sand.

donnie, never one to stay still for too long, spots a kid building a sandcastle a bit away from their spot, and gets a look on his face.

oh dear.

before cindy knows it, they're being dragged around by donnie towards the kid.

this will be…interesting.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Rupert Jr. is building a sandcastle, and not too far away Sr. Is keeping an eye on the two kids approaching while their mom is idly chatting with Reggie "No Pants."

"Oh hey! How's it going! I... nummm.... I'm Rupert, that's my brother Rupert, that's my mom, and that's the guy my mom kisses that isn't my dad because my dad isn't around a lot."

Jr. points at everyone in his family.

"What's your guys' names?"

(@-ing myself so I respond next, lol @xmas-tree-bandits )

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie immediately starts helping the kid with building a moat around the castle. Yeah, he wants to build a better one, but they don't have sandcastle tools, so they gotta borrow or maybe even steal some.

"I'm Vinnie Makeupnamie. This is my sister Carly."

Donnie shoots Cindy a look that screams, please just go with it.

Rupert Jr. gives Donnie a look. He really isn't stupid.

[campbellcindy]

cindy takes in the odd family, eyes scanning over rupert and his brother, also rupert, then their mother and— wait. is that...reggie?

before they can even begin to process that, they're distracted by donnie's voice.

vinnie makeupnamie.

vinnie makeupnamie.

the "really?" is plain as day on her face, but upon seeing donnie's expression she simply gives a nod.

it...doesn't look like the lie is working, anyway.

they can't help the soft flutter of their heart at the word sister.

she crouches down, helping with the moat. they're not quite sure what else exactly to do, so she lets donnie take the lead here.

[rupertsr-and-jr]

Really? Vinnie Makeupnamie? Does he think he's 3?

"What???"

Jr giggles a bit, as he couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous name. Then he leans in, conspiratorial.

"Are you guys like, super spies or something? Cause if you are, then you really need to work on your fake names. Cause that one is really lame."

( @xmas-tree-bandits )

[xmas-tree-bandits]

Donnie sees this as an opportunity.

"Yeah... yeah! We're super secret super spies, and we gotta borrow these shovels and buckets for a prolonged period of time for our super secret mission, alright?"

Jr looked skeptically at Donnie, he's 5, not 3. He's a smart boy but ultimately nods.

"Oh, okay. But how many dollars do I get for helping the super secret super spies?"

Oh no, Donnie's weakness. Numbers.

( @campbellcindy )

[campbellcindy]

cindy nods along to donnie's lie.

she feels kinda bad about tricking some kid like this.

they quickly rack their mind at how much money they brought along, pulling out three dollars from her bag. that'll be enough, right?

for some reason it sounds...correct.

why? cindy hadn't the slightest clue.

regardless, she waves the bills out in front of her, and watches for rupert jr’s reaction.

[campbellcindy]

What is the most outrageous thing you've ever done?

(Idk if I worded that right)

- 💚

...does sneaking around for years on the bakery's ceiling rafters count?

or maybe having a whole elaborate scheme since you were likeee a teenager of making a double-sided hobnob?

idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[campbellcindy]

Beep Boop

HACKER BOT HAS ATTEMPTED TO HACK YOUR BLOG.

- @ajs-unnamed-characters-club 🤖Hacker Bot 6456🤖

HACKER BOT has SUCCESSFULLY hacked.

Hi. :]

[campbellcindy]

...what. is this.

[campbellcindy]

aNYWAYS. i'm sure this isn't. uh. anything to worry about.

[campbellcindy]

hi cindy!!! ヾ(＾∇＾) is there anything you would recommend? >u< i'd love to get pastry from the bakery! :DD

-🌾

i’ve been told our strawberry tarts are pretty good! if you're looking for something sweet at least. otherwise, we have a wide variety of scones, pies, muffins, etc to choose from :D

[campbellcindy]

If you could do anything right now, regardless of time or budget, what would you do?

- 💚

hmmm...that's a tough one! in terms of the bakery umm i quite like how, uh, local it is? idk if i'd have any plans for expanding things

maybe traveling? i've never really been anywhere outside of home before, so idk it might be fun :)