Words unwritten

Stan Meyer | Devil's Knot English Lit Teacher | Advisor to School Paper | 36 Years Old "A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.”

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The Devil in the Parish | Stan & Julie

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juliiewest‌:

Fork against his chin, Julie regretted her decision to not use a knife instead. Oh, wouldn’t he look beautiful with a necklace of crimson blood around his throat? She smiled as she thought it, reading his defiance in his eyes. “Do you think a little girl could hurt you?” The intendentions it made on his skin were beautiful, and she kept pushing lightly against his chin, wondering if it hurt. She cocked her head to one side, eyes travelling from his own down to his lips, lingering there for a second before she gently let go of her strength, marvelling at the marks left, disappointed about their quick disappearance.

She put down the fork, the clicking sound of metal against marble the only thing to fill the void of silence that formed between them. She could feel it, lurking beneath his skin, like a snake travelling through grass, the heavy secret that he so desperately tried to hide, the vault-like fierceness with which Stan tried to keep her prying, all-seeing eye away from it: it only made her want it more, this discovery. “Would you hurt a little girl?” she batted her eyelashes and puckered her lips, feeling the pressure at the small of her back, the warmth of his bare hand so close to her bare skin, simply a layer of (very thin) fabric separating them from touching it. It burned, there, and she wondered if what she was feeling was desire, the feeling that lead schoolgirls to make dumb decisions, to sigh over some half-witteded quarterback. No, it wasn’t like that – Julie wasn’t one for sighs.

Despite everything, she was curious. “Who do you think I am then, under all this pretending?” Not that I am pretending, she warned with her gaze. She wouldn’t allow him to see beneath her person suit, not yet, not when she herself hadn’t yet been able to unstitch it from herself. Julie wondered seriously if he was the person that could finally give her some answers, that could explain the darkness that lurked in the far corner of her mind, the heavy guilt that lumped in her throat like a stuck piece of bread. But what did he know about darkness? Everything that came out of the teacher’s mouth sounded like a studied quote from one of his favourite novels, rotten classics or the attempt at being one. “Are you the hero that figures me out?” She teased, opening up the veil for the fantasy that he wanted to see written. If it’s a muse Stan was looking for, Julie would gladly pose to his every whims.

It hurt like a paper cut did, a sort of sharp but distant tingle and certainly nothing Stan couldn’t handle. That was even if he was paying attention to it, but he wasn’t his jaw at her mercy while he remained entranced by her eyes and words. He wondered then, at that question, at the way her eyes seemed to flicker with joy at the idea of his pain, whether she’d have killed him in that moment given half the chance. The teacher wondered if he’d have wanted to stop her. It wasn’t that he was suicidal, but there was something to be said about the sense of release death could give, and in many ways, it would mean his name would live on somehow. In a murder investigation. The notion made him chuckle to himself, pushing the fork a little deeper until she pulled it away and he shrugged. “Maybe she could, but this big boy can hurt people too.”

“...Depends, if she earned it.” This Stan murmured lower, his dark blue eyes starting at her with defiant strength. He wasn’t a violent man, but he did feel alot and part of him could see self defence as certainly an option, though he’d withhold it for as long as he could. Then Julie pulled her mask back on, all lips and sultry eyes. It would be a lie for the teacher to say it didn’t work, even though the back of his mind was resistant. His fingers curled into the fabric of her top, nails scratching the skin beneath lightly. 

At least, to his relief, she had dropped the topic of his past indiscretions and moved back to herself, a topic Stan was sure he could handle.  At her question, he leaned back, though his hand didn’t move. “I couldn’t answer that yet, you don’t claim to know the ending of a book at the first page.”

Of course, the mention of being the hero flickered some life into Stan’s eyes. He couldn’t ever shake it, that deep immovable feeling that he wanted to be the hero, the one who saves the day, writers the book and wins life. All of his experiences since birth, had been so ordinary. Nothing had been of note, until he had written his own script and started to try to become something. He’d get there, no matter what it took, he would achieve the notable. In this moment, he fell into the character he had carved, the smart, intellectual teacher who always had nuggets of wisdom ready. “Do you want to be figured out?”

[stan-meyer-blog]

linda-goode‌:

Linda smiled softly to herself as they walked away from the centre. She let out a breath as she felt herself relax just a little. The thought of what she was doing had entered her mind. What was she doing alone with a good looking guy? She decided not to think about that but she about relaxing instead. Being around other people tended to set her more on edge but being around Stan didn’t feel like that. His voice was soothing and he wasn’t prying. The fact he moved so differently now than he had before was just an indication that they both felt more relaxed. 

His kind response caused her to smile again. “Thanks.” She replied, as she looked up to meet his eyes. Gosh, Linda thought as she struggled to keep the conversation going. The silence was not a bad one though, the quiet was peaceful instead of odd.

Linda thought about his response. She could hardly remember the last time she had been completely by herself. It was over fifteen years ago. “How is that?” She asked, genuinely wanting to know. It could be a conscious decision or maybe he was lonely. “I don’t mean to pry.” She added, knowing what that felt like.

His look seemed slightly self-conscious like he didn’t really know how to explain himself to someone else. Linda squeezed her arms as she looked up at the brilliant stars as well. “I’m sure that it’s appreciated.” She replied, honestly. Linda wasn’t someone who seemed confident, she was overall a shy person but she always spoke her own truth. 

“No, that’s not weird.” Linda replied. “I think it’s natural to want to help. And, I mean, you never know what might help or make someone feel better.” Linda paused as she thought about her other two children.

“Have you lived in Devil’s knot for a long time?”

"Being a lone ranger? Freeing, mostly. You’re left with not what you must do, but what you can do. It’s a different sort of experience.” Stan mused his answer like the faux author he was, still gazing upwards as if delivering a soliloquy to the sky. It wasn’t entirely based in reality, however, because no man, no matter how artistic or delusional could truly avoid expectations. Even he had to work, or face death by long painful starvation as well as lost of pride, but there was no harm of painting your world more picturesque than it really was.  

“Sometimes lonely.” The teacher adds after a moment of brevity, flickering his gaze back to his guest, the brightness in his dark blue eyes fading somewhat. There it was, the truth of it. They say a writer’s curse is they are never bored nor feel loneliness, but Stan had never made it to the esteemed place of a author and is left with the more abject feeling of remorse. 

“And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness.” The quoted words flick of his tongue smoothly, aired with the exact amount of weight and melancholy that they deserved, as the fall winds grew a little heavier. “Sylvia Plath.” 

Stan’s eyes held the stranger’s, the sort of long stare that might be too intense, if not for the fact he soon broke into a grin, laughed and looked away. “Sorry, I’m too much of a dramatist for my own good sometimes. It’s not so bad, I guess is the summary of it. But it takes a certain kind of someone to live it.”

“Lived here two months, so you could say I’m fresh to it all. How about you?” 

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The Devil in the Parish | Stan & Julie

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juliiewest‌:

She could read a confidence that wasn’t present in their last encounter. The element of surprise that overtook the two of them was enough to throw him off balance before, but now there was a studied feeling to his movements, an awareness of what he wanted to say next. Julie smiled to herself, the resemblance between this man and the man in the bar unlike that of the professor, as if Mr. Meyer and Stan were too completely different people – and maybe they were, just as Julie minutely architected her different selves, shaping herself into whatever people wanted her to be.

“You must look good in the kitchen.” She teased once more, a bemused smile plastered on her lips. Finally, she pushed the container away from him, fingers sliding off of each other, and turned back to the counter, forgetting about the plate and instead placing the container on the counter, she took off the lid and opened a drawer to find two forks. “Let’s see just how good a cook you are.” She handed him the fork and with the other one left, started to dig in the mac and cheese, rolling the fork around and driving it to her mouth.

She chewed slowly, the movements of her lips purposely studied, her eyes permanently fixed in his. Her mouth was still full when she nodded her head, a hand clapped against her mouth, hiding the laughter that threatened to spill over. “Did you cook this, Mr. Meyer, or did you buy at the takeaway store?” Julie couldn’t help but call him that – his name on her tongue felt heavy, almost too personal, as if naming someone is enough to give them power, and she didn’t want him to have any, merely the illusion of it. (Be careful, little girl, something is only fake until it becomes real.)

Julie threw her head back, the small of her back against the hard counter, the only thing that kept her grounded at the moment. “Is that so? Do you think you know me all that well?” She kept the fork in her hand, dancing with it with every laughter and reverberation of her body. “Oh, that is how you think of me.” She tamed her laughter, turning it instead into a softer smile, a curious sparkle in her eye. “I think I remind you of someone.” Her head cocked to one side, she allowed herself to finally examine the entirety of his being: the well-kept hair, the shaved beard, the washed clothes, by the looks of it, his best clothes, and the smell of his cologne could be felt from this far away. He looked good. He looked like he wanted to look good, and she realised it was because of her. Does he really wonder if he’s prey or hunter?

Giving a half-shrug and a grin that conveyed a secret knowledge, she walked closer to him again, a pull-and-pull-away effect found only on magnets, brushing her shoulder against his, standing on her toes to reach his ear and whisper. “Who do I remind you of?” The fork still in her hand.

There were a million retorts on his lips to each and every word, but she was a whirlwind of action, and as soon as he’d settle on one, Julie was onto the next thing and a fork was in his face. So with the resignation of a man on the edge of execution, he took the utensil in his grip. He knew, of course, that this was no Michelin star dish. Not that Stan was a bad cook, it was just...well he was a bad cook. Call it an artist’s whimsy but he was far too focused on that side of his life to worry about the stuff of mere mortals like cooking. However, he could just about make pasta with a bunch of cheese and whatever else the cook book said. 

He took deep breath and made a small prayer to the plethora of gods that apparently existed, because he hadn’t bothered to try it himself. He figured if he just set it down and walked away, people would remember the act more than the taste. The teacher was still chewing when Julie dropped her verdict, and found himself nearly choking on it half way. He was left hitting his chest a little, a faint involuntary tear in the corner of his eyes as he swallowed and tried not to grimace. After a moment, his blue eyes meeting hers, he couldn’t help but join in the laughter, the back of his own hand coming to his lips.

If anyone walked in, it would have looked like two innocent souls finding some humour in these dark times. Maybe it was. Was there a glimmer of normalcy possible? If there had been, it soon dissipated, and Stan found himself setting the fork down on the tabletop, his body falling hers unwillingly, though he remained to the side of her, hip against the sink. At her questions, the English teacher shrugged, though his piercing blue eyes refused to back down from Julie’s. “I think it’s what you want people to think of you. Eventually we are what we pretend to be.” 

A fragile peace had formed between then or so Stan had thought. Now he didn’t feel like his back was to the wall and he had some grasp of what was before him, he could stand toe to toe with Julie and just enjoy the thrill of the hunt. But just like that, it proved to be far too previous for her clawing hands. Always scratching to deep, trying to latch onto flesh that was not hers to feast upon. He stepped back, not in fear, but almost of dismissal, a much more powerful weapon against someone like Julie he thought. His eyes spoke what his lips would not. So predictable. 

Like a coiling snake she drew closer to him and he could smell the cheese from the end of her fork, her whisper drawing his hair to stand despite the irritation. Stan didn’t want to think of those memories, not now, preferably not ever. Instead he just rolled back his shoulders, a hand pressing to the small of her back, so as to push the ends of the metal fork into his chin lightly. “Don’t try to play with fire unless you’re willing to draw blood, Miss West.”

[stan-meyer-blog]

The Devil in the Parish | Stan & Julie

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juliiewest‌:

Twelve years ago something happened that changed Devil’s Knot forever. Three weeks ago, it had happened again: the space and time continuum felt disrupted, like two separate, yet uncannily alike events couldn’t happen in the same town twice, so, in most respects, it felt like the town was transported to the eighties all over again – the reaction to Brian Goode’s disappearance wasn’t all that different from the reaction felt twelve years ago when the Silvermann case flooded the local news and terrified every citizen in the small town. Not that Julie could remember – she was too little to have any recollections of her own but nobody who grew up in Devil’s Knot was spared any of the details, to the point that it felt like she lived it. To be alive now, old enough to remember, almost felt like a blessing. Finally, she had some memories of her own, real and concrete, instead of tales twisted by someone else’s mouth.

So, it had been three weeks and nothing much had changed. Brian was still missing, the police kept all development under wraps (if there was any) and people were either starting to lose hope, or worst, interest. But if there’s one good thing about Devil’s Knot community is it’s unrelenting and has the desire to keep a story going until there’s nothing left to it: the church, particularly, is known for being the beacon of hope in town, and Julie liked to sit at the centre of it. When the idea sparked, she was the first one to put her hands to work – from the little lights that hanged at the entrance, to the wood chopped for the bonfire, she had an hand (or an eye) in it. She had always been a member of the church, trailing behind her mother ever since she started to walk. The church was more her home than her own house a few blocks away, the congregation more her family than the people she shared four walls with. In it, she had a role, and she felt useful. It was the best feeling in the world.

While the assigned hour had come and gone, Julie still stayed away from the spotlight, stuck in the kitchen, assigned some trivial task – whenever she thought she had a chance to sneak out, a new set of unwashed dishes appeared almost magically at the counter, and she found herself stuck in the wash-scrub-clean loop.

Her thoughts were tangled somewhere else, lulled by the white sound of the water running, transported to a place of her childhood where everything smelled of soap and bleach. She didn’t hear him come in. His voice, so close to her ear, felt hallucinatory, to the point she almost didn’t want to look back and see if it was or wasn’t true. Julie tried to see if someone else was around from the corner of her eye, thinking that if she was about to speak to herself, it was better if no one was there to notice. “Where else would I be?”

She kept her back to him, slowly rubbing the sponge against the plate, scrapping the remnants of food until it was immaculate. Finally, she closed the tab and turned. She didn’t know if it was a relief that he was real, but there he was. She felt the urge to reach out to see if he was indeed made of flesh and not just a phantom, but her hands were dripping water all over her dress and the floor. “Did you bring something to eat?” She gave him her usual sugary smile and reached out to a towel to dry her hands.

It was her turn to take a step closer, her curious gaze peering into the container in his hands. “Mac and cheese?” There was an inevitable tease in her voice, but underneath a certain tenderness as well, like the voice a mother uses with a child who does something naughty, but that, no matter what, she loves. “Is that your speciality?” Julie took another small step, the necessary one for them to be as close as ever, and placed her hands on top of his, both of them holding the pot. She lingered for a second, finally allowing herself to look into his eyes. Were you looking for me? “Let’s find you a plate for this.”

There’s always one question that defines every situation, male or female, young or old. Even the blandest encounters have a small element of this pertinent notion, that hangs onto us as an inextricable part of our survivalist nature. Are you the hunter or are you the prey? Most of the time, if asked bluntly, people, men most especially, will of course picture themselves the hunter. After all, who wishes to admit that they are the lesser in any social interaction, it was tantamount to losing. But there was no harm in being the prey, for without prey, the hunter cannot eat and the two are as symbiotic to each other as carbon and oxygen. 

That was the conundrum that faced Stan every time he found himself entering Julie’s circle. As if he was crossing the threshold into some more base, primal time and his placing within their two-person foodchain was a matter of concern. In moments like this, he would presume himself the hunter, after all, the moment was initiated by him and despite her cool nature, Stan was certain he must have caught her off guard. Yet it felt like seconds before he was pinned beneath her, her words and eyes twisting his mind and making him feel a rush of uncertainty.

But, he was as good an actor as Julie, and so just as she placed a sweetened, advertisement worthy smile on her lips, he returned with his own gentle mirroring. It was a restrained, delicate expression that you’d expect from a man with airs and a good stock behind his genes. Not that Stan had any of that. In his car, a dilapidated jacket was his only outerwear at the moment and the fine cotton shirt and jeans were brought after more saving than he’d like to admit. But in that moment, he was a nobleman worthy of a title or a place in an 18th Century novel. 

“Felt only right to bring something, and...there’s nothing more American than Mac and Cheese.” He could feel the faint remnants of water under her palm and against his knuckles and it took all his willpower to not shiver at it and meet her eyes full on. 

“I didn’t expect you here, I thought you’d be with the rest of them...all smiles and handshakes. Seems more like your speed.” His words, as they were most of the time, were soft and earnest, the sheen he places when he’s not rattled like their first meeting. But there was also an answer to her silent question, and he made sure to be firmly looking back at her as she said it.

Stan, however, couldn’t help but put the knife in, especially after their last meeting and there was an edge of his own teasing in his voice. “I guess it’s my lucky day, not many find time with the sweetheart of Devil’s knot all on her lonesome.”

[stan-meyer-blog]

linda-goode‌:

His enthusiasm was contagious as she felt a smile spread on her lips. She blew out the last of her smoke as dropped her cigarette and stepped on it, ending its burning. Then she dipped down and threw it away in a bin. Somehow the fact that she always had to be on her best behaviour was ingrained in her, as well as the fact that she always had to hide when she smoked so she couldn’t leave any traces behind. Another laugh escaped her lips. “Alright. Good.”

Linda stepped out and walked as Stan fell into step with her. Her eyes glanced back to see if anyone followed her or was coming out to get her. When no one appeared, she figured she could leave - even if it was just for a second. Their privacy surrounded them like a cloud. Privacy from the outside world and from each other. She only knew his name and that was good enough for now, it was all she needed. It was Devil’s knot, what was the worst that could happen to her while being out on a strange walk without anyone knowing?

For a second she thought she caught him doing the same, wondering why he had been doing that. Did he also have children? Or the eyes of an entire community on him? Linda felt herself pause at his question. “Um,” She paused as she wrapped her arms around her to keep herself warm. “Yeah, I have people counting on me. I need to make sure they get home safe.” Linda replied, a soft smile slipping on her lips as her eyes creased as well. A true, genuine smile. “What about yourself?”

Stan closed his eyes as they kept walking, his steps almost musical as he seemed to hop, skip and jump whenever it suited his fancy. It was like a child’s tendency to stray and start jumping over cracks. They weren’t huge movements, just small quirks, but none of the less it gelled with his easy, laidback persona. This, unlike his professional or friendly neighbour facades, was not fake. The truth of it was that he was a whimsical man, in both choice and character, and in moments like this, wind through his hair and the cold chill keeping him aware, he wanted nothing more than just be himself. Considering he was walking with a stranger, what was the harm? 

His eyes peered open and flickered to her at her answer and returned question, a gentle smile spreading across his lips as he pulled his jacket a little closer. “I gotcha, don’t worry, I won’t get in your way.”

“...No, no, I haven’t got anyone waiting on me, just a lone ranger.” He let out a small breath, turning his eyes back to the skies, as the club of Heracles flashed and the physique of Orion revealed itself behind some clouds. The beauty of places like Devil’s knot was the absence of too much pollution, giving you a clear side of the heavens. 

“Felt...well I wanted to do my bit, but I’m not here with anyone.” Stan threw his accomplice a sheepish look, pulling his hand out to scratch his beard almost shyly.

“Is that weird?”

[stan-meyer-blog]

juliiewest‌:

STAN MEYER‌:

What a performer. That was Stan’s first thought. He had to applaud it, the gusto, the dedication, the lack of any hesitation. Being a literature lover, he knew all about acting and as a consummate bullshitter himself he knew a well-crafted performance when he saw it. How could you not appreciate it? 

But beware one’s own ego. Despite the fact in his bones, he knew she was spinning him like a wheel down the hill, part of him deluded himself into it. It was fake, exaggerated, like a page out of a novel. And he loved it. As she buried herself into his chest, not unlike a Jane Austen heroine, he found his arm wrapping around her anyway. 

That said, Stan wasn’t completely stupid and he could hold himself back from completely playing along. At her declaration of modesty, he found himself laughing, the rumble travelling down his chest and against her cheek. He dropped his head, like a conspirator, his warm breath brushing against her ear. “If you are ordinary, I fear what extraordinary entails.”

Games, however, weren’t all about fun. He pulled back as she looked at him, his dark rumbling eyes heated from the moment, not feeling bad for her little pantomime, but getting heated from the adrenaline. That was until she dropped the last line, and quickly that aloof arrogance twisted into anger. She hadn’t said the words, but they both knew she had just dropped her counterpunch. Check. 

His face was still that of a cordial, smartly dressed and kind teacher, but his eyes swarmed with thunder, a silent fury that she would get the upper hand and try to twist the knife. The worst of it,  was the whole charade only made him wish they weren’t in the middle of the class day even more. The things he would do. Like that, she had reeled him in like a fish on the wire, and any semblance of avoiding past mistakes had long washed away as he was left gasping for air. 

“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.” Stan murmured, voice thick, eyes hazy as they stared at into the trapping abyss of her light ones, quoting Oscar Wilde as if it may save him from the situation. It did not, for what was Wilde about if not giving into temptation. He found himself leaning closer to her, fingers brushing her shoulders, breath drawing to her lips.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG

Then like a snapped rope, he recoiled backwards at the school bell, his hands falling away as of scorched and he found himself adjusting his shirt and clearing his throat. “I…”

“You’d best not miss the bell. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your school record would you?” 

This is what she always thought it would lead to: her cheeks were heated, rose-colored contrasting against every other pale thing about her, and while most of it could be attributed to the fake tears and the strain that it took to pull that off, beneath that studied drama was the same feeling she had felt when, beneath dim lights and hushed tones, she first heard his voice in her ear. It was hazy, almost dream-like, the state they were that night at the bar, and while Stan (or whatever he said he was called then) was not her first conquest under similar circumstances, something about him lingered, still, to this day, to the point that seeing him there was both a thrill and a disappointment. Julie never wanted to see the man in the bar, ever again – she knew it was dangerous to keep playing with the same mouse. Eventually, the hunter had to devour the prey, or else it would learn how to flee. She worried he was beginning to. She worried she would let him.

She allowed his words to produce the desired effect, calming her breath as he caressed her back, her hand travelling to her eyes to clear away the excess of tears. There was still much to be figured out, but Julie was sure of one thing: Stan was a romantic, eager to become one of the characters in his beloved classics, longing for something to inspire him. What inspires and terrifies more than eating a forbidden fruit? To tear its flesh with hungry teeth, digging in until there’s nothing left but its core. Julie was familiar with that hunger, that constant, insatiable hunger, and, in her mind, it wasn’t any different from anger. It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t right, and she could read all about it in the glint of his eye, the unspoken feelings his status did not allow him to profess. They weren’t so different after all. They both hid terrible, tremendous secrets behind their carefully tailored personas. Rip and tear, she thought. Show me something real.

Her eyes instantly closed the moment he came closer, steading her breath for what was to come. Her lips were swollen from all the crying, a ruinous temple. Julie wondered if that was the reason he desired her so much. But then –

She opened her eyes, the sound of the bell slicing through her dreams so abruptly it felt out of place, before she remembered where she was: at school, in his office, not in the bar where they first met. Her heart skipped a beat, and she drew away, mimicking his own movements. It was that dangerous atmosphere that drew her there in the first place, but playing with danger was a game of restraint. Better things would come.

Smoothing her shirt, clearing her throat and her eyes once more, she picked up the almost forgotten books laying on his desk and held them to her chest, the school girl aesthetic replacing the fille fatale of a few seconds ago. Julie nodded, thinking anything she said at the moment would be pointless, allowing him to hold the last words, a remnant of power. “Goodbye, Mr. Meyer.” I will see you soon was unspoken as she opened Stan’s office door and walked out to face the school day.

[///end —-]

[stan-meyer-blog]

The Devil in the Parish | Stan & Julie

6pm, Monday 14th October, 1998  @juliiewest​

Stan let out a breath as he stepped into the community centre, adjusting his hair as he did so. There had been a part of him that wanted to avoid this event more than anything, growing tired by the fact that everyone seemed to act like the chances of Brian being found were second to none. It was far more interesting to work out the story behind it all, instead of holding hands and singing kumbaya. But Pastor Abbott had encouraged it, and there was something about the man that left him unable to say no.

There was another issue of course, and the minute he could smell the baked goods, it came straight to his mind. Julie. There was no little to no why that little creature, calling her girl was too charitable, would not make herself known at something like this. In fact, he expected her front row, offering whatever food she’d managed to conjure. He, on the other hand, had a simple pot of mac and cheese, which compared to some of the spreads on the table seemed fairly underwhelming but there wasn’t much else to do on a budget. 

He tried not to get lost too much in the ebb and flow of what felt like the whole of Devil’s knot, though it was easier said than none. Finally, someone guided him to head into the kitchen in the back, so he could plate up his dish and put it out for whatever sorry sods wanted to try it. 

Little did Stan know, he was walking right back into the hornet’s nest. As he turned deeper into the community centre, all the noises began to fade until all he could hear was the singular sound of a tap. He peered around the corner into the kitchen and the flash of her bright blonde hair had him stopping dead. 

The sensible part of him knew he should leave, but logic and maturity had a little place when it came to Julie West. Instead, still smarting from the last blow she’d landed on him previously. He edged himself silently into the kitchen until he was right behind her back.

“Fancy finding you here.” He almost whispered, voice dancing with amusement.

[stan-meyer-blog]

juliiewest‌:

It was a cat and mouse game, or a fisherman and its hook. One moment the water was still, the fisherman was in control, the fish caught, and the next, all the fuss that it did was enough to send it back to the water, and whatever progress was lost. Fish, fisherman, cat and mouse. Which was which?

Julie looked into Stan’s eyes without saying a word, finding a new sparkle beneath his dark tones, the previous fear she found there gone and replaced with something else. Did it meant Julie was the mouse and the fish, now? Something inside of her burned, a new rage forming at the pit of her stomach as he took a step further to meet her, trying to impose his strength with his height. It made her want to sneer, spit on the floor and laugh. With men, power came down to strength and their strength came from their body. It was a petty, weak thing in Julie’s eyes.

In mythology, there was nothing that compared to a goddess wrath. Their touches were the softest, the ichor in their veins the purer, but when the skies darkened and thunder rumbled, the people knew it wasn’t Zeus or Hades wrath, but Hera’s might and Persephone’s temper that destroyed. Stan thought himself taller, stronger, but the gaze in Julie’s eyes towered over him. It was fun, this game they had been playing, until it wasn’t. Until she was losing.

He wants to be the fisherman? Let him think he is, I’ll be the fish. “Oh, Mr. Meyer. I’m so sorry.” Julie had this ability to change suddenly, quickly enough that people wondered if what they had seen was ever there at all and so, just as quickly as she had shed her lambskin, she put it back on.

She threw herself at Stan, burying her face in shame against his chest, tears welling up in her eyes and wetting his shirt. “I have a very ordinary face.” She spoke a muffled sound, a theatre of a defeated girl. “Blue eyes, fair complexion, pale hair. It’s almost every gothic’s heroine. I’m sure you dreamed me, imagined me in the place of someone else.” Her eyes reddened and as tears fell down her cheeks, her lips welled, plump and cracked, she raised her head to look him in the eyes.

Men, male fantasies: they are so afraid of weakness they always look the other way, as if tears were a poisoned herb one shouldn’t touch. Yet, Julie held on to his gaze, unbending, tears flowing freely down her cheeks, her breathing faster, making her chest go up and down, hiccuping. “I have never done anything wrong. I go to church every Sunday… I confess my sins.” A flash of malice in her eyes, just for a second, as she touched the hanging cross between her breasts. “I will confess this one, too.”

What a performer. That was Stan’s first thought. He had to applaud it, the gusto, the dedication, the lack of any hesitation. Being a literature lover, he knew all about acting and as a consummate bullshitter himself he knew a well-crafted performance when he saw it. How could you not appreciate it? 

But beware one’s own ego. Despite the fact in his bones, he knew she was spinning him like a wheel down the hill, part of him deluded himself into it. It was fake, exaggerated, like a page out of a novel. And he loved it. As she buried herself into his chest, not unlike a Jane Austen heroine, he found his arm wrapping around her anyway. 

That said, Stan wasn’t completely stupid and he could hold himself back from completely playing along. At her declaration of modesty, he found himself laughing, the rumble travelling down his chest and against her cheek. He dropped his head, like a conspirator, his warm breath brushing against her ear. “If you are ordinary, I fear what extraordinary entails.”

Games, however, weren’t all about fun. He pulled back as she looked at him, his dark rumbling eyes heated from the moment, not feeling bad for her little pantomime, but getting heated from the adrenaline. That was until she dropped the last line, and quickly that aloof arrogance twisted into anger. She hadn’t said the words, but they both knew she had just dropped her counterpunch. Check. 

His face was still that of a cordial, smartly dressed and kind teacher, but his eyes swarmed with thunder, a silent fury that she would get the upper hand and try to twist the knife. The worst of it,  was the whole charade only made him wish they weren’t in the middle of the class day even more. The things he would do. Like that, she had reeled him in like a fish on the wire, and any semblance of avoiding past mistakes had long washed away as he was left gasping for air. 

“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.” Stan murmured, voice thick, eyes hazy as they stared at into the trapping abyss of her light ones, quoting Oscar Wilde as if it may save him from the situation. It did not, for what was Wilde about if not giving into temptation. He found himself leaning closer to her, fingers brushing her shoulders, breath drawing to her lips.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG

Then like a snapped rope, he recoiled backwards at the school bell, his hands falling away as of scorched and he found himself adjusting his shirt and clearing his throat. “I...”

“You’d best not miss the bell. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your school record would you?” 

[stan-meyer-blog]

The Vagrant | Stan & Brooke | @brooke-youngblood

Stan stared at the report, the keywords hopping off the page like burning curses sizzling in front of his eyes. He thought it would be an elementary routine to be a mentor. Offer some inspirational words, make sure the kid feels listened to and respected and just make sure they get to school. How hard could it be? Back in his old school, he was the mentor of quite a few kids, though in schools like that the biggest problems were those who felt they were too important to get to school on time or a little lax with the words they’d trade with each other. Here however, well, he had Brooke Youngblood to deal with. Just the name left him sighing and staring out of the window from his desk in his classroom. 

In his hands were the police report regarding how Brooke had decided to spend her time spraying graffiti on the walls of Devil’s knot. While it wasn’t his job to handle her criminal record, Stan could feel the expectation on him to at least try to nip it in the bud. It didn’t help the fact she was an enigma. On paper, she was a fantastic student, her papers were top quality, well researched and written and by all accounts her work ethic was hard to question. Yet, it was a surprising day when a misdemeanour or two didn’t float by his desk. Stan could only imagine what sort of home life could draw this result from a smart kid.

He leaned into his chair just reading over the report again when he heard the click of her Dr Martens against the wooden floor. He let out a heavy breath through his nose, setting down the paper and flicking his gaze up to her. There was already a seat set in front of him and he offered a faint smile. “Brooke, take a seat. I think we have some things to talk about.”

[stan-meyer-blog]

linda-goode‌:

Linda laughed. Yeah, wasn’t that the truth. Every day felt so stressful or so numb at the same time. Mainly around other people, when Linda was just home alone or with the children, she felt okay. Being around others added all kind of pressures that felt at times like someone was suffocating her. It was mostly either the pitying stares she got or all these questions she had no answers to. This guy was something else, he seemed to genuinely have no idea who she was which was something completely refreshing. It had been a long time since she felt like that. Just a woman, a person. Not a mother who had a missing child. Not a divorced wife who left a very difficult relationship. Not a young and pregnant college drop out. 

His voice was also incredibly soothing like if she closed her eyes and heard him it felt like she was all alone in the world. Somewhere calming and somewhere she didn’t have to think about anything. Linda felt a wobbly smile slip on her lips as he smiled at her. She let the smoke escape her lips as she exhaled. “You’re right about that. There has been so much talk, it’s easy to get overwhelmed.” 

His pause caused her to look over at him, meeting his gaze. His words surprised her more than anything had so far. “Oh! Um,” She paused as she looked back. David and Beth were in there somewhere and most people had come for them, but she really needed some time to breathe. “Okay, sure. I can’t go too far away, so a small walk?” Linda offered with a soft smile.

She had a nice laugh, and there was something about it, a sort of fragility, as if she hadn’t made such a sound for a long time that made the sound almost crack at the end of her voice. The teacher’s eyes roamed her for a moment, observing this puzzle. It hadn’t escaped him that she didn’t offer his name, and most people would have pushed by now, but in all honesty Stan was happy to not know. There were times were the mystery was part of the fun, and there was no harm in allowing her some privacy anyway. He was after all, just a strange man who had offered her a cigarette and a walk. 

At her acceptance, his smile grew broader, and his face lit up. With goofy enthauiasm, he drew his boots together in a sharp click, as he gave her a joking salute. In moments like this, brevity never hurt and she looked like she could do with a bit more light hearted talks. Call it Stan’s instinct. “Just a small walk, aye, aye, Ma’am!” 

“Just this way...” He gestured towards the sidewalk that extended out of the community centre car park, waiting for Linda to go first before stepping in line with her.

As they started off, Stan glanced back at the centre before turning his attention to his guest. Somehow, this whole thing had made him a little bit more springy in his step. Just like she was hiding herself, this gave him an opportunity to not have to worry about his own identity and past. “Have you got people waiting for you in there...since you can’t go too far and all that.”

[stan-meyer-blog]

principal-hawker‌:

“I bet it is,” Ken laughed, taking another sip of his own drink. He was lucky, all things considered, that when things got tough either with the town, with Aisha, or with his career, that his vice wasn’t whiskey. He’d seen liquor take a dark hold on many of his old classmates, many of their parents. Many of his own friends, too. But it had never been his go to to numb the pain. Of course, he found other vices, but he kept them far away from here. Only Aisha ever really knew about his gambling, and he swore he’d never go down that path again but now as he sat here in the nearly vacant bar which chaos swirling outside, he wondered what it might hurt to play one or two hands. 

No- he stopped the thoughts dead in their tracks. He’d have to have a hell of a lot more to drink to suggest moving this party elsewhere and for the time being, he was having a good time with his new hire. Stan wasn’t the kind of guy Ken would ordinarily pick to go on a fishing trip or a guy’s night out, but then again, most of Devil’s Knot’s residents weren’t so…hip. He smiled in spit of himself. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from the big city fellow. 

“Yeah, we’re not so uptight around here. Unless you ask some of my students, then they’ll tell you I’m the uptight one but really, I just don’t see it.” He chuckled, leaning an elbow on the wooden bar, knowing full well his sleeve would get stuck to the years’ worth of spilt alcohol. It was extraordinarily true that he was the stickler around these parts, but at least they never really worried about the politics of schooling. At Devil’s Knot High, they did their best to prepare the kids for whatever life they could give them and that was that.

“Yeah, I did get out for a bit actually. Went to college in Lansing.” He nodded proudly, as if venturing to the neighboring town was a big adventure. “Just couldn’t stay away, i guess.” Ken shrugged and ordered another round. “Plus with my Pops bein’ who he is, someone had to stick around and keep up the ‘Hawker Legacy’.” A twinge of bitterness worked its way into his words but he shrugged it off. 

“I don’t mind though. I love this town. And what’s happening…god it’s just a fucking tragedy.”

“Uptight is once you have prefects around and the student’s wear more expensive suits than the teachers themselves.” Stan added with a chuckle, shaking his head. There was a slight admiration in his voice to it. The truth was, he’d return in a heartbeat. Maybe he had been out of place, reaching to fit into stars when he was more of a dead asteroid, but it was better to have been close to such things and pretend than to live in their shadow. That’s how it had felt anyhow. But like Icarus, he’d simply drifted too close, he was just lucky to have landed to his feet when he’d come tumbling back to earth.

The thought had him lost a bit, draining his drink just as another landed in front of him and he flashed the principal a smile. He wasn’t much of a drinker and certainly no alcoholic but there was something just so thespian about being a writer with a glass of whiskey and he was all about fantasy. At the mention of the mayor, Stan raised his eyebrow just a faction into his shaggy hairline. “Must be quite the thing, having so much history on your back. I’m surprised you even became the principal, I’m sure most expected the council for you.”

“To the Goode’s, may this shit be over soon.” The teacher grumbled, lifting his glass before bringing it back to his lips for another chug. 

[stan-meyer-blog]

What were you doing last Saturday afternoon?

[Warning: Implied Underage Relations & Sexual Content (18+)]

The school creaked like a twisted tree in the wind at night. As micro breezes escaped between doors and windows, the school shuddered in response, the groan of lockers, lights and rubbish forming an orchestra of ambience. Part of Stan liked the noise. It made him feel like he was trapped within the pages of a horror novel, each vibration and croak hinting that perhaps there was something lurking around the corner. That and the silence that settled in between the noises bestowed a sense of true freedom and solitude.

Memories too. This wasn’t the first time after all he had been lurking on school premises after hours. Sitting behind his desk, the English teacher closed his eyes, head laying on the back of his chair akin to getting ready for a saloon wash. It came back in trickles, broken fragments of moments, each as tantalising as the last.

The way her lips had parted as if slicked with butter before she would quote from a book. The scratch of her nail when it was caught against his skin. A flash of a school skirt hiked up just far enough to border on scandalous. Oh and those doe eyes, always staring so intently towards him, beckoning him closer, asking him to explore, to prod, to pleasure.

She had been Stan’s toxic muse, a potion from which he was gladly bewitched. He stumbled through the past, traipsing through the physical delights in his mind, groaning thickly as his chair scrapped beneath him.

The noises built up, layering on top of the tenor of the empty school, his soft grasps, the echo of her whispers in his mind, the clatter of furniture at his enjoyment. It grew, like a fire within his belly, until his found himself clutching the desk edge, one hand wet while the other dug into the wood.

“Fuck.” He groaned, each letting bouncing against the walls in the high school, the only sign of life. Reaching for a tissue, he wiped himself off, glancing at the clock in the badly lit room. It ticked away, each click of the second hand like a stroke to destiny, not that Stan had any clue he was witnessing the count down the biggest event in Devil’s knot since the Silverman saga.

With the all the awareness of a blind man and the swagger of a man with far too much confidence in the idea his pleasures would be kept private, he donned his coat and moved to head back home. As he pushed open the doors of Devil’s knot Highschool, a CCTV would catch his shadowy figure entering the October gloom outside.

[stan-meyer-blog]

linda-goode‌:

Linda’s eyes went as big as saucers, something she was well aware of about her appearance. Her mother always used to tell her that when she was born, she would receive floods of compliments about her baby’s big eyes. She’d never really grown into them. They were by far her most outstanding feature, which wasn’t saying much because Linda always thought she looked rather plain. Despite that, she smiled back at the guy who just caused her almost to have a heart attack. He carried something very handsome in his face but also something distant. “That’s alright.” Linda replied with a smile.

As he offered her the packet, the cigaret sticking out, Linda reconsidered her choice but figured she was allowed to destress just a little. The last time she smoked was probably when she had been at uni. It was the way to network with people and a lot of people did it to destress as well. Well, after that Linda had become pregnant and Paul didn’t want that around the children so she quit for good. His words felt odd, Linda couldn’t remember the last time a man said something like that to her. She focused on the cigaret as she inhaled deeply, her eyes falling to a close for a second as she felt the familiar burn and exhaled. “Thanks, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had one of these.”

Linda paused for a second, wondering if she should already tell him her name. She decided to just let the moment pass for now, she was sure it would come up soon one way or another. “Come to help out mostly. You know, supporting and keeping up to date with what’s going on in this town.”

“Go figure, me too, but I dunno, around here I think I might end up picking it up again at this rate.” Stan’s accent was quite something, it certainly wasn’t from around these parts, but there was a sense of old-style politeness to it, even though he enunciated far too well to be country. It was the exact type of voice you’d want to spend your time listening to read out a book.

He glanced away as she took her time with the cigarette, flicking his own one into the bush beside his car, done with his little treat. There was a niggling part of his brain that felt like there was something about her that he recognised, but he chalked it up to blondes being quite a thing in his life at the moment due to a certain someone. But it was rude to stare, even at pretty girls and he was, if nothing, a gentleman when possible.

Stan took in the silence, just taking a deep breath in, letting the fresh air fill him and clear his mind. Sometimes he just had too many thoughts going at once. The school paper, keeping his past under wraps, her, trying to learn more about the Brian situation, money. It all built like a poorly stacked deck of cards and sometimes a reshuffle was due just in moments like this.

At the stranger’s comments, he gave her a faint smile, which curled to the corner of his eyes. “Ah, same here. It’s quite...well, people have spoken about it enough as it is, I won’t add to it. End of the day, chatting and gossiping away about it won’t help.”

He slipped off his hood, tucking his hands into his coat. For a moment he was tempted to just leave, but something about her seemed fragile and it felt a little wrong to have eyed her up for a while and then just leave. “I urm...”

“I was gonna go for a walk, if you want to join me. I know, a bit forward but...well, it’s up to you.”

[stan-meyer-blog]

linda-goode‌:

Cakes, church and charm | Stan & Linda

Linda had been at the Community centre for hours now. She had helped with the preparations and had been there for the whole duration of it. In the morning, she had spent the whole time making breakfast for Beth and David before getting ready. Once she was dressed, Linda paused at as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. The dark marks under her eyes were only growing darker as the days passed her by. She couldn’t remember the last time she put effort into her appearance. Actually, she did. Her birthday, a week before Brian went missing. Her hair fell in soft waves and the eyeshadow she wore shimmered in the light, making her eyes look vividly green. That felt a lifetime ago. 

Perching down by her mirror, Linda ran her fingers through her hair as she thought back to those memories. Clicking her hair curler on, she got to work. After about an hour the vision in her mind stood before her. Her blonde hair fell down in soft waves, her long lashes coated with mascara and her dark circles were gone. She also opted for a smarter looking blouse that was a little more flattering than the simple t-shirt she wore before. In a way, she felt very odd but at the same time, it felt very good. For the first time in a long time, she felt like herself again.

So, this is how she looked while thanking everyone for their donations, gifts and presence. Linda was determined to show a strong front to those around her. She knew her son was out there and they were going to find him. She just knew it. Not a lot of other people seemed to share her opinion. All the pitying and sad glances she drew her way were starting to become a little much. After everyone was eating and chatting together, Linda slipped away from the crowd and left the building. She wasn’t leaving but she just needed some space of her own.

In the gloomy October weather, the moonlight was shining down on her as night time was early upon all of them. She looked up at the moon as she stepped closer and closer. Praying was not a concept she had been very familiar with but there she found herself, hoping and almost praying for a sign from her son. The moment passed and nothing happened. Woefullness settled in her heart as she wrapped her arms around herself. The feeling overwhelmed her so until she heard a voice, out of nowhere. 

A gasp escaped her lips as she lifted her hand over her heart to calm its erratic beating. “Gosh!” Was her first word. “You gave me a real fright there.” She replied as she turned around to face whoever it was. That’s when she recalled his words and responded, “Yes, yes definitely.” 

At his offer of a cigarette, Linda glanced down at the packet and then back up again. Her forehead creased in thought as she was deliberating the pros and the cons. “Um… sure.” She ended up settling for. 

Stan couldn’t help letting out a small laugh at her reaction, he offers an apologetic smile, the glint of his teeth in the moonlight. He tips his head towards her, like an old gentleman proffering his hat, though his eyes never leave her, whirling dark blues looking darker in the night. “Sorry about that ma’am, didn’t mean to cause you a fright.” 

He knocked the packet against his knee, still sat ontop his car like some teenage back in the 50s, his padded jacket swirling in the October chill. If she looked close enough, there were a few holes in some parts of it, it was an old beat-up thing that he only tended to wear when he was sure someone wouldn't’ see him. Part of the territory when it came to this rather humble life, he spent most of his money on workwear, making sure to seem the polished, handsome English lover he wished he was. A single cigarette poked out at Stan’s knock, and he pointed it towards her, letting her take it before reaching into his coat to take up a lighter. 

“Here, I’ve got you.” He murmured, the ash off the tip of his own smoke crumbling off as he leaned forward to light her end. Beneath the thick scent of smoke, there’s also a swirl of cologne, it had surprisingly floral undertones, a little more depth than usual in men’s perfume. 

“Name’s Stan, by the way. What brings you around these parts, Ma’am?” 

[stan-meyer-blog]

Cakes, church and charm | Stan & Linda

8pm, Monday 14th October, 1998 @linda-goode

Stan stared at the end of his cigarette as it burned slowly in the dark fall air. It was like the flash of a lighthouse in the blackened sky, the only sign of life outdoors at the moment as the lights of the community centre behind him spilled out into the concrete car park. He sat on the hood of his beat up car, the rusted blue surface chipping a little further from the press of his jeans, not that it really mattered. 

He took another deep inhale of the tobacco, letting the smoke burn at the back of his throat, keeping him awake. In truth he’d found the whole thing both overwhelming and boring in equal measure. The press of plastic smiles and voices raised one too many octaves high, the sweet, sickly smell of baked goods, the slip of sweaty palms together in greeting. It was all very spiriting but also faker than the rims of his car.

While the teacher could play the game as well as anyone, there were times where one just needed to escape it all. Which is what left him lingering alone with just a smoke for company. He wasn’t even a regular, but always carried a crumpled pack for moments like this. The acrid smell reminded him of college, a time where his optimistic limits hadn’t yet come crashing down and it felt good to lose himself in the memories again rather than linger on the ills of Devil’s Knot. 

As he sat puffing away, more focused on the night’s sky than anything, he caught her out of the corner of his eyes. She floated out into the dark like a starlit saint, her steps light and head tilted up, as if beseeching the heavens for some answers. 

At first, Stan didn’t approach, he didn’t even make a sound as she walked past him, only the crackling of crisp filter paper to be heard. Instead he just stared at her, the cogs of his mind processing her, her beauty and more than that, her sadness. Perhaps that’s what caught his interest most, she looked like the old romantic portraits of women who had lost their lovers, that eerily drawn tragedy written into the lines of their face. He didn’t recognise her, which after he came to learn who she was later, was a fact that he would chastised himself for. 

Finally, he managed to draw it within him to stop staring and speak, his voice crumpled around the edges, catching the vowels with a harsh cut from the cigarette. “It can get be a bit much, right? All the chatter, all the faces.”

“Want one?” He offered out his pack simply, a small smile on his lips.

[stan-meyer-blog]

principal-hawker‌:

Ken couldn’t help the bellowing laugh that erupted at Stan’s reaction to the firey liquid he’d ingested. “Sorry, I shoulda warned you. That bottom shelf stuff, it could melt iron.” The principal took another swig of his drink and motioned for the bartender to relieve Stan’s drink and replace it with something off a higher shelf. Ken knew none of them made much money, especially not enough to waste on top shelf liquor, but he’d been coming to this place for so long they ended up covering most of Ken’s tabs. Of course, he helped them out on more than one occasion when they needed a bit of an inside man when it came to city ordinances over the years. 

“Ain’t that the truth.” He held out his drink, aiming to clink it against his colleague’s. “In all honesty, we’re glad to have ya.” Ken settled back into his seat, letting the jokes subside for the moment. Sure, they were there to blow off some steam, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to get some intel out of the mysterious, young, new teacher. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure the kids will still hate reading.” Ken smiled lightly, wishing that was the most of their problems at the school. Kids not wanting to do homework. Teenage drama in the hallways. The usual. Not the solemn glances at the Goode kids, the constant questions, the “do we reeeeallly have to take exams when there’s a kid missing?”

“I’m sure your last school was much less ‘exciting’ than here. Without this…hullabaloo, Devil’s Knot is usually so bland you could forget you’d fallen asleep.”

Stan began to mime a protest but couldn’t get it very far off the mark before the high end booze was set in front of him, flashing an apologetic smile to the principal and nodding in vague thanks. It wasn’t anything new to smooch off the good nature of others, and he often used the doth protest too much tactic to help it along, though Ken didn’t need the routine. Instead the teacher duly clinked his glass against his bosses, the rim of the glass sitting just under his intense dark gaze as he took a sip and let out a breath. “Oh thank goodness for the switch, that’s much better.”

At the mention of the last school, Stan’s smile strained a little and he set his glass on the somewhat sticky surface. His finger traced the rim of his glass and he stared at its murky depths as if he could witness the future within. “It just wasn’t the right fit. Uptight place, lots of money and names thrown around. Makes you forget about why you starting teaching in the first place.”

It was a lie, but a good one, crafted with enough of a gentle, demure tone to be mistaken for earnest honestly. He pulled his gaze back up to look at his boss. “It must be quite important to you though, Principal. I could imagine being raised somewhere like this, you must have been tempted to leave it when you were young.”

[stan-meyer-blog]

juliiewest‌:

“I shouldn’t be surprised that an English teacher knows so much about the classics…” she trails off, gesturing with her hands in the direction of the shelves and Stan, how something so small can contain so much. Like books.

There is nothing small about power, however. It is a dangerous thing, like a beast: if you’re holding the leash, commanding it with your wrist, it’s thrilling, sends flashes of electricity through a body, an all-knowing, all-seeing clarity, like standing from the heavens, looking down on the ants. It’s how God must feel, Julie thinks, all the time. She likes the sensation of it, perhaps a bit too much – the God she’s supposed to revere isn’t unkind, it is loving and merciful. But oh, is that really the truth? She can’t help but question, wonder if this dark and twisted feeling isn’t God-made as well.

Seeing the effect of her words on Stan is powerful, indeed like an ant who has lost its path and doesn’t know what else to do but quit. Break down, stand on your knees, worship me. However, it is also this breaking point that takes the power away and the beast rears its ugly head and bears its teeth, unsure of who it’s master is anymore.

Is this some sort of game to you? She let the facade drop a bit, her previously wide eyes and innocent smile twisted into a flash of something else, a devilish amusement. Yes, she would like to play a little longer. “Do I remember?” She placed a finger to her cheek, an exaggerated theatrical, as if her fingernail could pull a memory out of her, like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a top hat. “You may have to be a bit more specific, Mr. Meyer. I do have a really good memory.”

She sighed, her previous interest starting to fade. While it was obvious that their little rendez-vous would be a lot more damaging to his reputation, she wasn’t innocent either. They each held a scale, each other’s secrets tipping the balance in one way and the other. “I remember a man that looked remarkably like you, and his interest in Bronte. Fascinating. Men usually find that sort of thing…” she waited a second, trying to find the best word “… melodramatic.” She smiled. “But of course, that couldn’t be you, could it? I don’t remember his name being Stan Meyer.”

Part of him loved it. A sick, twisted part of his soul drew strength from seeing that flash of malice in her eyes, seeing that she knew the seedy truth and revelled in it. The same intoxicating foolishness that leads him into these situations, the love of doing something wrong. It was in the dark conspiracies that he found himself feeling alive, important. Like the protagonist in a novel reaching the twisting exhilarating story beats. 

He kept all that beneath, however, letting the half of himself that held onto self-preservation take the wheel. His dark eyes were still wide a little with adrenaline and bemusement as he watched Julie play her little show, that sweetened tone made from the foulest of honey. 

He stepped up to her, as she smiled, his hand leaning on the desk partly as he looked down on her. He had that at least, his height, his position as a teacher giving him some leverage in this fight. After all, she had no proof and even if she did, it was before his term had begun properly...a fake name, he couldn’t have known. She, on the other hand, had been drinking underage. Stan used that logic to keep himself tough in her verbal games.

Yet as he came closer, it became worse. The faint smell of baking wafted from her, and his eyes found themselves flickering to her lips for just a moment, listening to them purr out his real name. His breath was heavy as he forced his eyes back to her wide doe eyes. Oh, what a cruel mistress she is.

“Good literature is good literature. It couldn’t have been you either, I don’t remember the name being Julie West, or her age being...eighteen.” 

He should have taken a step back, but didn’t, hovering and unable to pull his eyes away. His tone, despite his words, wasn’t harsh or even threatening. If anything, they seemed wistful. “You wouldn’t want that sort of thing getting out, I assure you. Imagine what the pastor would think. Best we just...forget it.”