I’ve changed so much in the past few months that I don’t know where to begin, but I’ll try.
I have a wonderful psychologist, Rhiannon, who is very encouraging and accepting of my chronic illnesses. I broke off my several year relationship with my toxic psychiatrist and no longer feel the need to have one in my life.
I’ve had a well needed health overhaul. I now exercise everyday from Monday to Friday. I portion control, I drink herbal teas to keep my cravings at bay. I weigh myself only once a month, the week after my period, and reward myself with a cooked breakfast.
I’ve gone from debilitating agoraphobia to learning to run small errands and considering returning to finish my degree at university. I would say that my anxiety is mild now, I’ve learnt from daily meditation and through living by the ACT principle to put my worries in order.
I was in a position where I hadn’t been outside with my husband for several years, but now I go everywhere with him. He accompanies me on my swims and walks, and we have recently started going to the shops together and plan to expand. I have the idea of sharing a coffee with him while out and going on a small bus ride together in the not too distant future. I rely on him more while also feeling more independent and I trust him more than I thought I could.
I’ve lost 2-3 dress sizes and at least 25kgs in the past year. My health is much better as is my sleeping. Despite my arthritis, I am on less medication and am feeling less pain and stiffness.
I have a stronger relationship with my sister and am appreciating my relationships more. I’m a more reasonable, calm person. I am stronger than I ever have been. I am content with my life, I cherish it, and I look forward to the future.
Summary:Bucky doesn’t like talking about her, but Dr. Raynor isn’t an easy person to argue with. And now that it’s summer –– now that he’s living through the months they’d shared together all over again, only without her by his side –– fighting the memories becomes all the more difficult.
Warnings:Slight language, moderate angst, vague descriptions of torture, etc.
Summary:He doesn’t know what it says about him, that one of his most cherished memories of her also happens to be one of his saddest. What he does know is that it doesn’t change a goddamn thing.
A/N:Are we on a roll or what?? Sorry this one tool a few days, I was wrestling with a few different styles of executions on the time jumps and things, but I think I finally figured it out! Also, can you spot our mystery guest character? As always, I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Feel free to shout me out if you have any questions, comments, or just sweet words you wanna share :)
“Let me ask you this,” Raynor prefaces, folding her hands in her lap.
Bucky doesn’t even try not to roll his eyes, sinking further down into the green velvet armchair. He hates when Raynor starts out with that phrase, acts like she’s giving him the option to decline to answer when he knows that, really, if he doesn’t say anything she’ll start up with that notebook bullshit again. There’s nowhere he can go, nothing he can do to sidestep, avoid it. Even if he manages to change the subject, they’ll come right back to this one in the next thirty or so seconds.
He’s stuck, and Raynor knows it.
“Come on, Doc,” Bucky sighs, doing his best not to look cagey. “You’ve got me waiting with baited breath here.”
He doesn’t know what she’s about to ask, but he’s got a feeling he’s familiar with the subject matter. Bucky kind of hates it, but he knows he’s got no one to blame aside from himself. His karma, he guesses, for caving in so easily two days before during their Monday session. There’d been a reason he always held back from talking about the summer, talking about her. Stewing in misery in the privacy of his mind is easy, manageable. Something he knows like the back of his hand. But now that Raynor’s started him talking, he’s in murky, undefined, uncharted territory.
And if there’s one thing he really, truly hates, it’s going places he’s not at all familiar with.
Raynor clears her throat, breaking Bucky out of his reverie. When he looks to her face, he finds her staring back at him. “Where did you go just now?”
“Nowhere,” Bucky responds smoothly, giving a single shake of his head. He’s not sure why he even bothers trying; knowing Raynor, he could spend time reassuring her until he was blue in the face, and she’d still only continue her expectant staring. So, he gives up before she has the chance to chastise him. “My head. I was thinking.”
“About…?” Raynor prompts, tone cool and casual. It’s nearly enough to make him jump to his feet and shake his fists angrily in the air.
“How I’d rather not answer the question you’re about to ask,” he answers truthfully.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“And I don’t need to,” Bucky goes on, shaking his head and glancing up to the bright lights of the ceiling. He stares long and hard at them, until violent spots of color begin dancing in his vision. He wonders if he’ll go blind, if he stares long enough, or if the super soldier serum would rob him of that kindness the same way it denies him the mercy of getting drunk. So eventually he gives up, and lets his eyes fall back down to Raynor’s face. “It’s about her, isn’t it? This is why I didn’t want to talk about her. Because I knew as soon as I brought her up, this would happen.”
Raynor arches a brow, eyes squinting in confusion. It looks sincere enough, Bucky guesses, but that does nothing to dispel the defensiveness steadily mounting in his chest. “What would happen, James?”
“This,” Bucky snaps, left hand tightening so hard on the velvet chair’s arm that he feels wood crunch in his grip. Shit. He’s going to have to pay for that. “This walk down memory lane that you’ve been concocting since you found out about her! You made me start talking about her, and all of a sudden she’s the only thing I can think about! Do you know what that feels like? To have all of these memories of someone you used to love just flooding your mind and having to know that you can never hold that person again? And not because they’ve died in some terrible accident, or because they kicked you to the curb and didn’t want you anymore, but because you were literally plucked out of your life and redesigned into a killing machine?”
He’s yelling, by the time he finishes that last sentence. He doesn’t even realize it until he hears his own voice ringing in his ears, feels the strain of the volume scratching at his vocal cords.
Oh, damn it.
Raynor hardly even blinks, not that Bucky finds this at all surprising. In her line of work, both during and after her military service, she’ll have had to build up a tolerance to soldiers hanging on by their last thread yelling at her for no especially good reason. Not that the thought does anything to make Bucky feel like less of an ass.
“No, James,” she murmurs softly, offering the slightest shake of her head. “I’m not sure anyone but you would know exactly what that feels like.”
And he doesn’t need her to tell him that, not really. It’s only the same thought he has each and every night when he lays down to try and fall asleep, though he usually doesn’t find much success. It’s the same thing that echoes in his mind when he sees happy couples walking along the streets, hand in hand and over the moon in love with one another. The same thing he knows when he goes out of his way to avoid children when he passes them in the street, despite the fact that he’d once been very fond of the idea of having a gaggle of his own.
He might have Sam now –– the one friend the world’s left to him, though he continues keeping him at arms length. He’d had Steve, up until recently.
But he lives here, in the city, alone. He wakes in the morning alone. He falls asleep alone. He goes about his life alone.
Bucky doesn’t need to hear Raynor say it, because he already knows.
“James, I can tell this is a sensitive subject for you, and I don’t want to push you,” Raynor sighs gently. Letting him know, in her own silent way, that she won’t be holding the outburst against him. He wants to thank her, but she goes on speaking before he can open his mouth. “Not past a certain point. But you know as well as I do that when you’re in mourning, it can be helpful to talk about the happy memories you shared with the person you lost. Cathartic, even.”
Bucky might have agreed, if he’d actually lost anyone. That was the irony of this whole situation, wasn’t it? The great, big joke the universe set in motion the day he shipped out on the draft? He’d never lost anyone. Not his mother, not any one of his three sisters, not… not her. No, they’d all lost him, yet somehow he’s the only one left still standing. None of them knew that he was still here, still breathing, still around to miss them, feel the pain of their absence. That he had been feeling the pain of their absence while locked in a prison made from his own mind for the last seven decades.
Not that knowing could have brought them any comfort.
Raynor allows him to sit in silence for a few moments, affording him the chance to collect his thoughts and find his composure again. He’s thankful for that, too. It isn’t often that he breaks, which she knows on account of the mandated three days a week she spends counselling him. Offering him the opportunity to collect himself is a special kindness all its own.
She taps her thumb against her wrist ten times before opening her mouth and trying again.
“You said something just now that caught my attention,” Raynor states, leveling him with a patiently cautious look. “And I’ve got a question, James, but you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to. I understand if speaking about her is too hard for you right now. We can always come back to it.”
Bucky sighs, resignation digging its hooks deep into his skin. “I’m getting the sense that there’s a ‘but’ coming up.”
“But,” Raynor goes on, not even blinking at the snark which, ordinarily, would have earned Bucky a silent warning. “Like I said before, talking about her might help you to better process the loss you’re feeling. You said you loved her, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Bucky answers honestly. Despite how he’s been walking on eggshells the past couple of days, dancing around the memories of her which swirl on a constant loop through his mind now that it’s once again summer, he knows he’s telling the truth. “Yes, I did. Would’ve been awful hard not to. If you’d… if you’d known her, you’d understand what I mean.”
Raynor’s eyes soften at the fondness in his tone, lips lifting at the corners in an encouraging smile. “It isn’t all that hard to imagine, based on what you’ve told me about her so far. But what I want to ask you now, James, is this: when did you first realize you were in love with her?”
––
??? –– 1944
His name is James Buchanan Barnes.
He is twenty seven years old.
He’s beginning to forget how he came to be here.
He’s… a soldier. That’s why he’s here, kept against his will, denied any ample amount of food and water. There’s an IV inserted into a vein in his left arm, offering just enough fluid to keep him hydrated. But he can’t remember the last time he’d actually eaten anything, and he worries that if he doesn’t soon, he’ll forget how to. That seems to be their goal, the people keeping him here. They want him to forget, to fall dependent. He doesn’t know why, but they do.
And he also knows that giving them what they want spells catastrophe.
They don’t like it when he speaks –– this, he learns early on. When he asks who they are, what they want, when he demands answers with shouts and writhes hard against the restraints shackling his wrists and ankles to the cold, metal observation table, they speak harshly, angrily. Some of them snap at him to shut up, be quiet. Others backhand him across the face, so hard that the iron taste of blood pools in his mouth.
None of them gives him the answers he seeks. They only go on about their business, hovering over him, writing notes down on clipboards and muttering to themselves in a language he doesn’t think he speaks.
His name is James Buchanan Barnes.
He is twenty seven years old.
And when they come to poke and prod him with needles, his mind draws forward visions of you.
Your smile, so bright and vibrant that for a while he thinks he’s got it confused with his memories of the sun –– something else he hasn’t seen in days, or weeks, or however long it is that he’s been trapped in this cold, dark room. Your eyes, inquisitive and mirthful, hungry for knowledge and answers to questions you don’t yet possess. The soft feel of your palm in his own, smooth and supple, inspiring of comfort he has yet to figure out if he’ll ever know again. The sound of his name wrapped in your voice, falling from your lips as gently as snowflakes from clouds in the sky. That’s the one he holds onto most, the one that helps him remember he wasn’t always in this place. That somewhere out there, someone is waiting for him to get up, break free.
Even if he can no longer properly remember your name, he knows he’s meant to be coming back to you.
He’s almost positive that he promised he would.
His name is James Buchanan Barnes.
He is twenty seven years old.
And even though the last memory he has of you isn’t exactly one of his happiest moments, he clings to it as tightly as he can and plays it over and over again in his mind.
You’d been angry with him. He remembers this perfectly, can easily recall the exact shape of the frown bending your mouth, the fear in your eyes as you’d shouted angrily, begged him not to go. He’d desperately wished he could heed your words –– and he would have, had it been within his power.
But the sad, miserable truth of his life is that his will and wishes are not his own. He bends to the motives of the United States Army, exists as nothing more than a tool for them to use in their pursuits of the ongoing war. When they call, he comes running. When they say jump, he asks how high.
And when they placed him in charge of marching the 107th unit behind enemy lines in Azzano, in hopes of infiltrating a foreign weapons base that seemed on the verge of becoming a particular problem, he’d had no choice but to accept his orders and break the news as gently as he could.
Not that you’d taken it very well, in spite of his efforts.
“Go to hell,” you’d spit over your shoulder at him, turning your back and stomping off in a seemingly random direction. Not that this was very effective in stopping him from following in your tracks, especially given that one of his strides easily matched three of yours.
“Darlin’, come on,” he’d tried, only to have you furiously whirl around and jab a finger at his chest.
“Donot darlin’ me right now,” you’d hissed. The fiery anger in your eyes burned through him, right down to his soul. He’d wanted so badly to reach out and take you in his arms, wrap you up and reassure you that it would all be okay, that it wouldn’t be more than a couple of days, two weeks max, that he’d be gone. But he’d never been the best at lying, as often as he always tried. Something always gave him away. “Look, just–– just leave me alone, alright? Go away, and leave me alone. This isn’t… I can’t deal with this.”
And he would have done what you’d asked of him in that moment, had it been within his power. But he’d be leaving the camp bright and early the next morning, running headfirst into danger with no concrete guarantee that he’d come back out of it alive. As hopeful as he was that the outcome would work in his favor, that didn’t mean he was at all willing to pass up on the chance to say goodbye to you. He respected your anger –– some of it, he even felt for himself. But he couldn’t leave you alone. Not yet, not like this. Not without the chance to assure you that everything would be just fine, even if he didn’t one hundred percent believe it.
So he waited another few moments, letting your anger run its course, work its way through you, before reaching down to pluck your hand up from your side, cradling it with both his own.
“Listen,” he’d murmured softly, scanning each and every inch of your face and quietly committing it to memory. Just in case, he’d told himself. Just in case. “You know I don’t actually want to go, right? That I don’t want to do this?”
“Sodon’t,” you’d pleaded, glittering tears of frustration welling like raindrops in your eyes. “Don’t go. Tell them no. Say you won’t.”
“I would if it were up to me,” he’d sighed, running the pads of his thumbs across the soft back of your hand, the delicate lacework of veins patterning the inside of your wrist. “But once the orders come down, that’s it. I’m… I’m sorry, but I’m stuck. There’s nothing I can do.”
“You haven’t even tried,” came your accusatory sob, words cutting into his ribs like daggers with especially dull blades. They twisted in his chest something vicious, deep and straight to the bone. “And you have–– you have the nerve to ask me––?”
He’d used the leverage of his grip on your wrist to pull you into his chest, holding you close and letting you sob into his shoulder, smoothing your hair as you’d cried and cried. It haunted him, that sound. Made him feel dark and awful on the inside, reminded him that in the grand scheme of things, there was actually very little he could do to protect you from all the wickedness in the world. Funny, how all the pain he’d ever felt in his life didn’t hold a candle to that particular agony.
“It’s going to be okay,” he’d murmured into your hair, sighing deep so as to instill your scent into his concrete, long term memory. “You hear me? You’ve gotta know that it’s going to take a lot more than some stupid war to keep me from coming back to you. Tell me you at least know that.”
His name is James Buchanan Barnes.
He is twenty seven years old.
And he’s pretty sure that no matter what these scientists do to him as they conduct their experiments, he will always perfectly remember the way his heart fractured into two when you’d told him you couldn’t be certain.
––
July 13th, 1944
Two weeks, three days, six hours, and counting.
The time passed since the universe last saw Bucky Barnes affixed to your side.
Part of you wishes you could go back to that moment. Rewrite it. Change it. Tell him the truth, or a lie, or anything other than what you’d said to him that night, the last words he’d ever heard fall from your lips thus far. All that fear churning through your veins at the prospect of losing him had turned your blood to ice, and in response to the sensation of that you’d taken it out on him. He hadn’t deserved it, but you’d done it anyway.
Now, all you want is to be able to take it back.
“Oh, honey, he knows you didn’t mean it,” Sally crows in your ear one night, squeezing the arm she’s got slung around your waist in reassurance as you quietly cry into her shoulder. “This is war, y’know? Only makes sense that the thought of him going off to battle would scare the daylights out of you. Just you wait, you hear me? He’s gonna come back and you’re gonna realize it’s already been forgiven.”
Kinder words than you deserve, considering the nature of the ones you’d launched at Bucky during your sorry excuse for a goodbye. Even so, you let them wash over you like drops of rain, breathing deep and pouring what little energy you have left into hoping that Sally’s intuition is right.
One week, one day, two hours, and counting.
The time passed since forty six of the two hundred men of the 107th unit sent off to disband the foreign weapons plant in Azzano come shambling back to camp, worse for wear and wounded in ways you’ve never seen.
Your training kicks in as you set to work, the needs of all the injured men taking precedence in your mind over your own selfish hopes. Not that this does much to deter you searching, scanning, picking through the men and their faces even as you work stitches into one’s arm, hoping and praying that you’ll catch even a moment’s glimpse of the blue eyes you’re desperately looking for.
You never do find them, hard as you try. But you never stop searching, either.
Four days, one hour, thirteen minutes, and counting.
The time passed since the superior officers of the military camp declare the lost one hundred and forty four men of the 107th unit Killed In Action.
There’s a solemn mood which falls across the remaining members of the camp in response to the announcement. Somewhere off in the distance, you hear some poor girl let out an ugly sob of bereavement. It takes a moment to realize that the sound actually comes from your own lungs, and even then, you don’t fully understand what’s happened until Sally and Nora are bearing your weight between the two of them as they slowly but surely muscle you back to your tent.
Sleep evades in the coming night, and as you toss and turn and wrestle with the memories of that sweet, sweet man in your mind’s eye, the images of his face scrunched up in amused delight and the toothy smile you’d come to adore flashing like dying stars against the backs of your eyelids, you wonder if that isn’t more a blessing than it is a curse.
One day, two hours, six minutes, and counting.
Twelve hours, forty seven minutes, and—
Four hours, twenty two—
Five minutes and counting.
The time passed since you’ve shed tears for a man you shouldn’t already be so hopelessly smitten with.
It’s the littlest things that set them flowing. The blue of the sky, on account of how its clarity reminds you of the color of his eyes. The sight of the cot furthest from the entrance to the med tent –– the one he’d been stuck in for weeks as you nursed him back to health, so utterly insistent that you be the only one to tend to his wounds. The feeling of the sun warming your skin, reminiscent of the day you’d shared a lunch together beneath shady trees and traded stories of your home lives.
“Got three baby sisters who chatter like birds,” he’d chuckled, fingers walking freely across your open palm. “But I swear, I love them all more than I’ve ever loved anything.”
And, most recently, the sight of the warped hunk of metal that was the bullet you’d dug out of his abdomen upon your first meeting –– the entire cause of that incendiary argument you’d had with Bucky the very night before his departure. It takes the place of his hand in yours, winks rudely up at you in the low light of the single lantern you’ve got lit in your tent. Taunting, teasing, daring you to take your eyes away from it for even a second, if you can manage.
You never can, despite your efforts, and each time the bullet wins the battles of wills, it forces you to recall the night Bucky left it with you.
He walks you to the edge of the base that evening, a nice, cool spot beneath the sycamores he’d introduced you to a few days prior offering the two of you a false sense of privacy. Here, it’s easy to play pretend, to forget that you’re a nurse and Bucky a soldier, to ignore that something as pure as what you’ve kindled between the two of you was initially ignited and spurred on by war. Here, there are no expectations. Here, you’re nothing more than a girl and a boy, meant to eventually, someday, go dancing.
Here, he takes hold of your hand and smiles.
“I don’t like that look you’ve got on your face,” Bucky murmurs, smoothing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Come on, you. This isn’t any time for frowns.”
“Well, it’s certainly no time for smiles, either,” you shoot back, biting your lip as you cast your gaze to the ground. Beside the tree you stand beneath, the grass is green and lush. A pretty enough sight, but not one that has any hope in curing your melancholy. Not after the news of the orders the soldiers received just that afternoon. “They can’t make you go.”
Bucky sighs, a sadder sound than you’d realized him capable of making. “I wish that were true, but you know they can. Physically, I’m fit to serve, so they can send me out on any orders they want.”
“Then I’ll declare you unfit!” you insist, snapping your eyes back up to his face. It hurts your heart to see the remorse present in Bucky’s features. Almost as much as does the thought of him marching off and away, leaving you in this military camp, never to return again. “You just recovered from a gunshot, for Christ’s sake!”
“‘Recovered’ being the key word,” Bucky quietly points out, swallowing hard enough that its sound is audible. “Look, the bosses were real clear about this assignment. Everyone who’s able’s gotta go. I don’t know much about the weapons facility they’ve got us scoping out, but according to the rumors, it’s no joke. If we don’t do something about it a lot of people could end up dying.”
“Bucky,you could end up dying,” you snap. Even speaking the words as a hypothetical make your insides churn. “This isn’t right, them jumping the gun like this. This is how you got shot in the first place. They have to–– there are clearances they need to get, permission has to be granted. They can’t dothis.”
“They’re not supposed to be able to,” he agrees. “But they are, and I’ve got no choice but to follow orders.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but abruptly snaps it shut at the sight of the tears beginning to well up in your eyes. “Hey, hey. Darlin’, it’s okay. Alright?”
It’s not. Not at all. Not when you’ve spent the last few weeks with this man at your side, pulling giggles and smiles and blushes out of you in a manner so effortless it fascinates you as much as it endears you. Not when you’ve gotten close enough to know him, an admittedly foolish action you’d promised yourself upon signing up to be a war nurse that you’d never make the mistake of doing. Not when he’s only just asked you to dance with him someday, so shy and nervous the very sight of it made your heart sing.
Bucky stares at you a moment, contemplation warring in his eyes. You barely notice as he reaches down into his pocket with his free hand, still rubbing comforting circles into the back of yours with the other. You don’t piece together why he looks to be scrounging up any confidence he can until he once again opens his mouth, leaning down to press his forehead to yours as he does.
“I was wondering,” he murmurs, so soft and kind and sweet, with a bit of hope shining in his eyes, “if you wouldn’t mind keeping this safe for me while I’m gone.”
He lets his other hand come up to meet the other, unfurling your fingers and pressing a cool, small object into your palm before curling your fist closed again. You don’t need to look at it to know what it is, nor do you need to gaze into his eyes to know the underlying implications of what it is that he’s really asking you.
The feeling of a warm, gentle touch at your shoulder startles you from the memory, instantly causing the fine lines and details of Bucky’s face to dissipate from your vision like smoke in the wind. Blinking, you come back to yourself, finding the little bullet still resting in your outstretched palm and Sally’s concerned expression at your side.
“You’ve gotta stop doin’ this to yourself,” she sighs quietly, a sad lilt to her tone. There’s no judgement, not disappointment. Only genuine concern and worry. The kind offered by a friend who means well, but knows they’re operating outside their realm of expertise. “He wouldn’t want you feelin’ tortured like this.”
“I’m sorry,” you respond, closing your fingers around the bullet just as Bucky had done that night and drawing it close to your chest.
Sally only shakes her head, using the gentle grip she’s got on your shoulders to guide you over to your cot and urging you to sit down. “You missed that show the superiors put on to cheer up the soldiers,” she mentions as she bends down to untie the laces of your boots, pulling them off one by one. “Think there were enough leggy dancers to make a healthy man drop dead of a heart attack.”
The ghost of a smile flickers across your face. You can’t say for certain if it feels odd because of the misery still swirling through you, or if you’ve simply forgotten how to do it. “Well, I’m sure that went over well.”
“Mmm, it did,” Sally goes on, fluttering about. She peels back the blanket on your cot, then motions for you to get settled beneath it –– which you do. You’d learned early on that Sally didn’t much mind your perpetual state of melancholy, so long as you allowed her to care for you until you could once again find the strength to do it yourself. “At least, it did until they brought out that big, muscly fella they’ve been parading around to try and up the war bond sales. After that, it kinda turned into a free for all.”
“Shame,” you sigh as Sally tucks the blanket around your shoulders, ensuring that you’re situated before she drops down beside you, legs dangling off the cot’s end. Leggy enough to be a dancer herself, should she ever choose to be. “Was he alright?”
“Don’t really know,” Sally answers, stifling a yawn. “He disappeared after it was all said and done. Last I heard, Colonel Phillips is still lookin’ for him.”
“Well, I hope they find him,” you whisper, letting your eyes slip closed. God knows there have already been too many soldiers gone missing for comfort around here.
“They will,” comes Sally’s soft reply. “But don’t you worry your head with any of that. Go on and get some sleep, alright? I’ll stay ‘til the morning again, if you want.”
You nod once, too tired for anymore tears to slip down your cheeks. And when the bliss of unconsciousness finally comes to claim you, it does so without offering the comfort of a dream.
Today’s the day! The official announcement of the Bardock x Gine fanzine “A love Beyond Space”. Applications are NOW open!
Please read through our ScheduleandFAQ thoroughly beforehand. Please feel free to ask questions about the zine - we’ll be happy to answer them! You can also find us at our twitter.
To say I’m excited to post this new chapter is an understatement- I’ve missed writing and missed these characters that I’ve created so much! I can’t wait to see what everyone thinks of the new chapter, of the new characters and information that is revealed <3
I’m doing better, feeling better. I’m glad to be back to writing and showing you this wonderful world that I’ve had in my mind for so long.
Thanks for sticking around and waiting for this update <3
I’m going to be blunt and just put it out there: 3 weeks ago my best friend passed away. Recently my grandfather passed away and on the same day so did my dog. With these events my writing is going to be slower. Life’s kicked me down hard and I’m so worn and tired from all of this. It feels like a nightmare that I can’t wake from.
Please have patience for me, like I said writing has always helped me so I won’t be gone too long. But it’ll be a bit of time before I can comfortably write again. I want to give you guys the best I can.
Curious Creatures will be put on a temporary hiatus, until I can get back to writing. My best friend of over a decade recently passed away due to Covid. Writing always helps me when I’m down, but it’ll be a bit of time before I am able to.
Thank you for understanding, and don’t forget to always tell your loved ones how much you love them. You just never know when it’ll be the last time.
Making a song playlist for Blossom and Brick today at 1pm EDT! Feel free to head over to my Instagram stories if you’d like to drop a song recommendation ✨
I’m not dead just yet! Things have been busy on this end and my work area became cluttered in the process where I had no room to even work. Tho tonight I was able to get some stuff in motion. More vial plate belt holders More flaps and fronts for large pouches More base bracers cut out More bracelets cut out. Now to get around to tooling, trimming, beveling, and dyeing them all to get more products up in my shop.
Finally got all the bodywork stitching finished. Only thing left to do is trim stitching around front flap and to add the front overlap straps and this project will be complete.
An update on the project. Got the leather dyed and green suede liner attached to it. A few other things done. Still a few things to do. I’m sure most can already tell what its shaping up to be. I do need to make the straps still tho. After that it can all be stitched together.
Finishing up this pouch. A few more things to do then I can assemble it. Sorry for lack of updates, had a lot going on past 2 weeks. Things should start to pick up again!
Hello guys! Just an update here cos I still see or get some comments/questions… this blog will not be getting updates! The move to e wordpress has been a thing and you can follow or check shotsofhorror.com on wordpress and shotsofhorror on IG!
The latest posts are a review on The Blob, Top 10 Favorite Haunted House films, a review on Maximum Overdrive, The Void, A Color Story/Study on 2018′s Halloween and so much more! Please check it out, we’re doing different things over there, more room to grow, no limitations like on here with “adult content”.
So occasionally you’ll see posts on here with news. Thanks for still reblogging and liking posts on here.
Just a reminder we’ve moved! Please join along with us over there on instagram and following said blog!
Hello guys! Just an update here cos I still see or get some comments/questions… this blog will not be getting updates! The move to e wordpress has been a thing and you can follow or check shotsofhorror.com on wordpress and shotsofhorror on IG!
The latest posts are a review on The Blob, Top 10 Favorite Haunted House films, a review on Maximum Overdrive, The Void, A Color Story/Study on 2018′s Halloween and so much more! Please check it out, we’re doing different things over there, more room to grow, no limitations like on here with “adult content”.
So occasionally you’ll see posts on here with news. Thanks for still reblogging and liking posts on here.
