Sunday Photo Fiction ~ Remember Me

Sunday Photo Fiction: October 26 2014

Here is a description of the challenge from the blog, Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Alastair Forbes:

“Every week on a Sunday, a new photo is used as a prompt for Flash Fiction challenge using around 200 words based on that image. Your story does not have to be exactly what the item in the photo is, you can make it anything you want, and enjoy what you write, and we will as well.”

Here is today’s photo challenge:

©A Mixed Bag

©A Mixed Bag

Remember Me

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 203


I watch him, as he lies sleeping. Hidden in a shadow so I don’t disturb him.

The woman sleeping beside him yawns as I draw closer. She’s an older version of the woman who stands beside him in the framed photo at his bedside.

He stirs as I draw close, yawning and sitting up at the side of his bed. I’m surprised that his dark hair is silvered. He casts a glance at the woman then looks right at me smiling as he quietly opens a nightstand drawer and picks up another photograph.

I smile to see it. There is the dark hair and brilliant cerulean eyes I know. His arm is round my shoulders and he’s looking straight at the photographer, who’s captured us in a kiss. I smile and give his shoulder a little squeeze. That was a beautiful autumn day just like this one. I do wish that he didn’t seem sad; it’s our engagement photo. The date on it is today’s, the year though… Silly boy, he has my ring on a chain round his neck. Perhaps we’ll go out to the lake again, though I can’t remember the way there anymore.

My memories stop on the #309 highway.

~ kei
26 October 2014


Samhain is one of the major Wiccan Sabbats and is celebrated at the same time as Hallowe’en. At Samhain, the veil between the world of the living and of the dead is at its most thin. It is traditionally a time to honour and say goodbye to loved ones.

Sunday Photo Fiction ~ Elizabeth Again

Sunday Photo Fiction: October 19 2014

Here is a description of the challenge from the blog, Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Alastair Forbes:

“Every week on a Sunday, a new photo is used as a prompt for Flash Fiction challenge using around 200 words based on that image. Your story does not have to be exactly what the item in the photo is, you can make it anything you want, and enjoy what you write, and we will as well.”

Here is today’s photo challenge:

©A Mixed Bag 2014

©A Mixed Bag 2014

Elizabeth Again

Genre: Fictionalized History

Word Count: 199


I couldn’t contain my excitement, gazing for at least the tenth time through the lens trying to catch sight of the steamer.

After several years of hopes, prayers and endless disappointments; a ray of hope had come my way at a quilting bee last spring. The first of the “Home Children” would be looking for families here in Ontario. I couldn’t contain a little rush of tears when John and I received the letter confirming, a girl would be coming to us from Maerdy. My dearest John, how we’d looked forward to children in the early years! Alas, we were still childless and a home without the laughter and dreams of little ones seemed a bleak future.

Here at the docks of the St. Lawrence, we waited patiently for the steamer to come in. At least John was patient! One last peek through the glass…

I knew her immediately. Tall for her eight years, wavy auburn hair, cut short in the Institution’s fashion, white dress and pinafore over dark stockings that all the Home girls wore. It was her eyes that I knew. Deepest blue and finding mine through the lens, straight to a mother’s no longer lonely heart.

~ kei
19 October 2014

Note: My Great Gran is Elizabeth and one of Dr. Barnardo’s Children (British Home Child). She came to Canada with her older sister. There are many sad tales of this program but my Gran’s is one of the success stories. She obtained a degree from the Toronto Ladies University, returned to Wales to marry and begin her family, my Grandmother being one of those. The Thomas family later made their home in Ottawa, Canada, embracing their chosen country fully. Great Grandpa Thomas is honoured in the Book of Remebrance on Parliament Hill for his military service at Passchendaele in World War I. Gran was an involved pillar of the community and a huge part of my life in ways immeasurable.
Rwyf wrth fy modd i chi Gran.

Sunday Photo Fiction ~ Razing The Dead

Sunday Photo Fiction: October 12 2014

Here is a description of the challenge from the blog, Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Alastair Forbes:

“Every week on a Sunday, a new photo is used as a prompt for Flash Fiction challenge using around 200 words based on that image. Your story does not have to be exactly what the item in the photo is, you can make it anything you want, and enjoy what you write, and we will as well.”

Here is today’s photo challenge:

Demolition of an old building. ©Alastair Forbes

Demolition of an old building.
©Alastair Forbes

Razing The Dead

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 224 (WAY over! Hopefully, none “wasted”)


When I first noticed the sign and  construction fencing, my first thought was “They should have done that years ago and salted the ground.”

A conglomerate had purchased the land where various versions of a pub, dance club and restaurant had stood on Robertson Road since our town had been incorporated.

“The Whistle”, as my friends and I knew it, had been a place where I’d spent some fun, hazy Saturday nights in our flaming youth.
We didn’t speak often of the last night it was open, the night when a man none of us knew, confronted Jordie Thiessen and stabbed him to death over a girl. The strange part was, Jordie hadn’t brought a date.

My student experience at Archives turned up a history of similar events at “The Whistle”; 1950’s murder of James Thornton, 1920’s of John Taylor. Discovering a very old microfiche detailing an 1890’s record of public hanging revealed the origin of the pattern. A logger, back from a long stay up north, killed a man in front of the inn that once stood on Robertson’s Farm. The victim, Jedson Toomey, had been courting the logger’s fiancée. The logger’s name is lost but it seems that even in death, he never forgets.

Frankly, I’m relieved. My nephew Jackson is old enough to visit the local pubs when home from university.

~ kei
12 October 2014

Note: “Razing The Dead” is a play on the term “raising the dead” and the place in Bells Corners that Al’s photo reminded me of did exist, much as I described. I truly did feel it haunted, though I’ve based my theory on fictionalized bits of local history. Ottawa was a logging and military town, it was wild ‘n wooly. I should mention, where the pub stood is as yet a barren field. Still fenced, and only a smattering of weeds is brave enough to grow there.

Waking With Grace

The Sixth Story

Waking With Grace

I don’t often have trouble sleeping in a strange bed, and I’m thankful for that. Last night was a little different though…

I’d arrived at the same time as the full moon and the brilliantly lit midnight sky streamed through the studio window. We’d fallen asleep after a long and beautiful evening of supper, wine, talk and music. I was roused from our tangled limbs when I became aware of  the incessant rumbling sound from the pillow next to me. The growly rhythm was both soothing in its cadence but also a distraction when I would swim up from dreams into those moments of wakefulness. It had been a long time since I’d heard sounds like these.

And warm! as a matter of fact, it was rather hot and I guess I noticed mostly because I haven’t shared a bed in such a long time… It seemed every time I moved, I would find myself in a velvet embrace.

Eventually, as dawn was peeking through the curtains, I resigned myself to the constant attention. The gentle nuzzles and kneading were after all, a sign that we were comfortable sleeping together.

It should be mentioned too, it was the first time we’d shared his bed. It was warm and wonderful and exactly the sweet and funny awkwardness that the first time together often can be.

So. I smiled with closed eyes at the tickle of whiskers against my face and the sweet rasp of kisses on my cheek and neck.

And then I heard his sleepy voice… the deep Export lilt that weaves through and illuminates my dreams…

“Damnit Gracie! You know you’re not allowed up here. Go on, no cats allowed, get off the bed”!

~ kei
11 May 2014

Originally published in: A Grain Of Truth by Karin Bole Tupper

Waking With Ben

We Begin

I had woken up very early, what with the strange bed, unfamiliar sounds. It took a few moments to get my bearings, the flight had been not too bad, only a little turbulence to mess with my superstitious self. Our meeting at the airport had been… just like in the novels and best Hollywood movies. I can’t remember a time before that when I had been so nervous, seems funny in the retrospect of almost twenty-four hours. I’m sure that we caused some amusement among the late night arrivals and departures. It’s been forever since I travelled alone and I was know that I looked like a lost waif with my beat up World Famous purse and a backpack that sported hand-me-down buttons and badges from punk rock icons of the 70’s and 80’s. I kind of felt like a deer in the headlights when I walked into the terminal at PDX. All the crazy thoughts and rollercoaster emotions that you get when you’re doing something a little risky, a little out of your comfort zone, a little wild… Those and more ricocheted through my brain. “What am I doing? What if he isn’t here? What if this was all a dream? What if..

All of that fell away when I saw his tall frame in front of one of the inbound flight monitors. My heart did a somersault. Good to know it still can after all this time but the weak knees were a bit of a surprise. I thought I was WAY past that. He looked even more handsome than his pictures. It was the way he moved, deliberate, contained power… and the smile that lit up his face when he dropped his gaze from the screen and looked right at me. I swear, time slowed and all other sounds and people dropped away. It was just us, looking at each other. I could feel tears coming and all the strength seemed to run out of my arms and legs. The backpack slipped unheeded from my suddenly nerveless fingers and I managed a couple wavering steps toward him, a distance that he seemed to teleport over, and then, we were in each other’s arms.

I don’t remember everything we talked about, right now it’s still a delicious blur and I just want to write down what I can and fill it in later… I’m still in a hazy, warm blanket of love and laughing and total contentment.

We drove home to his loft and I don’t think either of us took a breath between talking and laughing the entire trip from the airport. Any nervousness I’d had disappeared within minutes. We fell into our rhythm and pattern of all the last months of chatting through email, letters, etc. Me, constantly interrupting – damn ADD – and then falling all over myself to apologize, him laughing at me because it’s the same when I type or chat. We stopped at the little Thai place across the street from his building for takeaway to go with the Pinot Grigio I’d picked up at the duty-free.

When we pulled into his driveway, the butterflies in my stomach decided to try another flight pattern. We sat for a moment, listening to the engine tick down as it cooled. He took my hand in his, kissing my fingertips as he looked at me, then popping his door and tipping his head with a smile in the direction of his building said, “Your castle My Queen.”

Again, my legs seemed to have forgotten the trick to walking. Watching him grab my backpack from the car and his easy movement to the door, the heady magic that his deep lilt was weaving in my head… the lift ride up to his flat seemed to take the most delicious amount of time, all I wanted was to be in his arms.

Unlocking his door, he stood back to let me in. My breath quickened simply at being in his world, here with him at last… I dropped my bag on the floor, turning to watch him close and lock the door. He grinned, tossing the keys into the air, then tucking them into his pocket. “Home sweet home…”, he said, taking a step toward me and in that moment, looking up into his eyes, feeling the warmth and beauty of him in person, I felt like I had come home. I held my arms open to him and he swept me into his hug. The kiss at the airport terminal had held a promise of a bonfire to follow the sparks, and the flare was immediate and intense.

No more words, no need for words as his body moulded itself to mine, as my tongue found his and told him everything he needed to know. Thought burned away and only desire spoke, the last coherent words in my mind, as our bodies collided with the wall and we couldn’t tell anymore where his body ended or where mine began, was his name…

~ kei

8 May 2014


Napa Valley Visions ~ Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction: April 13 2014

Here is a description of the challenge from the blog, Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Alastair Forbes:

“Every week on a Sunday, a new photo is used as a prompt for Flash Fiction challenge using around 200 words based on that image. Your story does not have to be exactly what the item in the photo is, you can make it anything you want, and enjoy what you write, and we will as well.”

Here is today’s photo challenge:

From SPF Blog: This photo was taken outside a vineyard. Country road between two towns.

From SPF Blog: This photo was taken outside a vineyard. Country road between two towns.

This photo spoke to me in a few ways. The story I’ve written strays slightly in that, I describe two real events. Their overlapping is something I’ve only just discovered. A moment in the Present, looking into the Past and seeing my Future.

Hope you enjoy.

Napa Valley Visions

Genre: Fictionalized History

Word Count: 200

Several years ago, I had the opportunity to travel to California. On that trip, I was delightfully disabused of a few quaintly Canadian preconceptions about that State and about the United States in general. That may sound funny given the “Global Village” mentality and that Canada, as a whole is very attuned to a worldview. There are things however, that I’d not seen but for on television and as such weren’t on my radar. What a treat to finally see the Winchester House in person and the majesty of The Redwoods come to life from documentary images. The revelation of the hilliness of the coast and the temperate temperatures too, made California seem more real and less myth of blondes, surfers and endless summers.

One drive took us through Wine Country and though we didn’t stop, the beauty of those fields of grapes entranced me. The Napa Valley, seen in person is beautiful. How to explain the pull of one particular vineyard along that route? We stopped for a picnic lunch at roadside and the image of another, earlier time superimposed it. Was the pretty, pregnant woman I saw just a fey notion or a portent of things to come?

~ kei
13 April 2014

The Ship’s Bell ~ Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction: March 23rd 2014

This is another of the writing challenges I’ve wanted to try. Usually, there just aren’t enough hours in the week to fit in all the fun things I want to do but then, that’s just another sort of challenge, yes?

Here is a description of the challenge from the blog:

“Every week on a Sunday, a new photo is used as a prompt for Flash Fiction challenge using around 200 words based on that image. Your story does not have to be exactly what the item in the photo is, you can make it anything you want, and enjoy what you write, and we will as well.”

Here is today’s photo challenge:

23 March 2014 Challenge

23 March 2014 Challenge

So participants can stray from the actual photo included and because I’m me, I’m doing that :). I’m also bending the rules slightly in that, this story existed previously but was never published. I did have to type it all up from my copybook 🙂

 When I saw the challenge photo, this story came to mind. I wrote it for a school English project when I was about 10 or 11. It’s recreated here (including the mis-spellerings and grammatifications). As my Teacher noted at the time: I have a big imagination. Hope you enjoy.

The Ship’s Bell

Genre: Fiction

Word Count: 224

A foggy night in Nova Scotia wasn’t a nice way to begin a vacation but that’s how mine started.
Through the queer fog, I stood listening to the dismal whining of the wind and the crash of the breakers.All at once I heard the screams of women and the crying of babies; through the din a ship’s bell started clanging.
As fast as I could I ran to my uncle’s cabin. I looked for his book on ghosts of Nova Scotia. I found out anyone hearing the ship’s bell would be drowned as were the fated passengers of the “Wooden Lady”.
Intrigued I read on only to find a ship’s bell was was burned onto the flesh of the drowned person.
I was rather frightened, and didn’t intend to go out, but I seemed to be drawn to the sea. As I walked the mud flats I reasoned that there was nothing to be afraid of. I must have been out a long time and didn’t notice the wave until it engulfed me.
It roared over me! and I was tossed about like a rag doll. A ship’s bell began to clang eerily and I was dressed in old-fashioned clothes. I felt myself pulled down, down, with bodies floating around me. Slowly, slowly, I slipped from reality.
The headlines the next day read:


This was hand drawn for the project 🙂

Project Marks. I still think she was a little stingy!

Project Marks. I still think she was a little stingy!

Death Of A Muse

When she finally retired, it wasn’t to a lot of fanfare or acclaim. As a matter of fact, I think its fair to say, not many of her fans really noticed. She’d been absent from the scene for so long. Although she never said anything to me about it directly, I knew. In spite of the long distance nature of our relationship right at that time, we were close and yes, I knew.
So did the stalker that killed her career and very nearly ruined her at the same time.
We knew that it went with the territory. People, artists in the public eye get this stuff all the time. I guess she was more accustomed to it, having been in the biz since she was in her teens but for me…? This was all new and it was scary. Especially as the years rolled on and it became easier and easier for every crackpot who wanted to play with the band, or deranged female who thought my Love’s songs were for them; to find her, us.
We or one of the management would notice the signs and try to stop it but with the advent of the internet… The psycho avalanche was unstoppable.
We tried to stem the damage but copyrights and artistic content, it seems can’t be kept safe from those who want to thieve them. For me, that was terrible. No one will ever know who I am and I don’t really care but I contributed in my own right to what she gave to the world. We co-wrote a lot of material, I play bass on several tracks and I sang backing vocals on every album.
Do you remember “Black and Blue”? She wrote that for me. “Black is the colour of my true love’s hair, emerald eyes and mermaid stare.” We were at the lake, sitting round a dying bonfire… the music just flowed.
I stumbled over some chick’s postings where she claimed that this song and several other of J’s work had been written for her, claimed to be my love’s muse. She had pictures of my love posted, with me cropped out. I thought I would die…
What kind of psycho thinks or does shit like that?
J was furious. She talked to her manager, publisher, even got in touch with our lawyers but it was too no avail. Everywhere she turned, there was someone trying to get to her. It was affecting her, me, the kids and… her work.
Slowly, she began withdrawing. Buying back the rights where she could, I didn’t find out about that for a while. Removing and having removed; as many traces as she could of what had once been her first and perhaps best love. And all I could do was watch as the person I loved lost a vital piece of themselves. It was like watching her never-ending murder with handcuffs and a gag on… They might just as well have been killing me too.
Eventually, the contracts stopped coming and our friends and legit fans stopped asking.
When anyone from the press calls, I field the questions with, “She’s on sabbatical right now.” But I know and so does she that she’s retired.
For a while, I thought and hoped that she could continue on for the sake of everyone who so loved her and her work. I know that her words touched so many, helped so many when they thought no one else could. I keep the fan letters in a black lacquer box that I bought somewhere on our last tour.
All it took was one, one deranged female who wouldn’t stop stalking her.
I wish I could ask that piece of garbage what was in her head. Why would she ever look at a complete stranger and think it was ok to impose her psychotic fantasies on them?
I would like to tell her that she killed the best and most beautiful part of a human being who meant the world to the world, to their family and… to me.
Once in a while, she sits out on the deck, notebook on her lap, chewing her pen. I know that the words still flow, still beautiful, still entrancing but the guitar beside her remains untouched. Once she’d hidden herself from the world, she decided to remain hidden.
The words are all gone now, The Muse only lives on vinyl and parchment…

~ ket
28 February 2012

Originally published in A Grain Of Truth I by Karin Bole Tupper

Falling Stars

I met a man today.

Not what you think. Not even a little bit.

I had spent this morning packing up the glittering detritus of The Christmas That Never Was. One more act in this tragicomedy that has been our relationship.

Wrapping carefully, as has always been my way; the inexpensive, rather shabby trinkets that I had purchased and put out with much excitement and anticipation just a few weeks ago.

On that evening, one of the last weekends before Christmas and the day of my only pay cheque before Christmas; they had seemed so beautiful in my eyes. Every gold or silver star I hung was a wish and a promise for us, for our future. Together. I wanted to give you the kind of Christmas that you told me had passed you by this year.

As I stood observing the little box of finished packing, I couldn’t help the clutch of pain round my heart, or the tears that it caused to appear in my eyes all of a sudden. “Falling stars, broken dreams”, crossed my mind. I knew I’d never be able to look at these trims in the same way. I threw on my coat and boots and grabbed up the box along with the bag of the little gifts that I’d bought for you.

He was behind the counter of the charity shop that is a short walk from my home, dusting some shelves. I rather burst through the door of the otherwise empty store, allowing my hurt and anger to carry me forward to follow through. Plopping down my box of broken dreams on the counter and then the bag of gifts.

Brilliant blue eyes, widened in surprise as he turned and looked down at my offerings. I jumped back from the evidence of your rejection and our demise, like a scalded cat. I felt as though I cast about wildly, all big eyes and flying hair, looking for escape and a way to cover my shame.

As I turned quickly to make my exit, I heard his voice. Gaelic lilt, soft and yet reaching my ears at the front door from his position at the counter. “I had a Christmas like this a long time ago. It wound up being the best gift I ever received.”

I hunched my shoulders against the words, half turned with a tiny wave of my hand to acknowledge he’d spoken. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Still isn’t.

I’m sitting here now, with a big mug of tea; in my quiet living room. It seems rather austere, with the holiday trappings gone. I hurt. I hurt and I am so damn lonely, I don’t know how I will get through the rest of my life.

I am surprised though, by how the thought of how brilliant blue that man’s eyes are, keeps running through my mind…

~ ket

06 January 2013


Rifle Range Road

I don’t know who snapped that photo or how it got into my mailbox. Plain white envelope, no note, no return address.
Your truck. You and me in black and white. Not like this grey area we exist in right now. So, when the shock subsided, I grabbed my journal and flipped through to read, but I knew…
It was that last afternoon of the first time in forever. And until you debark that plane, I’ve only a photograph and these words I wrote to keep me warm. Until you’re safe in my arms again.


28 August…

… It was very hot and brilliant sunshine. You picked me up, not your Dad’s car this time; I smile to myself at the thought, and we’re driving down a familiar tree-lined dirt track road, I can see sun shimmer on the water just beyond the scrub that surrounds this part of the beach at the river. Nostalgia, like a shot of Forty Creek whisky in my belly, washes through me. Warm and sensual. It’s good to be with you and driving again, on the Rifle Range Road.

We’ve been talking but right now I’m watching you manoeuvre to a stop in a tiny, tree covered turnabout just off the road. I like how the muscles move in your arms, while you turn the wheel and pop the keys out of the ignition. A little puff of dust settles behind us and I can hear the buzz of a cicada and the rustle of leaves all around us.

You turn to me, hand draped over the knee that’s propped against the back of the seat and smile. That smile could always make me do anything. I’m acutely aware of how close your hand is to my shoulder. “So… a beer?” you say, smiling as you reach into the lunch cooler, over the back of the seat, close enough to brush my arm as you reach and cause a shock of desire. My nipples stiffen against the thin cotton of my sundress and I feel the leap of liquid flame in my sex.

We talk. There is a lot to talk about, a lot to catch up on but it’s not long before the electric feeling in the air make us both stop… the moment spins out in the heat. You, looking at me with an intensity that is adding fuel to the fire. Me, eyes downcast… just taking you in. You look  so much the same but there’s an easy self-assuredness, even command that wasn’t there when you were a boy. Tall and a mile of legs. Your dark hair, not dark anymore but silvered, it suits you and those eyes… a dark, fringe of lashes round deep topaz. Still irresistible to me…

In the moment of silence, I start to say your name, even as you slide closer, cup my chin and whisper “K__”. Your touch is gentle, voice rough with emotion. I  lift my eyes to yours as you rub your thumb over my lips. Again, I feel that shot of liquid lightning and a moan escapes me as I reach behind your head and lace my fingers in your hair to pull your mouth to mine.

It’s like a cloudburst, the storm that’s been building between us hits me. Your hands… are everywhere, stroking, kneading. I can’t get enough of the taste of you, I’m drunk on your scent. I can feel your heart tripping, driving my breathing faster. Your kisses and hands becoming insistent. Pulling me into your lap to straddle your hips and… My breath catches at the feel you so hard against me, memory and desire take me completely. No thought, just touch. I reach between us to squeeze you. Already… I’m aching, wet, almost frantic to have you inside me… “Help me with this”… ragged words, breathed into your ear as I’m tugging with anxious fingers at your zipper. Stopping only to pull your tee over your head and then help slide your jeans off your hips.

Kisses, kisses… the taste of you drives my need. Your hands locked in my hair… Mmm… I want – need your mouth and I tear loose the halter tie behind my neck, thinking “suck my nipples!” but all that comes out is “please…” as I pull your mouth to me and feel your teeth. Your fingers… kneading my ass and oh god, you are so fucking hard in my hand, your hips straining against me. We don’t break the kiss, as I move up onto my knees to let you pull aside the wet silk and I stroke you against me, loving the sharp inhale of pleasure, the slip of your cock between my palm and the wet velvet of my sex.

“Christ! I want to fuck you…” your voice is raw need, your hand insistent over mine, rubbing your head against my button. My fingers on yours, guide you into me…
Can’t… Catch… My breath… Staring, falling into your eyes. You hesitate and I know the force of will it takes for you to hold back… It’s an  Is it OK? I don’t want to hurt you… that I feel when your thrust meets the resistance of enforced denial. Resistance that only aches to yield. All I can manage is to breathe a soft “Oh, oh, oh”, as I lean in to catch your lip with my teeth, rocking my hips, pushing down, trying to take you all at once. Tears come, when you answer my whispered “Just do it… please…” with a short, hard stroke, an arrow of fleeting ache and intense pleasure, shot and arching my back, forcing my hands to the roof.

Our bodies find that rhythm… Your voice in my ear, a low growl, unspoken demand that translates to every stroke, … your sweet cock filling me up, I feel your insatiable desire like a heartbeat inside me. Mmm… feel it… I feel it, waves coming from… “Ohhh… fuckkk… you feel so… good”. Words barely moaned to the ceiling but they hit their mark and your hips drive into me and I’m held, pinned, hands on the roof… screaming my love into the ceiling, driven by your voice, “that’s it baby, cum for me… cum for me…” Then your arms tighten round me and you stop – perfectly still for a second – groaning “Ohhh… fuck …” “K__…” and it comes, the pulse and then your sweet, hot spill inside me…


You will always be mine, I hate this distance. Come home…

~ kei
… to be continued