Miranda Kate Week 149: Dealing with Shit

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Miranda Kate’s Picture Choice:

Title: Dealing with Shit

“Gah! It smells like shit!” Brandon recoiled from the open drain pipe, coughing and retching.

“Shit always does, Brandon.” Harris said, laughing as he patted him on the back.

“Well it’s definitely full.” He said, wiping his mouth.

Daniels stepped closer to it, trying to peer in without getting a lung full of the putrid air. “And what are we going to do about it?”

“That’s a tough one.” Harris said.

“We could go back into the city and get one of those drainage trucks to suck it out.” Brandon suggested.

“Do you know how to work one of those?” Daniels asked.

“Nah, but we can figure it out.”

“It’s a lot of trouble though, risking going back into the city. We don’t know exactly where the trucks are kept, or how to work them, and if we can suck all the shit out of the septic tank, then what? Where do we dump the waste? And it’ll only be a matter of time before we have to do it again.”

It’s a quandary indeed.” Harris added.

“Any idea, old timer?” Brandon asked.

Harris pulled a face and shook his head. “Nah. Maybe turn it into fertilizer?”

“How can we do that while it’s still in the tank?” Daniels had pondered the idea himself. “We are going to need some sort of fertilizer eventually, if we’re going to grow our own food, but how do we use that?”

“You don’t I reckon.” Harris was decisive. “I say put the cap back on, seal it up and leave it. Then we find another way of disposing of our waste, something more organic that we can use.”

“Do you know about composting then?” Brandon asked Harris.

“A little, although not from human faeces, only animal.”

“Can’t be that different, can it?” Daniels asked.

“You wouldn’t have thought so. Let’s go speak to the others, see what knowledge we can pool. Or I can take the young lads back down to the city library and see what books we can find on how to go about it.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Daniels clapped Harris on the shoulder, grateful for his support; it was tough being the main decision maker. The three of them went back to the house to discuss it with the others.

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RL Ames Week 148: Another Day

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RL Ames’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Another Day

It’s late. I’ve lost track of the time, but I know it’s late. I can feel it in the weariness of my step and see it in the inkiness of the night around me. I rub my hands together. They’re chapped and cold, but also sort of numb.

Just like the rest of me.

I catch the dim silhouette of my reflection in a storefront pane of glass. I’m hunched over, huddled deep into my coat, but not because of the cold. I’m not hiding from winter. I’m trying to hide from the world.

I reach my building and climb the stairs, relieved to be home, but dreading what waits for me inside.

My apartment is dark and empty. The light switch makes a sharp click as I flick it on. The sound is loud and startling in the silence.

I shrug out of my coat, kick my shoes off, and crawl into bed, still dressed. I bury myself under the heavy blankets and burrow down beneath the pillow. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t stop the barrage of images and memories that begin to play across the theater of my mind. I hear the voices, echoes of the past, in my head, and it doesn’t matter how hard I shove my fingers into my ears, they won’t stop.

I scream into my pillow, trying to drown them out, trying to stop the painful, flickering images of my failures.

My voice is hoarse and my pillow is wet with tears and sweat by the time I drift into a fitful and exhausted sleep. My subconscious knows it’s only a temporary reprieve. Because tomorrow will dawn anew; relentless in its efforts to force me to continue existing. Day after day. I don’t know how much longer I can go on.

xxxx

My brother is lost. Not in the sense of a child who’s wandered away from his mother at the store. He’s lost in the sense that he’s standing right in front of us, and still none of us know where he is. I’d say he’s tortured, but that makes it sound way too chic and trendy. But the reality is: he’s tortured.

He spends each and every day living with pain that the rest of us can’t even begin to imagine. It’s not physical pain. Though, I have absolutely no doubt he feels actual pain.

The worst part is that I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to stop the cycle he goes through. I don’t know how to make him see what the rest of us see.

We go through ups and downs, but it’s always there. Even during the ups the pain, the struggle, the constant war he wages on himself, is always there just below the surface, threatening to break through and drag him back under.

It’s the worst for our mom. I know that deep down she blames herself. As if there was something she could have done differently: breastfed him longer, not let him watch cartoons, given him less sugar. She’s heard it all, and I know she’d go back in time in a heartbeat and try anything to fix him.

But the truth is: he’s always been this way. Even as a child, he’d get overly emotional, and the smallest things affected him so much more than the rest of us. I remember one day when we were younger my dad brought home some pesticide for the ants who had built colonies in the cracks in the cement of our patio. And my brother sat out there on his hands and knees just sobbing as my dad sprinkled the white powder into the cracks. As if he could feel the pain those tiny ants felt as they curled up and died.

xxxx

The sun blinds me before I even open my eyes. It’s a harsh reminder of the new day that’s dawned without my permission. It’s a big bright slap in the face that reminds me that all I really want to do is crawl into the darkness of oblivion and fade to nothing.

Oblivion would be so pleasant.

I stumble out of bed and relieve myself in the bathroom. There’s a flashing light on my machine. I hadn’t even noticed it the night before. Reluctantly, I press the button. My sister’s voice fills the room. She’s worried. They’re all worried. This is nothing new. I wish they’d leave me to my oblivion.

The next voice is my mother’s voice, and I feel the hint of a pang of guilt stab me somewhere in my gut. It’s brief, and it’s gone before I can think about it too much. I’m good at ignoring pain. I’m better at ignoring guilt.

Unbidden, a memory flashes through my head. I’m young. It’s the summer I turned fourteen, and we’re at our family’s lake house. My sister was sixteen that year, and in my memory she’s chasing me down the pier toward the water. The water is crystal clear and the sun glints off of it so brightly it hurts my eyes. We’re laughing and I reach the end of the pier a split second before her. I don’t hesitate. I plunge in, and the water’s so cold it hurts to breathe when I come up. She’s next to me, splashing in the water.

I remember being so happy and peaceful that day at the lake. My stomach does a little flip as I remember why. I was happy because I’d already made up my mind. I was at peace with my decision. That night I’d taken my dad’s hunting knife to my wrists.

It was my sister who had found me.

xxxx

He’s not answering, and that always makes me nervous. I call mom to see if she’s talked to him. When she confirms that he hasn’t called her either, I know what I have to do.

It’s not a long drive over, but it feels like an eternity. My stomach is in knots. I don’t like showing up unannounced at his place. I’ve not had good luck with it in the past. But then again, he’s still here, so maybe I have.

The thing about it is this: people think that to have the kind of issues my brother has you have to have dealt with some hardcore horrible traumatic events. Have to have some sort of horrid past or childhood that scars you for life. But that isn’t the case with him.

We had a normal upbringing. Loving parents, lots of hugs. Nothing even close to abusive. Our parents didn’t deprive or entitle us. We took family vacations, went to Disneyland, dad took us fishing, mom helped us with homework. All the ordinary stuff.

There’s no reason he shouldn’t be normal. Except for the chemicals in his brain. They don’t like to play nice.

I’m a ball of nerves as I knock on his door. I finger the spare key in my pocket, dreading using it if he doesn’t answer. But I know I will if I have to. I just pray I’m not too late.

Relief floods through me when he answers. He looks like hell. There are bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair is greasy and falls too long across his forehead.

I don’t know what I see in his eyes when he sees me. Relief? Disappointment? Anger? Sadness?

I push my way in anyway. Loving him means accepting the selfishness of his disease. He doesn’t mean to push everyone away. He doesn’t mean to hate all of us for loving him.

I open his refrigerator and make a note of its contents. I’ll restock it for him later.

He shrugs when I ask him how he is. He turns away when I get closer, but I grab his wrist, my fingers unconsciously skimming across the rough scar tissue there. I make him look at me. I study his eyes for a few moments before he turns away again.

I promise him I’ll come back later that night, and he shrugs again.

I don’t know what the answer is to the quandary that is my brother. I don’t have long-term solutions, and every time I see him, I’m reminded that it might be my last. But as I close the door behind me, I’m safe in the knowledge that he’s lived to see at least one more day. And for him, that’s as much as he can give.

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Mark Ethridge Week 148: If It’s Just A Dream, Let Me Dream (Part 7)

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Mark Ethridge’s Picture Choice: One

Title: If It’s Just A Dream, Let Me Dream (Part 7)

Everyone knows, the quickest way to a point in a city is a straight line. Unfortunately, buildings get in the way. Places where people live. Where they sleep.

I didn’t have time to go around. I moved in a straight line through building walls, bedrooms, anything in my way. God’s people were too busy figuring out what the explosions were, why stores were blowing up, why the church was under attack, and what was wrong with the dogs, to mount any effort to stop me.

They had her in a warehouse. In a little room, made of glass walls. I knew what I’d find in that room. Nanomachines. The weapon of God’s people. Put God’s word in the air your enemies breathe, and let God’s word do the rest. Watch as His word reaches out to their hearts and teaches them his ways. Watch as they become members of God’s Church.

Of course, like any virus, there are immunities. Nanomachines coursed through her blood. They coursed through all of us. There to protect us from the invading machines of God’s word. But even the best protection cannot last forever. I had no way of knowing how much damage whose machines had done to her.

I didn’t bother to shoot anyone in the room, watching her, watching the displays reporting on the battle raging inside her. I entered the room through a hole I blew in the wall, and destroyed the glass cage they’d put her in. Then, I powered up another weapon in my suit, which lit up with an electric charge. It was like dropping soap into scummy water. The cloud instantly parted. She was free from it.

Next, I injected killer machines into her blood. Machines designed to hunt down and destroy God’s word. To rid her body of the machines God’s people had filled her with. Nanotech. That great gift from God. Invented by mortal men. For the purpose of programming the masses.

I wondered how many of God’s people knew they lived in poverty while they gave the church everything. If any of God’s people knew of the few dozen rulers of the church, who interpreted God’s will. If you want to call it that.

I engaged a tactical system on the suit, and fired a barrage of guided projectiles. They targeted the others in the room. They tracked them because they didn’t have the defensive systems in their blood my wife and I did. They didn’t bother with nanomachines. They struck with force, embedded themselves in their targets, released their explosive payloads into their victims, and when those payloads spread through the target’s circulatory system, those explosives ignited.

Every vein, artery, and capillary in the target’s circulatory system ceased to exist.

One of the weapons used by God’s people on the heathen. We used it against them.

That quickly, the battle was over, I carried her, and with Blue and her people, we disappeared into the chaos we’d created.

The next morning, she was ready to talk about what she’d been through. About the chair they’d tied her to. The silver needles on its arms and legs, and how they’d sunk into her arms and legs. Like old-fashioned acupuncture needles. How they embedded themselves in her nerve clusters, and the neural pathways of her arms and legs.

Old fashioned torture with a technological twist. Turn the victim into an electrical circuit. And then add electricity. Hook an electric power source to the chair using jumper cables. Then turn it on. All in the name of God the Father. Convince the victim of the error of their ways. So they’ll tell you the truth of who they are, what they have done, who they work with, where their bases are.

Even though the leaders of the Church had known for centuries, the victim will tell you anything you want to hear, just to escape the pain. Anything, to make the torture stop. The truth didn’t matter to them. Only imposing their will, the will of God the Father, mattered. For the glory of God’s church.

In time, the wounds to her mind would heal.

The wounds to God’s church on Blues world were only beginning.

It was war.

It was personal.

It was time to free Blue’s world. And send God’s people packing.

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Mark woke up in 2010, and has been exploring life since then. All his doctors agree. He needs to write.

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Samantha Lee Week 148: Boundries

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Boundries

It was one of those stone walls, the kind made up of different sized rocks stacked atop each other, and it snaked its way around the pastures, its length stretching hundreds and hundreds of miles. And, lucky me, I got to lean on it.

At least I didn't have to lean alone.

"Remind me again why we're leaning on this wall?" Fi asked for about the tenth time that morning, absently braiding her hair as she sat cross legged on the ground next to me. "Not that Scotland isn't swell, but it's not exactly my favourite place in the world. Or any other world for that matter."

"Why not? It's not so bad of you can learn to ignore all the sheep."

"I'm a sun elf. In a place where sunlight is so foreign it needs a stamp in its passport just to visit."

I gave her a skeptical look. Or rather I gave the top of her head a skeptical look; her eyes were focused on the open book she was balancing on her lap. That's Fi - big on multitasking. "I thank you for your sacrifice."

"Sarcasm is totally unbecoming, Rav."

"Fi, it's your default setting."

"That's different though; I'm a professional. And don't think I haven't noticed you're avoiding my question."

"You've asked ten times."

"And you haven't answered once. Should I try for eleven or...?"

I sighed. I knew very well if I didn't answer, she'd go all Lois Lane and poke and prod and push until I caved and spilled my beans. And then she'd go ahead and make chili out of said beans. Not that I didn't love her literal chili, but in a metaphoric sense it wouldn't be fun. Did that make sense?

"We're waiting for something."

"I am shocked by this totally new and unpredictable revelation."

"Sarcasm, Cat. Anyway, yeah, we're waiting. For, um, someone."

"Oh? What sort of a someone?"

"So, ah, this wall we're leaning on? It's a boundary line."

"Most walls are."

"Well, yes, but this wall is separating the Fae territory from the mortal. See over there? The field is a buffer zone until the forest where there's a patchwork Fae tribe. You can't sense them?"

She winced and shook her head. "Scotland has a high Fae population, like Ireland, the Netherlands, Germany, India, China, Africa, Australia, or Canada."

"Long list."

"Well, when you get yourselves locked out of your homeland, you make do with what's available."

"A little human, no?"

"Oh, you should drop that little tidbit into the grapevine. It'll drive the Nobles totally looney."

"Cat, you realize you're the one they'll come whining to, right?"

She shrugged. "I have a buffer."

"Cat, I'm that buffer."

"Shut up. It'll still be amusing. For awhile. Maybe. Anyway, blah, blah, boundary, blah, blah, waiting, blah, blah, elaborate."

Okay, this would be the part with the impending freak out. Fun times ahead, yes sir, lucky me. I was really hoping I could stall for another few hours or maybe a couple months. Why didn't life come with a pause button? "The Fae tribe that lives here? They're sending an advocate. They want to come home."

So it went better than I thought; no earthquakes, no storms, no twisters, not even a rumble of thunder or a darkening sky. No trees suddenly fell, no rocks spontaneously split, no animals so much as chittered. In fact, she seemed remarkably calm as she thought about what I'd said, her Magic and power carefully contained.

It scared the hell out of me.

"You agree? You think I should allow them back into Faerie?"

"Um, no. I, ah, no; there's too much of a security risk. If we just let three hundred and eight Fae into our home there's no telling whose old grudge will come back to bite us in the butt."

"You counted?" She sounded surprised. I decided not to be too insulted.

I nodded. "Twice."

"Rav?"

"Hm?"

"Have I been sitting here for the past six hours waiting for you to build up the nerve to tell me the Wild Fae want to ask permission to come home? Because, you know, we didn't even have to come out there for that. I could be home, playing my violin and ignoring the petitions for audience right now and Keeley could be here. Keeley likes scaring the sheep and intimidating Fae who think they're all top of the food chain."

"Do demon-based wraiths really out place Wild Fae on the food chain?"

She shrugged. "Mine does. It's the teeth; his are bigger than pretty much anyone's and it helps. A lot."

"So, ah, are you agreeing ...I mean, are you implying...do you mean that they can come home?"

Rolling her eyes, she hopped up to her feet and shook out her hair, her book vanishing. "Of course not. I'm saying I don't care if they come home or not so long as one of the wraiths vets them before they step through the portal."

"Didn't you calibrate the portals to, ah, vaporize anyone who meant you harm?"

"Yup. Or Faerie in general."

"Then why bother having the wraiths vet them?"

"Everyone deserves a chance to sing a song about conferring with flowers and consulting with the rain while hunting themselves up a brain. Just because they're angry and upset today doesn't mean it should cost them all the years they have ahead of them, all the time they need to calm down and try again. Was there anything else? I really can't stand the smell of sheep."

"Ah, no, except what I'm supposed to tell the advocate."

"Tell him to grow a pair and come to Court to submit their petition in person. The advocate and whoever wants to claim leadership. Also, makes sure they understand the wraiths - probably Kelley and London - will be coming regardless of their decision."

Oh, fudge. "Why?"

"Because this isn't a mortal playground; they can't just test the waters and then chicken out. I told them - told everyone - after I ascended that the Winter Fae had a choice; remain in the mortal realm and I'd leave them in a sort of limbo unless they chose to act against me, but a return to Faerie meant a return to full Court status, privileges and responsibilities included. This, brother mine, could be a precursor of an act against me, possibly recon of some sort, and I'd like to err on the side of caution. I think I've had more than enough experience with my own Fae turning against me, don't you?"

When she put it like that, it was hard to argue. Still, the Fae of this Wilding were not going to be happy. Not happy at all.

Cue sigh here.

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Lizzie Koch Week 148: Checkmate

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Lizzie Koch’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Checkmate

George took his usual seat at the table and surveyed the chess board. It was as he and Ava had left it two weeks ago. She was winning (as usual) and claimed to be only five moves away from a ‘checkmate’. He focused, his fingers clasping his only rook.

“You really don’t want to do that do you?” He looked across the table into Ava’s watery blue eyes then back to the board. Of course he didn’t. She was right . . . again. “I didn’t think so. I can still checkmate in five.” He looked to her again. Her smile was warm, her silver bobbed hair shone in the summer sun, framing her face. He moved his knight instead and her smile was replaced by a frown of intense concentration. “Mmm, I didn’t expect that.” George grinned. Foxing Ava didn’t happen often. He might actually win the game. She moved her queen, checking his king and taking his rook.

As the light dimmed, George, stared at the board. She was right. He was one move away from her convincing win. How did she do it?

“Hey, Dad, don’t you think you should come in now?” Dan said softly. “You’ve been out here alone for a while now. There’s some of Ava’s friends here who would love to talk with you.”

“I miss her.”

“I know you do. We all miss her. Come on.” he placed a gentle arm round his fragile shoulders. “Who were you talking to anyway?”

“Ava. She never liked unfinished games. We were trying to finish it. She would’ve won again, you know.” George stood, the bones in his arthritic knees clicking loudly. He still had his fingers clasped around the rook. Letting go, he shuffled back inside as a gust of wind swirled around, knocking over his king.

Checkmate.

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I dream of sharing my work with the big wide world one day as a published author. Right now, I share flash fiction with a wonderful community of writers and friends. If you liked this story, then why not visit my blog at http://40somethingundomesticateddevil.blogspot.co.uk/ for more. Thank you. Love Lizzie x

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Laura James Week 147: The Collector (part 7)

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Laura James’s Picture Choice:

Title: The Collector (part 7)

Detective Crawford sat at his desk with a coffee wondering why his town had become a magnet for petnappers. Over the past month the police department had received over 30 reports of pets disappearing. The odd dog or cat could have run away or been involved in an accident no one reported, but the range of animals involved led Crawford to believe a gang was involved. Though he had never heard of a black market for guinea pigs or rabbits but he supposed it was possible.

He was still working out what the next step was when his door opened. "Sorry to interrupt sir but we've just had a missing person report called in." Crawford held out his hand for the paperwork, "Teenage runaway?"

"No, it's the Nicholsons. Both of them."

"Why do I recognize that name?"

"Nasty car accident killed their son just over a year ago. Was not long after you moved here."

"Oh yes I remember. The other son," Crawford dredged through his memory, "the twin, witnessed the whole thing. Odd family if I recall." He read the missing persons report. Mr & Mrs Nicholson went on holiday for the anniversary of their son's death, had been expected back after just two weeks but neighbours hadn't heard from them in over a month. "Why did" Crawford referred to the paperwork "Mr Dawson wait so long before filing the report?" He said he was giving them time to grieve, but that now he was worried. "Ok let's pay this Mr Dawson a visit. Chances are it's nothing, just an extended holiday but I'm getting no where with the pet disappearances."

Sitting in Mr Dawson's front room Detective Crawford accepted the offered tea whilst PC Long took up her pen and notepad, "Thanks. Now if we could get back to why you think something has happened to your neighbours?"

"I saw their car a few weeks back, but it disappeared." Mr Dawson's hands shook as he drank his tea, "That son of theirs ain't right either, always been odd but got worse after Stephen's death." Crawford looked out the window towards the Nicholson's house. Apart from an unkempt garden, everything looked normal house. "So you've seen the son then?"

"Oh yes. Comes and goes at all hours he does."

Crawford returned the cup to the saucer and looked directly at Mr Dawson "And what does he say about his parents disappearance. Is he worried at all?"

"Well...." Mr Dawson was obviously struggling with something so Crawford sat in silence and indicated to PC long that she should do the same. He had always found that people with something to hide could never leave an empty space in conversation and he was proved right when Mr Dawson continued. "I may have misled you as to the nature of my relationship with the Nicholsons." PC Long rolled her eyes and mouthed 'stalker alert' towards Crawford. Suppressing a smile Crawford encouraged Mr Dawson to continue. "They keep themselves to themselves mostly, but I always see him in the garden, he loves his garden he does." Mr Dawson looked out his window, "Just look at it. A mess. Something's wrong I know it."

Crawford stood "Well thanks for the tea. I think I'll pop over and have a chat with him. I'm sure there is nothing untoward, maybe they've just spent more time away."

As they walked down the path PC Long cleared her throat, "He was a bit of an odd fish, don't you think sir?"

She pushed open the gate to the Nicholson's house. "I mean reporting people you don't speak to as missing without even bothering to check with the one person who would know."

Crawford rang the bell, "Some people are just lonely and observant. Doesn't make them odd."

"No but I think he comes close sir."

When no one came to the door he rang again and knocked. He heard strange muffling noises from behind the door but no one opened it. Whether it was his years of training or just his gut talking, Crawford knew something was wrong. He had seen a side path on approach to the house, "Why don't you stay here to see if someone opens the door, I'm going to have a look round back." Crawford made his way round to the back garden and was stopped in his tracks by what he saw.

Various cages or traps he supposed, were positioned everywhere he looked. Even in the trees. On closer inspection he saw that some contained birds that were frantically trying to escape. A young male was calmly walking towards the first of the occupied cages. Crawford stood still waiting for the man to spot him, but luck or fate was on his side as the man returned to the house carrying a couple of the cages but not once glancing in Crawford's direction.

Crawford made his way back to the front of the house. "Long, something's not right. I'm not sure what's going but I don't like it." He banged on the front door once again this time shouting "Open the door, it's the police. We know you're in there." He waited with bated breath to see if the man would open the door.

He heard a click and the door was opened a fraction. "Can I help you officer?" A small white face peered through the crack in the door.

"Good afternoon, my name is Detective Crawford and this is PC Long." Crawford pushed at the door to try and see further into the house. "We've received a report that Mr & Mrs Nicholson are missing. Can you shed any light on this?" Crawford watched as small beads of sweat appeared on the young man's face and he started to stutter "Th Th They, they're fine, just out at the moment."

PC long moved forward, "Could we wait inside? It's getting a bit chilly outside. " Crawford silently thanked her for her quick thinking. If the young man, who had to be the Nicholson's son, had nothing to hide he would let them in.

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Based in Dunfermline, Scotland, Laura is obsessed with all things horror and spends her time writing flash fiction which she hopes, on occasion, really scares her readers. Feel free to stalk her on twitter, @lejamez

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Aleea Davidson Week 147: Hearts as One

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Aleea Davidson’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Hearts as One

Falling...

The wedding is a blur. White dress, white pearlescent flowers, precious circles of gold that bind their promises with concrete evidence adorning their fingers. He knows he cried when she came down the aisle, something he thought he'd never do. Reception champagne and food he never really tasted are mere blurs in the memory department. All that really matters is now, the present, this moment when finally she's his and his alone.

They are as close as two people can get without crawling under each other's skin. He hears her heartbeat, feels it against his chest as he breathes her in. He wishes she was his first as he is hers.

So many past regrets. He never knew precious and important until she smiled at him, flirtatious and blushing inside a crowded subway car.

His hold tightens.

Night creeps up against the hotel windows, slipping inside to cradle the room in shadows. They stay still, arms and legs entwined, intimately connected for the first time. Pleasure curls low and deep, but for now this is enough. Love sets its own pace and slow is all they know.

They've been cautious, dancing around each other with tender touches and slow persuasion. He wants so badly to heal all her hurts, fill every hollow. She arches slightly, shivering and turns her face to his neck.

Everything about her pulls him in deeper, ripens the moment until need dictates a desire for more. He begins to move, careful, learning sex pales in comparison to making love, and her flesh means more than his own. He wants to feel her come undone so he can prove he'll catch her...

every

time

she

falls.

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Aleea lives in her imagination most of the time. It's an interesting place to be... Occasionally she can be coaxed out to chat on Twitter, though she finds it akin to torture to stick to that absurd 140 character limit. (@Aleeab4u)

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