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SEPTEMBER 17, 1995.  EMILY SAYS SHE SAW A FLYING SAUCER. A YEAR AGO I WOULDâVE LAUGHED. TONIGHT WEâRE LOCKING OUR DOORS.  indie original character inspired by the events at skinwalker ranch.
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WHAT Â Â BODY Â Â PART Â Â ARE Â Â YOU ?
LUNGS. Â
breathe in. the ability to breathe is almost completely reflexive, and like most things, it comes to you naturally, with little effort or meaning. many of the diseases that affect the lungs are hereditary, is there some unknown family trauma there? something someone wasnât telling you? if we only inhale, we die. if we only exhale, we die. we need both. you have mastered that tactful dance, at least, until something unexpected comes knocking. something that steals your breath away, that pries your oh so precious air from your lungs and leaves you cold, winded and alone. a collapsed lung cannot kill you, but it aches more than broken bone, itâs sticky and bloody and cloying. you can recover though. you always have. breathe out.
tagged here.
tagging: any witnesses to this post
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replying to drafts from 2 years ago because i want to write Now and nobody can stop me!!!!
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@lifehaunts / here.
đĄđźđđđŹÂ  đđ§đ đ©đźđđđŹÂ đ„đđđŻđ đđĄđ đŹđŠđđ„đ„ đ đąđ«đ„âđŹÂ đŠđšđźđđĄ,  gabbyâs usual cue that the day isnât going quite well. she went to the corner store for two things : diet pepsi and sour gummy worms.  of course, that never really happens, as she really just overloads on snacks. just in case she gets hungry later on,  obviously. though, the blonde fails in utilizing her body to hold things. as she leans down to grab her drinks, everything falls in an instance,  including herself. her face flushed and mortified, she looks up at the man and nods, taking his hand rather quickly.  â thank you, â she mumbles hoarsely, shaking her hand. â itâs just been one of those days âŠÂ a real shit day âŠÂ do you have those days where everything just falls right outta your hands? â
"not necessarily." as soon as she seems steady on her feet, timothy eyes the scattered aftermath before leaning over to pick up the items closest to him. he may not relate to literal fallingâcan't remember the last time he tripped over himself, but he knows resignation when he sees it. hell, he feels it. a long day at the diner. a longer rest of the day at home, waiting for him, looming. that need to pause and decompress, even for a breath, is familiar enough to make him put his own bullshit on hold to help out a stranger.
"but i have had some real shit days. even without falling and losing my," a glance over the items he's collected, "snacks." he passes a sympathetic look to the woman. "at least you've got gummy worms to help. those usually turn the shit days into moderately decent."
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left alone - fiona apple / geoff mcfetridge / does the universe fight for souls to be together? - jamie varonÂ
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@lifehauntsâ / from here.
                                  đđĄđąđđ€ đđČđđđ«đšđ°đŹ đ«đđąđŹđ đđŻđđ« đŹđš đŹđ„đąđ đĄđđ„đČ,  a shit-eating smirk to match.  she was the type to relish in proving a point,  so much so that they were found in lorettaâs diner late at night trying to do just that.  â  i promised i wouldnât say it --- but you know what iâm thinking.  â  a high pitched âi told you soâ rings clear in her conscious for a moment.  â  garlic powder is the secret ingredient to the best egg sandwich ever.  but itâs gotta stay a secret,  you canât just go on and tell everyone!  â
     âyeah, yeah,â he grumbles and rolls his eyes. though for the first time in timothyâs illustrious two-year career at lorettaâs, both are done with a poorly suppressed grin. anyone else in this damn diner and he wouldnât have conceded to begin with, but heâll resign himself to humility just this once. a good sandwich is a good sandwich.
     âtrust me, i donât plan on it,â said between bites from his cut of the sandwich. âif loretta finds out about seasoning, we might actually get people coming in here for the food. last thing i want to do around here is my job.â
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irewornâ:
if spencer knew this would happen, she wouldnât have agreed to enter his sad excuse for a pick up truck. perhaps she wouldnât have decided to be nice for once. perhaps she wouldâve stayed home altogether but thereâs nothing she can do about it now. unlike him, she essentially sprawls in the tiny booth, legs resting on the seat. a unique perk of petite stature. her position is more so to rub it in his face than anything else. with a gaze trained on the ceiling, she indulges on small hostess cupcakes, wondering if this is a cruel punishment from the universe. the cupcakes also settle the anger she has towards timothy and his piece of shit alternator. so much for comradery.Â
thereâs a moment of silence before his voice breaks it. her features transform into its usual scowl. âi donât think any cup of coffee is worse than the shit we sell. itâs literally tar in a mug.â although the gas stationâs branded blend smells scarily similar to the complete and utter shit back at the diner. and judging by his reaction, it tastes similar too. regular exclusive blend, my ass, the girl grumbles while glancing down at the ugly coffee cup.
âwhy do you always insist on making my try the nattiest shit? i know you have horrible taste but come on.â she hasnât forgotten their last scenario with his horrid, cheap cigarettes. in fact, itâs still haunting her. she wonders if thereâs something seriously wrong with timothyâs taste buds⊠or his brain. âiâm guessing itâs like your cigs. absolute garbage,â she adds with a loud scoff. despite her words, spencer reluctantly grabs the coffee cup. the smell of the now lukewarm tar wafts around nose. she takes a deep breath, sipping before features showcase nothing but a look of disgust. curse him for this. curse her curiosity. curse her inability to turn down a challenge. âiâm convinced this is pure gasoline.â she quickly drinks water but the aftertaste lingers. unfortunately.Â
    âfuck you, those cigarettes are good.â itâs mumbled, thrown right into the middle of her sentence before she can even finish the bage in garbage. thereâs no bite to it, the phrase more punchline than insult. timothy lost all rights to any genuine fuck youâs the second his truck died on them. besides, he canât find it in himself to be offended over her telling the truth. heâs definitely two for two when it comes to goading spencer into trying the nattiest shitâthough heâs more partial to his cigarettes than whatever the hell this place is trying to push on its customers.
he settles into his seat as she grabs the coffee cup, gaze expectant as he watches. and yeah, the whole thing unfolds exactly how heâd imagined, but he still gets a kick out of the disgust written on her features. it almost makes up for being stranded at a gas station with bluetooth ceiling speakers and a cashier too fond of madonnaâs greatest hits (holiday, music, borderlineâtwice, all in the past fifteen minutes).
    âright?â for the first time since plopping himself in the booth, he laughs, taking the coffee cup back when she ditches it for water. âsome real big competition from regular exclusive blend for shittiest cup of joe in town. somebody should warn loretta.â the jab at their boss comes with a grin thatâs soon covered by the lid of the paper cup. it may be dirt water at best, but it cost a full dollar, and he has nothing but time until somebody picks them upâheâs drinking the coffee. at least the sugar wafers he got make it a little bearable. the artificial sweetness and unholy bitterness almost cancel each other out if he times his bites and sips just right.
heâs mid-chew when he pauses to glare at the cashier over spencerâs shoulder as borderline plays for a third time. a sip of coffee washes it down before his gaze shifts to the table, grin gone and scowl in its place.
    âiâm gonna lose my fucking mind before triple a gets here.â
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autumnnalâ:
*   đđđ     âââ   @skyhauntsââââââââ   /    listen to you and your fancy language.
    â   okay,   jerk  -  face!    â   shamelessly jejune,   she is shrouded in honeybee curls as she jerks to life,   flourishing shakes of her head in response to his mumbling  â  as if what sheâd said was to be taken as a joke at her own expense,   visibly deflating thereafter.   glossâd pages of favored magazine is burrowed to bosom,   wrinkle of her brow protuberant,   vying  âside the pastel - adorned janes just beyond the pages.    â   hey,   this stuff is serious.   maybe if you actually read something once in awhile,   youâd get it.   itâs none of your business anyway,   itâs my copy.   â
he tries not to laugh, but somewhere between jerk-face and reading something once in awhile, his mouth twists, uneven and taut, like heâs barely holding on to his amusement. in his defense, he doesnât let loose some mocking guffaw, just an exhale thatâs a little too shaky to be anything but a chuckle. really, heâd stifle it if he could, but the whole thing reminds him too much of his kid sister in the worst of her teenybopper days (and maybe he is a jerk-face if this reaction is nothing new to him).
    âalright, heyââ now comes the raise of hands (and eyebrows) as he tries to backtrack without spilling into another chuckle. âiâm sorry, okay? youâre right. i donât know anything about the grave importance ofââ he squints, trying to eye the page covered in her arms and failing to make out any of the words, settling on a flat and uncertain: âsummer fashion trends.â
and the great thing about the few times he speaks without thinking is that he starts to regret it almost immediately. this time takes a little longer before the feeling creeps in, but then itâs there, when he recognizes a defensiveness thatâs more reminiscent of himself than his sister, that need to sting back when stung. his hands fall back to his sides, the laughter fades from his face, and he feels like an asshole.
if he were a better person, he might shell out a real apology instead of diverting the subjectâbut again, in his defense, timothy at least has the decency to sound apologetic as he diverts.
    âsoâŠâ he nods to the magazine, âwhatâs the verdict for this summer? are florals making a comeback?â
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pistollipsâ:
         she  canât  help  but  grin.  â  yâainât  gotta  apologize.  youâre  not  the  first,  you  wonât  be  the  last  ..  â  and  sheâd  be  lying  if  she  said  she  didnât  like  it.  it  just  further  proves  to  her  that  sheâs  got  nothing  to  worry  about.  excitedly,  atty  sits  down  across  from  him,  grabs  about  three  fries  and  shoves  them  in  her  mouth.  even  if  she  were  offended,  thatâs  one  way  to  make  it  up  to  her;  french  fries. Â
         â  youâre  exactly  who  i  was  expecting.  â  long  hair and band tees are  a  common  occurrence,  but  usually  at  parties.  thereâs  a  different  air  about  him  than  those  guys,  however.  something  that  tells  her  she  can  trust  him,  for  whatever  reason,  and  she  likes  to  go  with  those  first  impression  gut  feelings. Â
         sheâs  stocked  up  on  whatever  he  could  need,  but  she  already  digs  around  in  her  purse,  retrieves  a  pink,  opaque  baggie  with  a  licensed  cat  adoring  a  ribbon  on  its  ear  on  the  front.  the  bottom  specifies  1oz,  the  particular  shade  of  pink  tells  her  the  strain.  sheâs  got  it  all  memorized  and  organized.  the  bag  is  slid  across  the  table.  â  fruity  pebbles.  a  freebie  for  a  newbie.  anything  else,  â  cocaine,  molly,  heroin,  whatever  his  preference,  â  gets  a  discount,  but  i  usually  donât  do  samples  for  those.  â  most  drug  dealers  donât  do  samples  period,  but  itâs  not  like  she  does  this  fully  for  profit  anyway. Â
he doesnât exactly laugh, but the way his lips twitch feels like a close second. thatâs fair, he all but says with the mirth swimming in his gaze. timothy can admit he looks like he crawled off the set of a public service announcement, some mid-2000s advertising companyâs perfect warning of what not to be, shaggy hair and all, so he doesnât pretend to be offended.
instead, he watches as she rummages through her purse, stuffing a few more fries into his face until a much smaller bag comes into view. itâs cute, clearly matches the aesthetic she has going (brand, he realizes belatedly. itâs her brand.), and grabs his attention. hearing the word freebie is what keeps that attention. in the span of however many seconds it takes for her to pull out the bag and subsequently explain the price of said bag, timothy has decided that coworker dave is exceptionally shitty at descriptions. sure, heâs known this from the moment that man opened his mouth and set everything into motion, but now he really knows. because no one with a basic understanding of what sells would leave out discounts and freebies when pitching a dealerâespecially when their pitch is only a sentence long.
    âshit,â a startled chuckle falls as his gaze darts to the blonde, âthanks.â thereâs a flash of a widening smile, abrupt but soft, as he picks up the bag. âif iâd known about the freebie, i wouldâve bought you a burger too.â it sounds like a joke, itâs meant to be a joke, but thereâs some truth to it. timothy used to treat his old dealer to fries and snacks sometimes, whenever he showed up with food for himself, and that guy never cut prices. samples werenât even on the table. in the few minutes since heâs met her, atty is already leagues above his last dealer, and fries feel a little cheap in retrospect.
he glances over the bag again before stuffing it in his coat pocket.
heâs still smiling as he folds his arms atop the table; itâs subtle now, back to the small quirk from before. their table is to the side of the store, away from fluorescent lights and prying eyesâand the few eyes present wouldnât bother prying. nobody here really cares what anyone else is doing, so he doesnât bother with whispering or murmuring or any conspicuous huddling when he continues. if his voice lowers, itâs only by a fraction, just enough that it wonât carry to anybody who doesnât need to hear it. âif youâve got coke, iâll take whatever i can get for forty.â
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@goxinsaneâââ đ
he refills her cup without being asked. itâs only half-empty when he comes back around, maybe less, favoritism plain for everyone to see. the rest of the diner has to glare and cough their way into catching his attention, then glare and cough some more to keep it when timothy ignores them. hopefully enough people will complain for management to finally get their shit together and hire another waitress instead of sticking him out front when theyâre down a person. he doesnât mind being stingy with refills until they do.
timothy sets a mug for himself down on the table and slides into the booth. he fills up his mug and settles into his seat before placing the coffee pot on the table too. something heâd probably get another round of glares for if the diner hadnât nearly cleared out in the minutes leading up to his break. the lunch rush is long over, just a few people with odd hours and nowhere better to be left nowânobody whoâs going to complain about their cups being three-fourths empty, even if rightfully so. he crosses his arms atop the table and leans forward, almost hunched over his coffee as he looks at leona seated across from him.
    âitâs finally starting to feel like fall.â thereâs a small curl of his lips as he shakes off the last few hours of half-hearted greetings and memorizing orders. âmy mom and emily plan on making pumpkin pie from scratch soon. making a big deal out of it and everything.â he stares down at his coffee before grabbing a creamer from the small bowl. âthey wanted me to invite you, if youâd like to bake with us.â he opens the package, pours it in, and grabs another one. âthey offered to make gingerbread cookies, too. for the boys.â a slight shrug as he glances back up. âmaybe this weekend, or the next â if youâre free for either. if not, weâll still be baking anyway, i can drop something off for you.â
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Pavement -Â Harness Your Hopes
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@pistollipsâââ / liked.
   âyou sell?â he shouldnât be surprised. when timothy asked for recommendations after his usual dealer moved across state lines, his coworker readily supplied a time and a place. only a vague idea of where to find somebody and a vaguer idea of how that somebody looked. just look for pink, they said, as if that meant anything to him. now, sitting outside a convenience store, at one of those round, metal tables where the seats are connected, he gets it. an eyebrow raises immediately after recognition flashes across his features, but yeah, he gets it.
   âsorry â the way dave spoke about you, i was expecting someone...â different. even with her matching the curt description exactly, and even with him refusing to make any assumptions, sheâs still managed to dodge every expectation he didnât know he had. not necessarily a bad thing. says more about him than anything else, he knows, so he compartmentalizes whatever part of him is surprised by blondes in bubblegum pink selling drugs, shoves it aside, and shrugs. raised brow fades to sheepish smile, and he pushes a to-go container of french fries to the center of the table, lid open. a greeting for her and an excuse for anybody looking to complain about him loitering past sunset.
   âi donât know what i was expecting,â he plucks a fry for himself. âdoesnât matter.âÂ
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@irewornâââ
   âyou know, this might be the one cup of coffee thatâs worse than the shit we sell.â technically, theyâre not hanging out. maybe that had been their intention twenty minutes agoâdriving down dirt roads through the empty town for some hole-in-the-wall barâbut his alternator put a stop to that while making a hearty dent in their attempt at comradery. maybe itâs a sign, timothy had grumbled aloud while pulling into the gas station parking lot. the plan had been to make good on their beer pong bets, carpooling in timothyâs once-trusted pickup truck after a late night shift to a bar on the outskirts of town (all bars were on the outskirts, as if locating them as far as possible from the heart of everything would make this town any less of a shithole).Â
now theyâre stuck in some gas station near the outskirts of town but not close enough to justify walking the last mile to the bar and playing a round anyway. by the time they got back, whatever tow truck his insurance people called would have probably made off with his truck and theyâd have to call somebody to pick them up. which is worse than waiting in the aforementioned gas station and drinking stale coffee because the only people timothy could call would be a) his father or b) his sister, and one of them is already a pain in the ass without being asked for favors while the other one doesnât have a license.
so heâs dealing with the repercussions of trying to be nice and doing something fun with spencer by drinking a large cup of what this gas station calls their regular exclusive blend, sans cream or sugar. heâs also seated in one of those tiny booths in the restaurant section of the station that doesnât have room for anybody over five foot four to sit sideways and rest their legs on the seat. an apt atonement, if anybody asked him.
   âitâs fucking terrible.â he nudges the coffee cup towards her. âtry it.â
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âTired, my love, so fucknâ tiredâ
Painting By: Malcom T. Liepkeâs.
Photo:Â Bob Dylan & Joan Beaz 1965.
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