#Down the Road APiece

[theatrepup]

The Rolling Stones performing "Down the Road Apiece" on Shivaree, only it's just Brian Jones.

[rastronomicals]

12:37 AM EDT June 2, 2024:

The Rolling Stones - "Down The Road Apiece" From the album Now! (February 13, 1965)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under:    Artists formerly known as the greatest in the world     

[rollingstonesdata]

CANCIONES DE LOS ROLLING STONES: ‘DOWN THE ROAD APIECE’ (1964)

Canciones de The Rolling Stones: Down the Road Apiece*VER MÁS CANCIONES*Click for English versionWell there’s a place you really get your kicks/ It’s open every night about twelve to six… Escrita por: Don RayeGrabada: Chess Studios, Chicago, EE. UU., 10-11 de junio de 1964 Del libro Rolling Stones – La Historia Detrás de sus 365 Canciones:Don Raye, un artista de vaudeville y compositor,…

[venerawrites]

I want to ask for angst if you do it...I need headcanons/scenarios about Itachi when he comes back from a long mission after a month and finds his s/o in the corner of the kitchen hugging her knees and resting her head on them,crying silently

(I love you so much♥️)

author's note: I wrote this as a short scenario, I really hope you enjoy! I've been in pretty angsty mood the past few days, so writing this request really helped me expressing some of my frustration. Anyway, thank you so much for requesting and for your kind words! <3

The sun was slowly dipping beyond the horizon, casting a golden glow over the crowns of the trees surrounding the forest path. Normally quite calm and even slow when it comes to moving, Itachi was not walking with a hurried step, unable to stop himself from sighing every time he had to stop so his teammate can catch up.

"You seem to be in a rush, Itachi", Kisame grinned, as he deliberately dragged his feet. The shark-like shinobi was usually not one to mess with his partner, but how could he control himself when he was witnessing the Uchiha's famous collected demeanour crumbling right in front of him?

Of course, he knew the reason for the hurry - YOU. While you never met officially, as your black-haired man tried to keep you as far as possible from anything relating to Akatsuki and his work, Kisame had waited for him to say his goodbyes almost every time they left for a mission. He knew your name, your age, where you lived, and that for some strange reason, despite being nothing more than an ordinary civilian, you had the famous Uchiha wrapped around your finger.

"I am", grumbled Itachi, his onyx eyes fixated on the road before them. Due to the nature of his job, being away was a regular occurrence for him and Kisame. Not only they were extraordinary ninjas, but they also were one of the few pairings in the organisation that worked well together, without constantly bickering or fighting each other.

One-month missions, however, were something that did not happen often, even to them. But when the stake was capturing all of the Jinchūriki, none of them could say no.

It was ironic really, how much Itachi was used to your presence. After the massacre, he promised himself he would never allow himself to grow closer to anyone else. The life of a shinobi was a lonely path, filled with pain and suffering, and he couldn't allow himself to get attached to someone else again.

But life often throws surprises at everyone and things rarely go "according to plan". When he first met you, it was purely by chance - you happened to live on the outskirts of the village where he was sent to and he met you one sunny day at the local market. You were struggling with carrying all of your groceries and as he watched you put your bags down every three steps to rest, he knew he had to give you a hand. As a sign of gratitude, you invited him for a cup of tea and apiece of homemade carrot cake.

Since that moment he couldn't stay away.

Itachi tried. He really tried to keep his distance and stop himself from falling from you. But you were stubborn, in love, and couldn't take a 'no' for an answer - all qualities, which captured his heart before he could even realise it. Even after the end of his mission, he continued visiting you during his free time, often staying for a few days before going on the road again. And while you never put an official label on your relationship, it was clear you were together - if not by the way he seemed to be caring and protective over you, then by the way he never missed pressing his lips against yours first thing when he saw you.

Once the men reached the so-familiar crossroad next to your house, Itachi stopped in place, before glancing at his partner.

"You go and report to Pain without me", he said blankly while getting two scrolls out of his pocket and passing them to Kisame, "I would be in the base in few days time."

The blue-skinned shinobi chuckled, grabbing the scrolls, before leaning toward the Uchiha with a wide smile on his lips.

"A few days, huh? You know you never introduced-"

"Go", interrupted Itachi, his tone now a few octaves lower. At first glance, his expression remained neutral, but Kisame could see the way his eyes held the slightest glint of irritation. With a loud laugh, he shook his head and started walking in the opposite direction of where he knew the Uchiha was heading.

"Send her my greetings", he shouted over his shoulder, his voice echoing around the forest, as his figure became smaller and smaller. Itachi watched his retreating form and only when he disappeared in the shadows, he allowed himself to relax and let out a sigh. With a quick step, he turned around and started making his way to your house.

Usually getting to the small wooden cottage, which you called 'home', took around ten minutes from the place where he separated from his partner. His eagerness to see you and hold you in his arms shortened that time almost half.

As he approached the building, his pace slowed, as his eyes scanned his surroundings. The wooden door was slightly ajar and he took a deep breath, trying to contain the growing mix of irritation and worry that was brewing inside his head. He told you numerous times to stop leaving your door open, especially when he was not here, but you never listened, insisting that it was for him.

"So you know when I am home or you have to use your spare key", you always joked, dismissing his concerns.

Pushing the door with a quiet creak, he stepped into the corridor, looking around for any signs of you. He could feel your presence nearby and he stilled for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing once he caught a glimpse of your raincoat carelessly thrown on top of the coat hanger, numerous dried mud drops covering the sleeves. You were not usually one to leave your stuff dirty like that - if anything, sometimes you went overboard with all the cleaning and scrubbing.

Something was wrong...

Moving deeper into the cottage, he heard barely audible sniffling coming from behind the door of the kitchen and without thinking twice, he grabbed the doorknob, slowly twisting it to the side and opening it as silently as he could. There, in the corner next to the fridge, you had your head buried between your legs, a series of small sobs and whimpers leaving your lips.

Itachi froze in place, his brain immediately switching to panic mode. Has something happened? Did someone threaten you? Hurt you? You seemed to not sensed his presence yet, as you remained unmoving, lost in your own bubble of pain and sorrow. The sight of you looking so weak and distressed made his whole body tense and he watched you for a few seconds, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Finally, with measured caution, he made a few steps toward you, closing the distance between you, before kneeling in front of your shrunken form. Gently, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm as a way to make you aware of his presence without scaring you.

His plan didn't work as the moment you felt something touching you, you jumped in your place, lifting your red and swollen gaze only to find your lover sitting in front of you and looking at you with concern. Sniffling, you wiped your cheeks and nose with the ends of your sleeves, trying to calm your breath.

"Itachi", his name came out as a choked whisper, "I'm sorry, I was just about to cook somet-"

The rest of the sentence got stuck in your throat as the Uchiha suddenly wrapped his hands around you, pulling you to his chest. Itachi was not good when it came to dealing with emotions, especially the ones of the people around him, but he wanted to show you that he was here for you. No matter if you decided to share with him what was the cause of your distress or if you preferred to keep it to yourself, he wanted to offer you all the support and love that he could.

Feeling the tears forming in your eyes once again, you buried your face in his chest, inhaling his musky scent. The sound of his heartbeat, slow and steady, seemed to calm your own and slowly your sniffles started to quiet down. Your own arms circled his body, gripping the back of his shirt, almost as if you were scared he would disappear if you let go.

"I missed you", you muttered against his clothed chest while nuzzling your nose against it. The man pressed his lips against the top of your head, tightening his embrace, before laying his chin next to your ponytail.

"I missed you more", the words slipped from his mouth as a sweet whisper, a quiet promise everything will be alright. His hands kept rubbing small, soothing circles on your back till he felt your body fully relaxing against him.

"I am sorry", you said again, pulling away from him and looking down at your lap, "I didn't mean for you to find me like this."

Itachi's brows furrowed and he looked at you for a few seconds in disbelief, before shaking his head and pressing two of his fingers against your forehead, taping it lightly.

"Don't apologize", the corners of his lips twitched upwards, "I am here for you. Whenever you're ready to talk or just need a shoulder to cry on, I'm here. Whatever it is... we are going to face it together. Okay?"

The question of what did you do to deserve a man like Itachi often swirled around your mind. He was caring, loving, sometimes funny, gentle and without any effort on his part, he made you fall absolutely crazy in love with him.

"Okay."

Smiling at your response, he pressed one more kiss on top of your head, before grabbing your arms and pulling you up from the floor. One of his hands remained on your waist, while the other one opened the fridge, curiously looking at the stocked food inside. You followed his gaze before a light blush covered your cheeks and you turned around, reaching for the apron neatly folded on top of the table.

"Are you hungry? I can quickly prepare some lunch straight away!", before you can put the piece of clothing, however, he grabbed it from your hands and tossed it on the kitchen counter, before turning back to you and nuzzling his nose against yours.

"How about you let me cook us some ramen now and then we can do the dinner together, hm?", he asked, pecking you on the lips before reaching for some eggs and sauce from the fridge. You opened your mouth to protest, but quickly closed it after he moved to the stove, organising his ingredients while humming a soft melody under his breath.

Your mouth curved into a small smile as you watched him busying himself in the kitchen, and you couldn't help but ask the question once again:

What the hell did you do in this life or the previous one to deserve him?

Whatever it was, you were thankful. And you were never letting him go.

cc artwork: Richard Lay

[little-orange-bastard]

Chapter 4: One For The Road...

@pepperonyscience @authortobenamedlater @thefinaljediknight @p0tat0-g0ddess @ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask @helix-enterprises117 @purple-purple-pink-purple (Out of character, just real quick I appreciate everyone's patience with the delay to the campaign. The bug that blew through the ToBeNamedLater household had myself an ATBNL down pretty hard. We are doing much better, so back to it!) STORY CONTINUES BELOW: Picking up where our story left off, and advancing the story timeline slightly, all of you have evacuated your dead bunker and are on a dusty remain of a highway. Your group is a motley collection of fangirls @authortobenamedlater @thefinaljediknight @p0tat0-g0ddess. You also have one cattle wrangler @ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask, a pilot (latecomer @purple-purple-pink-purple who was sleeping in the back room of the bunker for the last six months because that's just how much naps moms need to catch up) and a human survivor @helix-enterprises117 with an overpowered cybernetic fist that makes him look a bit like a fiddler crab. Despite the time being high noon, the sky has an orange haze on account of the extra particulates in the atmosphere, the telltale signs that a nuclear winter could be coming. Off in the distance you can see the burnt out remains of a city with the barely legible roadsigns indicating it is the town of Pueblo, Colorado.

Very little seems to be moving on the surface. You've seen a few scavengers, mostly crows, vultures and carrion eaters but nothing else of significance. You have heard a few rustles of *something* that seems to be following you, but haven't been able to make it out. The roadway is littered with the remains of burned out cars, the bodies now just skeletons or ash. The air is cold and dry on account of the reduced solar gain, lack of precipitation, and shortened days for October. You are all wearing matching desert camouflage uniforms (DCU's) surplus from the Desert Storm era. They blend in fairly well to the environment. For equipment you each have a matching pack in the same camouflage pattern. Inside each pack is the following: a bedroll, a poncho tarp for shelter, some waterproof matches, some water purification straws, a change of clothes and extra underwear/socks, a hand crank emergency AM/FM radio receiver and flashlight combo, a first aid kit, compass, map, spare boot laces, some fishing equipment and some paracord. You each also have a few quarts of water apiece along with some survival lifeboat rations, enough to last a week or so with careful use. For weapons, you each at a minimum are equipped with a survival knife and sheath. You all managed to scavenge a few other weapons in the bunker. For firearms there are two Glock handguns of mismatched calibers (9mm and .45 automatic respectively) and limited ammunition for each of just three preloaded magazines apiece due to weight and size limits. There is a singular AR-pattern rifle with iron sights and two magazines. The rest are carrying either a baseball bat, crowbar or tire iron as they choose to do so. These arms are distributed among the group to those that are best trained in their use. Overall, you aren't in the worst condition weapon-wise, but it's clear that scavenging ammunition and being selective with your engagements is going to be critical for now. An extended firefight could draw a lot of attention and burn through your at-present limited ammunition needlessly. Your orange avatar is riding in @authortobenamedlater's pocket. He hasn't said much lately other than the direction to go is northwest. The town of Pueblo is presently to your due north and you are just on the outskirts around the dried remains of Lake Minnequa. Your little group also has a fold-up DeLorme topographical map with the words "Candy Mountain" written in purple crayon and an X crudely drawn over the Almagre Mountain range approximately 50 miles to your north. This would seem to be your destination. The question is, how are you going to get there? It's 50 miles of mostly desert with not much there between Pueblo and the base of the mountain. That's a long way on foot with limited supplies. There appear to be three obvious possible avenues. One is the BNSF railyard in the middle of the bombed out remains of Pueblo which is filled with who knows what. Maybe transportation. Maybe looters. Maybe monsters. There's also the Pueblo airport out east which may offer some options but is in the opposite direction for travel to your destination. You might find something there, or then again it could be a red herring. Circling around Pueblo to the rest there's the aptly named suburb of Pueblo West. Doesn't seem like there's much in the way of transportation choice there, but they do have a number of shops that may yield important supplies. You're sure that you wouldn't be the only survivors thinking the same thing.

There may be other options yet open to you but there’s a problem. Your group is split on which direction to go. The limited weapons and deciding who got what proved to be incredibly unpopular and onerous in the extreme. It's clear that leadership is going to have to be decided on before following whichever path.

[it-one-line-at-a-time]

"...I guess that's how I'd like to remember us, if I could remember us. Standing there by the lake, the sun going down on our childhood. This will be my last entry. I got it in just in time. Just before the fog in my brain swept all of my memories away entirely. Now, just weeks later, I look back on that time not from memory, but from the pages of this book. The nightmare is over. What little police involvement there was was brief and cursory, as is always the case here in Derry. Now that there's no further need for a lighthouse keeper, well, I feel I may move on. See whatever is down the road apiece. As of this writing, Richie's still knocking them dead. He's got a part in a movie."

[lindenardenshighlights]

down the road apiece

[prismaticpichu]

Okokokok so

Sephiroth passes out from dehydration in the manor and not knowing what else to do, knowing just how bad it could be to be caught like this by civilians or what would happen if this info got back to Hojo, Cloud and Zack sneak Seph's unconscious ass to Cloud's house and put him in Cloud’s childhood bed.

Seph wakes up to Claudia making him breakfast, and in general being a good mother figure. And I dunno Zack and Cloud burned the library totally by accident and found a Vampire neither of which are their fault they swear.

Now THAT’s a happy ending! <3 Score one for our bodily necessities!!!

“C’mon, Spiky! Put your back into it!”

A giant mass of silver and black is dragged rag-doll-style along the basement floor, two considerably smaller individuals hauling one boneless arm apiece.

“He’s. HEAVY.”

~~~

Sephiroth, well… he’s quite the confused cockatoo when he wakes up. Why on Gaia is he in a bed half his size? Why on Gaia are there approximately eight posters of him on the wall? Why on Gaia does his back feel like a lawnmower ran over it?

Where is he? What is this? What is HAPPENING—

“Whoah, whoah! Calm down, buddy!” Zack grips his forearm upon seeing Sephiroth begin to huff and puff like a bull, guiding him back down onto the pillow. “You’re safe!”

There isn’t much room to protest when his head is absolutely throbbing; Sephiroth slumps back into the bed, groaning, one eye still creaked open as he scans the room around him with dangerous scrutiny. He’s also coughing like a poor rundown car.

“0h, here!” Zack hands his friend a juice box from the nightstand. “You gotta replenish!”

There’s a western riff in the background as Sephiroth stares down the juice box—a bright green abomination with a hippo-shaped apple drawn on the side. Are you kidding him? No. NO. He is a full-grown man with dignity, and standards, and—

Fortunately, Zack shoves the straw in his mouth anyway.

“Okay, okay.” Zack takes a step back from the bedside, still reading the utter, blistering confusion on Sephiroth’s visage as he sips away. “I’m gonna take things nice and slow, pal. I’ll explain everything.”

Sephiroth narrows his eyes in warning—his signature You better or the guillotine will be having your head death glare. He swallows another round of Juciy Juice.

Zack swallows himself. There’s a lot he could say right now. A whole goddamn book. Everything since the Reactor has just been so… wrong; Seph had planted so many ideas in his head, got so snarled up in things that were just too much for him to bear. He just needs to untie him, thread by thread. Nice and gentle. Nice and slow.

“Well, y’see, me and Spiky were getting real worried about you. So—“

“Jenova is not your mother.”

Oh c’mon.

Both eyes snap towards the voice—the low, sunken timbre that had revealed itself from the unlit corner of the room.

Sephiroth doesn’t even process the fact that some Comic-Con devotee with a claw for a hand begins peeling himself out from the shadows; he barely processes Zack’s frustrated yelping at said devotee. All he can hear is Her. Her. The library. The books. The Cetra. The Truth. Memory consumes him in a single, famished clasp, like a sudden strike of lightning, like a sudden belch of flames, and all of a sudden his eyes are needle-thin and he begins snarling your typical oh here we go again Sephiroth snarls.

He squeezes the juice box so hard that it explodes.

“Mother! Mother! MOTHER!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhh, no! No no no no!” Zack wraps his arms around the other’s neck like a lasso, pleading and hushing and grappling, mustering all his desperate strength to keep Sephiroth lying in bed and not gouging eyes out. “It’s okay! It’s okay! It’s me! Shhhh… take me home… country road…!”

Eventually, with some guided, deep-breathing exercises, Sephiroth does calm down, letting his eyes return to normal and slumping back into the mattress. Zack turns over his shoulder with a silent “Really?!”, while Sephiroth collects himself, coming back to the present… but the memories still remain clear. Crystal clear. Except now, instead of a torrent of poison and overwhelming rage, the memory gouges him out. Leaving him hollow. Sad.

And, wait a minute… why is there a comic-con devotee here?

“Who… are you…” Sephiroth pants, the suspicion creeping back into his voice.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. This is Vincent.” Zack gestures towards the cloaked man. “Me and Spiky found him sleeping in some coffin. He’s been sleeping there for years—had to get him out before we burned that stupid manor down. Hope it’s okay that we borrowed your materia!”

Sephiroth is silent.

“Oh, and… he mayyyyyy know one or two things about J—that creature.”

Sephiroth is still silent.

Vincent goes on to take the reins and explain everything: the experiments, the pain, the Hojo, the regret… The Lucrecia.

“…Lucrecia?” Sephiroth repeats, ghostly, a numb mist having enveloped him entirely. It… it didn’t make any sense. Jenova—he clenches his teeth—he… he spawned from her. She was his…

His…

“Your mother,” Vincent elaborates. “Lucrecia was your mother. And she loved you. She never wanted things to…” He turns away, the bloody tint in his eyes seeming to clot. “Your mother was human, Sephiroth. She made mistakes. So did I.”

Sephiroth’s gaze floats to his hands, words disobedient, his organs and blood and bones sitting in an empty husk. Zack cuffs his hand around his upper arm, squeezing gently, squeezing a whole poem of silent messages.

“So… I really don’t have a mother,” Sephiroth mumbles then. “She’s gone.”

“Who wants pancakes?!”

The bedroom door opens with an enthusiast swing, and in comes Claudia, and in comes the delectable waft of fresh golden pancakes, Cloud at her heels as she carries the plate over to the bedside.

“Here you are, General. Cloud told me that you had gotten sick in the manor; good to see you awake! How is the bed by the way? It has been quite some time since my Stormcloud slept in it.” She turns around, suddenly facing a wide-eyed Vincent Valentine. “Oh, I do not believe we met before. I’m Claudia. Pleasure to meet you.”

“You brought the guy back here?!” Cloud scorn-hushes to Zack. “I thought he was going to stay outside!”

“I needed him to help clear things up with Seph!”

Meanwhile, Sephiroth is sitting in bed, blinking, a platter of flapjacks on his lap and a nice little syrup saucer glistening beside them. Claudia dusts her hands off, smile still twinkling.

“Well, I’ll leave you men be for a little. Please call if you need anything.” Before she left, however, she makes her way back to the bedside, back to the stuporous Sephiroth, and tucks the blanket further up his shoulders.

“I don’t want you to be cold, dear. You are already so unwell.”

And then she leaves for real.

“Aww…” Zack mock-moans once he hears her footsteps patter down the stairs. “She’s better at taking care of you than me!”

“Yeah…” Cloud rubs his neck. “She does that.”

Sephiroth… can’t disagree. He glances again at the fresh breakfast balanced in his lap—breakfast made just for him, because he was unwell, because someone took that information and turned into a remedy. The emerald eyes are rippling, thoughtful and confused and detached yet somehow strung back to his body all again. Tighter than ever before.

“Sephiroth.”

Sephiroth lifts his gaze, meeting Vincent, who bestows to him a slow, meaningful nod. “I believe that is what a mother is.”

~~~

And the four proceed to have a pancake party!!! <33 Whoooooooooh! Sharing is caring!! (Well, three-quarters of the pie anyway. Vincent is just too stubborn.)

“C’mon, Vince!” Zack holds up his fork, the cluster of fluffy magic absolutely waterlogged in syrup. “Try some! It really heals your inner demons!”

[malicious-compliance-esq]

malicious!!! how are y'all holding up/doing with the whole hurricane business?? ❤️🙏

Thanks for asking after me and my family @ellis-peace as we continue recovering from Hurricane Milton here in Central Florida amid residual impacts from Hurricane Helene.

Best answer I can give is that we’re okay but struggling—as individuals and as a community. For a couple days after Milton passed, the nearest traffic light on the main road by my subdivision was operating but flickering wildly. That about sums things up.

In my immediate neighborhood, we have power and little to no damage on our homes. That puts us way ahead of many. We also are not dealing with severe flooding, although many communities within just a couple miles of us are. We are physically safe as anyone can be in this situation. We are not wading through floodwaters tainted with oil and sewage and other threats.

Yet things are hardly normal, even to the untrained eye. There is trash and debris everywhere. I have a mountain of downed tree parts that rises nearly 6 feet into the air and takes up about 18 feet of curb. It will compress over time as it dries out. It’s also not nearly the full extent of the debris.

I am still breaking down 8 different trunks of mature birds of paradise, each of which weighed several hundred pounds apiece while fully hydrated, that were snapped off and flung like toys by the winds of Milton’s northern eyewall as it battered us for several hours last Wednesday night.

We also have over a dozen 55-gallon contractor bags of leaf and small branch waste beyond what I was able to cram into my compost bins and yard waste bin, and the copious amounts of downed leaves I used to re-mulch all my planters. This is on top of 4 additional 55-gallon bags of preexisting tree debris from Helene that we had to break down and secure ahead of Milton.

I love doing yard work. I feel lucky to be doing yard work instead of having to fix my house. But right now the empty planters I just finished laying are full of trash bags. Everywhere I look there is trash. Our county also totally skipped household waste collection for those unlucky enough to have Thursday as our pickup day as my whole neighborhood does. So people’s refuse is just at the curb too, rotting in the bins.

We are some of the luckiest in my city. Floods, sinkholes, prolonged power outages, an ongoing fuel crisis. People without running water or sewer service in the worst hit neighborhoods. Limited access to food and people trapped in small geographic areas unless they have boats.

Luckily we can get around pretty easily within a couple miles of our house. So far I have only done that to self-haul trash a short distance and restock essentials at the only grocery store that was operating close to regular hours.

Otherwise the only option is Interstate 4. Dicey at the best of times, as anyone who lives in Central Florida likely knows well. Presently full in one direction with returning evacuees from the Gulf coast heading back west, and full in the other of supply trucks heading east from the Port of Tampa. Which it took multiple branches of the military interceding to get powered up and operating again.

I work mostly from home anyway—again a privileged position, and one I’m especially grateful for now. Our Internet service has also been okay the past couple days, which is more than many friends closer to the coast can say. Again, luckier than most. We are alive and have our needs met.

We’re also shaken, exhausted, and numb. Our heads are full of cotton. Each day we see fresh horrors—water still rising in many lakes and rivers just miles from our home, more people losing everything to flooding, areas of ground opening up to swallow structures and livelihoods whole.

We are okay. We are also not okay, and won’t be for some time.

[seafoamgalaxy]

I started messing around with the new Linkverse I’ve been considering. Not thinking about word counts or forcing set hours to be ‘writing time’ feels better. I can just open it up when I feel Iike it, jot down a few lines, then get distracted researching or reading something and it doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

No idea if I’m going to share this at any point, but here’s a preview.

Magic prickled Link’s skin as he lay there, blinking confusedly up at the sky with his good eye. There was something wrong here, he knew immediately. No birds flew overhead or circled in search of food. There was no buzz of insect life fluttering closer to ground level. And yet the grass was soft and slightly dewy beneath him, green and alive in his peripheral vision. The place was not dead; just, somehow, entirely abandoned. He pushed himself upright slowly on his elbows. There was nothing around him other than the open plain where he had somehow ended up. The grass rippled gently in the light breeze, sending another tickle of magic crawling along his arms and up his spine. It didn’t feel bad exactly - he had enough experiences with dark magic to recognize it instantly, and this felt far different. Pure. Not the familiar rich green of forest magic, but not dangerous. This was not Hyrule Field, though. Nor was it Termina Field. He knew both like the back of his hand. They each had more landmarks; trees, caves, rivers, old walls, well-trodden roads, and a ranch apiece. This was simply… grass, as far as the eye could see. No, perhaps not entirely. As he levered himself up onto his knees, Link spotted the sparkle of still water beyond a low hill not too far away. A lake, perhaps. It was as good a landmark as any. This made no sense, though. He had no idea why he was here, or how he had gotten here to begin with. And considering the last thing he remembered… He was fairly sure he shouldn’t be waking up anywhere right now.

[rastronomicals]

8:36 PM EST February 15, 2024:

The Rolling Stones - "Down The Road Apiece" From the album Now! (February 13, 1965)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under:    Artists formerly known as the greatest in the      world

[pretty-prince-lulu]

The Fortress of Tathtatèrith (Plungedlaboured)

Is it finished? Nope, but I've done enough with it that you'll be able to get where I'm trying to go with it, so... here.

I'll put a readmore right here because this'll have more pictures than I have still-thriving brain cells.

Do bear in mind I've not actually been playing very long, and this is maybe the.... eighth? fortress? that I've kept from going up in flames long enough to have Something Going On.

Out of the gate was picking an embark. I've been trying to build a fortress primarily out of glass for a while and kept cocking it up or embarking somewhere that made it a nightmare, so I scoured the map of the realm of Romxah for the exact right place to do it.

Sand? Check. Nearby abandoned monasteries so we can acquire books? Check. Elves we can have that old sacred eternal Unsteady Peace with who come and count our leaves every spring like the wood narcs they are? Check. VOLCANO so I don't have to be at definite war with said elves while making the glass? Check-check-checkaroo. We're too far from the coast to actually have any of the ocean in our tile, which worked out to be vastly more unfortunate than I expected.

Starting out, I had it in mind that I wanted to make use of the transparency of the glass in the design itself, because that is Very Cool. I considered but ultimately omitted the inclusion of crystal glass into the main design because working with crystal glass makes me cry in real life. I planned to go with green glass as the majority material, with clear glass as the accent. I like the look of the result but clear glass is also, as it turns out, a wailing nightmare to keep in sustained production.

Approaching the main entryway is... this. (With current morale stats. And supplies. I cannot keep these people in meat I stg).

Now, obviously, this is sort of cool, but not in any way finished. You'll be seeing that theme coming up a lot. I had planned to involve statues of the Founding Seven Dwarves in some way, but I'm still kind of batting around the actual execution because most ideas would provide goblins a means by which not to get jet-propelled into the Fanta. I like goblins landing in the Fanta.

The slits contain serrated green glass discs, ten apiece. This generally has the effect of turning enemies into a fine pink mist (see: the pieces of said mist still awaiting cleanup). The Draltha are on their way out with the Routed Roads squadron, a soldier team that I primarily send out to abandoned monasteries to cart off the books. I'm not sure I recommend them as war animals. They're long-lived but I also have to remember to graze them when they come back, and then unpasture them so they don't sadly sit there with the chicken leg icon above their heads making me feel all guilty.

Zooming out a little as we enter the doorway:

These rooms are for The Great Citadels, my 'primary' soldier squadron. Each statue is of that dwarf (and their spouse if they have one at the time of stone-casting). The other sets are of each soldier's war animal, and the blank engraved spot will be for the second war animal I have not yet finished harvesting the alunite to immortalize in said stone. I know it's not important in the scheme of things, but I really like to track who owned what animal. It makes my heart happy. A couple of the giant war dingos have died of old age, which I didn't realize could start happening from age six or so and I'm very sad about it. I thought I read they got 15-20 years but I must have been mistaken.

They got dedicated and specific rooms because I hate, absolutely hate hate vomit hate, how they all get unassigned from their fucking bedrooms after being sent out. No joke, it makes me think twice about dispatching them, so this at least makes it clear to me who ought to be returning to which fucking space.

Down this road, with its perpetually unfinished walls and floor, lies the barracks proper and the road to the foundry. What are those statues and slabs, you ask? Every time a forgotten beast or dangerous creature that involves a popup warning dies in our territory, I like to immortalize it. I just like that you can do that. I think of it as a running history of our land.

To the right there is an access shaft to the mist generator, which is not working, and I am salty about it to the point of tears. This map has no wind. ZERO wind. I did not realize it was a possibility until I had already built all the fucking infrastructure so I'm working on... alternative means of power. But it stands now it's sort of just a Circle of Embarrassment.

The foundry's main focal export is glass- obviously- with its quantum stockpile for random bits of metal coming out of melted down goblin shields. The draltha there are not war animals, but instead have a different very important job- to eat all the mushrooms that grow on the sand. It appears that we can't gather sand where the mushrooms grow, and this is the only situation in which the eternal Snack Hunger of my army of draltha is coming in actual handy. God knows these are a bugger to feed otherwise sometimes.

Given the sheer amount of stuff needing constant melting down I am seriously considering expanding this foundry. There's little space remaining to the south before I hit the edge of the map so I may add more workshops between here and the barracks. I am hesitating mostly on pain of them being on different elevations and me being terrified of fucking up the magma circuit expansion. I know me. I fuck things up. And this is a very hot thing to fuck up.

Heading down the hatch and to the north, we have the trading depot. This is one of the most unfinished parts of the whole place so far unfortunately.

It will EVENTUALLY have detailed rings of glass flooring and perhaps dedicated tables and chairs and stockpiles, but right now it is the emergency draltha feeding tunnel featuring the Barrel Hoard and the accidentally wild-caught elk birds I'm trying to get some offspring out of so I can sheepishly return them to the wild and they can stop pecking our shoelaces in vengeance. I also have tentative plans for a statue-lined road instead of the paved path we currently have outside, which would be both 1) pretty and 2) an early detection system for the werebeasts knocking stuff over.

To the south we have another mist generator. It doesn't work and has redundant gears and materials. We have not finished prettying it up for its eventual functionality. We call this the fail hole. We go in here to cry.

Here we have the rooms of the Duchess, the mayor, the manager and the bookkeeper. Here, and in the hall, you see the first instances of what I was trying to do with the transparency. The glass floors show what's happening downstairs, and if I layer the patterns, starts doing really interesting things indeed- as well as creating an effect that is uniform, but at the same time varied and dynamic.

Further to the right:

The prisons and the quarters of the captain of the guard, with our stockpile of cages and assorted animals being trained. The idea is that any visitors are almost guaranteed to pass through the guard's corridor, which makes it easier for me to forbid doors and lock them up until dear lady Sibrek Amudalåth Ebalfer (Sibrek Thunderbolts the Revered Beast) finishes... dealing with them. She's our captain of the guard, dungeon master and hammerer. Judge, jury, executioner. A sweetheart, really, despite that. You might spot her around- she's wearing a breastplate but no other armour. That's not an accident- this way I can actually see exactly where she is and identify her fast in the crowd. I really hate it when I forget to arrest people. This happens a lot. ADHD and all... so I have to give myself the best odds of managing to lock up the fuckers.

Onto the tavern!

The Mechanical Cake was my first real major attempt at designing the multi-level glass details. The idea was that the 'cream' would get a slight spiralling effect with the furniture on the floor beneath, with the middle layer of clear-glass cream also having some shading because the construction finishes partway through it (this is RIGHT at the end of the map! I'm corner to corner here!). The spoke at top right connects... to things. Things that don't fucking work.

Every statue is also specifically OF something that is either important to the city or took place and is something we want to remember. Mostly this is in the form of animals- a few wild creatures that earned names through good deeds (or misdeeds, in the case of Omalurush the giant wren). The manera is the one who wrestled that forgotten beast. The draltha is simply a celebratory piece of the animal once we tamed a few, as is the dingo. The cat statue is a custom design entirely, made to celebrate Stâkud Wethandle, the only male cat we had on embark. He was not interested in helping us have kittens, so we had to buy another male a few years later when I actually realised.

Down south is our kitchen which is SUPPOSED to be shaped like a gear and spoke and NOT like a penis. I feel the need to point out the meals on the fucking floor and the HUGE NUMBER OF BARRELS WE VERY MUCH HAVE. I don't know why they won't use the barrels. It's doing my head in. It doesn't matter how many I make, they just sit around being tube of empty failure. I'm convinced this is a rudeness directed at me specifically.

DESCENDING DOWNSTAIRS FOR ANOTHER TIME.

The hospital over its water reservoir, the stone and gemstone workshop, and more dogs! Yay! The floors and walls are, as always, not yet finished. Other stuff IS finished. I swear. It's not all like this.

To the north of this stairwell:

The woodworking, craftworking and tailoring suites. Tailoring in particular could do with more space (and I DID use up all that leather... why do they need new underpants so often?). I'll have to think about doing that in a way that doesn't throw off this whole... thing.

OH SHIT, I FORGOT TO GO UPSTAIRS FROM THE ENTRY HALL. Uh. Brief deviation time GO

The underground processing facility with our very important Farm Draltha. Another one of the most unpolished sections but it sure is one I spend a lot of time staring at trying to figure out why I'm out of booze again. Featuring the wildly akimbo disconnected wooden failures of machinery that doesn't work, and the little corner notification about how many forgotten beasts I'm ignoring with ALL my might.

Scrolling up is the paddock proper.

This is also, at this point, pretty wildly off-brief because I keep having to expand it and don't have time to do that in a design-preserving way. I will eventually figure out a good form to contort this into so that it looks like it was intentional and not just sort of... built around trees and things.

Note the single giant elephant that I had zero plans for but absolutely HAD to buy because who WOULDN'T buy the one elephant.

We scroll up to reveal... a plain glass ceiling... and UNEXPECTED RUBE GOLDBERG IDIOTIC EVIL TOM AND JERRY BULLSHIT!

I rebuilt the bridge from the retracting version to make it the kind that launches things upward instead. Usually, those things go straight into the lava, but occasionally they survive and make it onto my rooftop. Whereupon they activate my trap card, and the serrated spinning glass discs make their debut as belles of the ball and then it rains feet and happiness.

um. anyway. BACK TO THE MANUFACTURING HALL.

Here you see the guildhalls, zoomed out.

All technically unfinished. I plan at least a few token workshops with desks and tables to emulate the demonstrations they so frequently hold in there. The displays in the back contain artifacts- specifically, exactly enough artifacts to make the room value sufficient to qualify as grand guildhalls. Zooming in, however, we'll find evidence of one of my more useless passion projects!

Varying numbers! The water ripples and flows! It does, admittedly, lose something from a still image. The idea is to provide an interesting design-in-motion effect beneath these halls, mostly because I never know what to actually DO with guildhalls that isn't just... you know, production.

Some of the detail in those channels DOES get lost in the water flow. This is what it looks like dry.

To the right of the halls is my secret shame.

The top section of what was SUPPOSED to be a perpetual motion machine, and instead has poop everywhere and generates no power. There is an anterior section below that is much the same. I THINK I know what the problem is but it's going to take a lot of work to correct and I kind of want to explode in flames before doing that.

Going down again, we have the cistern to the water system, the first section of residential accommodation, and the first chapter of the pet cemetery.

For some reason, I didn't realise until THIS fortress that you could bury pets, and that you were SUPPOSED to do that. Not kidding, I abandoned the last fortress once I realized I hadn't been doing it. Shit like this matters to me, so every residential floor going down will have a section cut out for the pets. I also include a slab and a statue of that pet, which so far is mostly of that pet being adopted, but in the case of the turkey it's 'that time the turkey fell over'. It made me laugh so I let it stay even though it throws off the design pattern.

There's about 10 residental floors beneath all the other stuff and they all are designed off this same pattern. Eventually, they'll get flooring. I swear to god. I'm at year SIXTEEN and we still don't have all the floors. Fuck me.

DOWN ANOTHER FLOOR!

The barracks of the Routed Roads. Unfinished and looking decidedly spoonish. This is the last barracks I've built- which, yes, means I only have two military squadrons. It's been enough so far because I've been Bridge Discing All who Cross Me. I know damn well it won't suffice long term, but for now I'm enjoying spoon life with occasional desperate use of Dfhack.

TO THE RIGHT

The All-Faiths Chapel (The Mauve Fold) with some pet graves and a dwarf funerary annex! I may have murdered someone in the unused cairn!

I vacillated between designing this temple as a butterfly, a clover or a filigree emblem so I sort of did all three at the same time. The stripes layered beneath the swirls are not just ornamental water this time, but that's for the next floor!

The two dead dwarves were vampires and kept drinking my fucking children. I DFhacked them back to life and I'm not ashamed. DON'T DRINK MY FUCKIN KIDS.

on the south side of this corridor:

The outpost liason's quarters. Admittedly built in a bit of a hurry. I wasn't expecting the Royal Entourage yet. There's still some ore in there.

BUT HE IS NEXT DOOR TO:

The Bronze Vault.

Designed to resemble a heart, with tables running down the ventricle in an effort to create a sort of shadowed effect. I expected to need to build more bookshelves. Have you ever looked up how many books they hold? Holy shit. You could probably make do with one if you weren't a crazy person. As is most shelves do in fact contain just one book. Everyone leaves them on the fucking chairs. I guess our asses like to read.

Orbitting the lava and to the right:

The king's quarters!

I was going for a sort of semi-transparency chessboard effect here (I just noticed that door I missed fUUUCK). The queen consort has her own tomb because she is also a baroness and required her own separate one, so I added it onto the design as best I could. Why do they need so many weapon and armor stands anyway? I never see anyone who asks for one using any of them....

AND LAST OF ALL, BECAUSE I'M NOT GOING TO SHOW 19 FLOORS OF IDENTICAL BEDROOMS, THIS

MORE pet graves, and this. A stem and leaves, with artifacts in the tips.

I know you don't need a temple to every individual member of your pantheon of gods, but honestly, it doesn't feel correct not to build it, does it? They're not used very often, and mostly just have Megadogs playing in them, but I still felt like they were important to build.

Starting at top left and going down:

The Earthen Chapel, where we worship the Diamond Rocks, a deity who appears as a female dwarf and holds domain over minerals. The Secretive Chapel, dedicated to Betan, appearing as a female dwarf and governing silence and dreams. I'd probably worship this one if I was a dwarf. The SANCTUARY OF OBLIVION. The edgelord chapel for Vesh the Fated, who takes the form of a skeletal male dwarf. His statue features Atir Releasechannel, an undead dwarf who worshipped him ardently about 1000 years ago (presumably for feeling a kinship?). I ought to comb the legends file and found out what happened to him. As an aside, this feels like a common name for a god of this sphere. My last fortress had Vesh the Fated Death. The Cathedral of Aquamarines, dedicated to Onget Canyonambers. The weird cube sculpture is apparently actually of Melbil Flankboulders being cursed to vampirism. Wonder if this one had anything to do with the pair I have in the graveyard. Onget presides over jewels and takes form of a male dwarf. The Helmed Abbey, worshipping Arban Healergates, a god shaped as a male dwarf and who is the god of fortresses. He's depicted engraving in his statue.

To the right side of the stem! The Silvery Sanctum, the as-yet-artifactless temple dedicated to Zim the Turquoise Spines, a female dwarf. The goddess of mountains. The Temple of Taxing (???) for Limar the Ivory Diamond. A male dwarf god, who governs… wealth. Ah. I see. A divine Ted Dibiase, only with presumably less 'going to jail for massive fraud on the needy', but presumably the same number of dollar signs on his championship belt. The Submerged Cathedral, appropriately dedicated to the goddess of water, Kogan (Not to be confused with Betan, even though I absolutely do). The Sanctuary of Playing, for Lun Dashedtop the Courageous Justice. The goddess of the sky and the wind, who takes the form of a female dw…

she's a giant bat. WHY ARE THEY ALL DWARVES BUT SHE'S A BAT and, uh, last one: The Cathedral of Avalanches for Uzol irongravel the Amethyst. Male dwarf god of metals.

and I will stop this here. enjoy the mental image of our eight perfectly normal dwarf gods, one skeletal god, and one who is a BAT for NO REASON

[thewatercolours]

King Quest Ficlet: "Always on Hand"

Note: This is an unfinished scene. I ran out of steam, and summarized how it would finish at the end.

After taking the throne, Graham found fewer opportunities to visit the old Llewdor homestead. He had to grasp such chances firmly by the scruffs. If he did not, other needs would press on his time and make it vanish. Then one evening he would have a nightcap that tasted just too much like the golden bitter his mother and Madeline used to brew and sell to the local tavern, just to keep bread on the table. Or he would find himself strolling in the gazebo courtyard, and realize he could no longer picture the ivy back home – only that he had noticed the differences when he first arrived. And the longing to tread roads that knew his boots would set in, stronger and stronger, until he had to go.

The first time, Royal Guard Number One took an entire week just plotting the trip out. He marked maps in red ink. He arranged for enough provisions to equip a polar expedition. Amaya was commissioned to outfit half a dozen guards with new weaponry. (“Can we even afford this?” “Your safety is our priority, sire.” “But we can’t even pay to have the castle roof patched!” “It already needs patching. You don’t, and we’d like to keep it that way.”) The whole trip was pushed back by a month just for preparation time.

Graham bit his tongue.

The guards made quite the sight at the farmhouse, posting themselves on either side of the ladder that led up to the loft which had been Graham’s childhood bedroom, ramrod stiff. Guard Number Three went through a phase where she taste-tested every food Rosie served up, because it “wasn’t prepared in the royal kitchens. And according to the handbook, we are to assume it is, (sniff, sniff,) suspect.”

Madeline and Ginger tried to put a brave face on it and crack all the inside jokes despite the outsiders, but it wasn’t the same. Especially with the running commentary Guards Number One and Two kept up when they thought the family was not listening. “The noses on this family, though. I’d assumed the king’s nose was some kind of… exception.”

Rosie took to setting tea for the guards on the lawn, just so she could get some space alone with the family, and so that private conversations did not have to be whispered. “I’m racking my brain,” she told Graham in an undertone as they watched the guards through the diamond-paned window, “whether there’s some sightseeing I could suggest for them. You know, so they’d, um, give us an afternoon off. But darned if I can think of any sights round here.”

Ginger stroked her chin. “Maybe we could take them round to the ol’ griffin cave down by the river, and we could be really loud so it would wake up. And while they’re distracted by the griffin,  we could slip off and -”

“Ginger!”

“Just saying, they’ve got two swords apiece. They’d be fine.”

But Rosie put her foot down.

Three or four years into his reign, Graham had to put own foot down. “No guards,” he said firmly the day before he was due to set out for Llewdor. “None.”

Number One crossed his arms sternly. “Out of the question. You are-”

“ - perfectly fine traveling on my own,” Graham all but snapped, crossing own arms as though in mirror image. “You know I made my way to the tournament here completely alone, right? You know I recovered the three treasures alone, right? And you take up half the house when you’re there. You eat my mom and sisters out of house and home!”

“But sire –“

“For Pete’s sake, Number One! Putting a crown on my head didn’t turn me into china!”

“You were literally –“ The captain caught himself, then seemed to think better of it. “- literally kidnapped from Daventry Square not so long ago.”

He had something of a point. But, “That was a few years ago! I’ve leveled up since then. And I’ve worked hard to move on from all of that. It seems to me part of that is having some confidence that nothing of the kind’s going to happen again.” Graham stopped to catch his breath. “Look, I’ll compromise. I’ll take the main roads, and stay at inns where I can, and leave letters for the landlords to forward on to you. Zards, I’ll tie straps onto a cage of homing pigeons and wear it like a backpack, if that’s what it takes to get you off my back. Um, sorry,” he hastily corrected himself, feeling Number One’s glare even through his helmet. “I meant, if that’s what it takes to reassure you. Ten to one the magic mirror’s going to show what I’m up to the whole time anyway. Come on!” Graham summoned as charming a smile as he could in his frustrated state. “Meet me in the middle?”

Number One considered. “I might meet you at the 13.5% point. There’s a defensible-ish old guard house there, and it’s not that far from Daventry, and –“

“Not what I meant.”

To make short a long story, it took some haggling, but eventually Graham rode alone once again. Only Triumph heard his highway songs. There was no warm but careful politeness when his family opened the door. On the contrary, they tackled him. Fireside chats lasted into the wee hours, with no need to respect anyone’s carefully planned night patrol hours.

As the ancient grandfather clock chimed 2 o’clock, Madeline processed in from the kitchen with a steaming pan. “Anyone for seconds on hermit cookies? I’d just give them another couple of minutes - ” she said, even as her brother swiped one.

“Aaagh!” screamed Graham, dropping the cookie into the depths of the ancient sofa, and sucking his fingertips. “Zards-zards-zards!”

“Serve you right!” Ginger chuckled, bouncing Baby Jimmy on her hip. “You know that’s how Anisette lost one of her fingers in Puerto Pollo, right? Kind of.”

Graham fished for the cookie amongst the cushions. “Can you imagine if my guards were here?”

Ginger rolled her eyes. “Can I ever. Full blown emergency mode. That second guard would probably swan dive head first into the sofa, like you’d dropped your crown into the lake, or something. If you weren’t forbidden to eat it because it was more than one second.”

“You’re probably thinking of Number Three, not Number Two.” Graham gave up the search and reached for another cookie, using his shirt cuff as an oven mitt. “Matt would be more likely to

OK, this ficlet won’t resolve itself, and if I don’t do something soon, I’ll lose the drive to post it all together. So, in the spirit of that bullet points post, the general vision went like so:

Graham complains about the guards to his family but over the course of the scene actually describes some of the things he loves about them without knowing it.

Another quick scene takes places a few years later, when Valanice is preparing to move into the castle, and Graham’s mom and Madeline come to help with prep for the wedding and get to know her a bit. They end up having to work with the guards, who are surface level annoying but actually click really well with them, as we see through little hints.

Number One and Rosie get a one-on-one scene together. Though it’s never stated, it’s conveyed over the course of the scene that they begin to understand that in some respects, their relationships with Graham are similar, and that the other has a good deal more to them than meets the eye.

Montage, featuring the guards intersecting with Graham’s life. Adventures. Daily doings. Alexander’s kidnapping and disappearance. The guards are there, supporting, protecting, sometimes being doofuses but always reliably there.

Graham takes Valanice and Rosella to Llewdor for the first time. And the visit is awesome and everything but… at the end, Rosie says carefully, “Graham I haven’t seen your captain – or any of your guards – since you and Valanice got married. I was wondering, do you want to… bring them along next time?”

And Graham heartily agrees.

Cheesy! Corny! But soft one-shots is the name of the game.

[bearterritory]

Trey Newmann held Stanford hitless through three plus innings en route to his third win of the season.

CAL DOWNS STANFORD AGAIN

BEARS BEAT CARDINAL ON THE ROAD

Newmann Tosses A Gem; Bullpen Delivers

STANFORD – The California baseball team got a tremendous pitching performance from freshman Trey Newmann and the offense pounded out seven extra base hits as the Golden Bears defeated Stanford 7-4 on Sunday afternoon at the Sunken Diamond.   Newmann pitched brilliantly in his eighth start of the season. He tossed a season-high 5.2 innings and did not allow a hit until the fourth inning. He finished the afternoon surrendering four hits, four runs, with two walks and six strikeouts.   Offensively, Cal (26-15, 12-10 Pac-12) brought the lumber, clubbing five doubles, a triple and a home run. Peyton Schulze went 3-for-5 with his 17th double of the year. He finished his productive day clubbing his sixth home run of the season in the ninth. Max Handron also had a three hit day, going 3-for-4 with a run scored and an RBI. Nico Button went 1-for-5 with two RBI and Jag Burden went 3-for-4. The bottom of the order went a combined 10-for-18 with five runs scored and four driven in.

Stanford finished the afternoon with four runs on eight hits. The Cardinal were led by Owen Cobb who went 3-for-5 with a run scored. Jimmy Nati and Brandon Larson drove in two apiece.   With Newmann dealing, Cal's offense quickly got to work. Green Jr. got the Bears on the board in the top of the second. He led off the inning with a walk, he moved to third on a failed pickoff attempt and scored on the base hit to right field from Handron.   Cal added three more in the fourth. Handron and Schulze led off the frame with back-to-back singles. Button continued his hot hitting – clubbing a double the other way to score both runners. A bunt single by Burden put runners at the corners for Advincula who slapped a single to left field to score Button and make it 4-0 Cal.   The early run support allowed Newmann to attack the Cardinal hitters. Stanford got its first base hit of the game in the bottom of the fourth. A weakly hit ground ball was enough for Cort MacDonald to beat out a throw to first. Newmann quickly erased the runner and put another zero on the board getting a 6-3 double play.   In the top of the sixth Cal scored two more. Burden started the rally drawing a walk and scored on the little league home run from Advincula. Advincula blistered a ball to the gap in right center for a stand up triple and came in on a throwing error by the Cardinal – their fourth of the game.   In the sixth inning the Cardinal made it interesting. Newmann recorded two outs and had Nati on a two-strike count but could not put him away. Nati doubled down the left field line that scored two runs. The next batter, Larson jumped all over a 1-0 offering for his fourth home run of the year. Tyler Stasiowski entered the game in the top of the sixth and quickly got the Bears back in the dugout recording the first of his two strikeouts.   The Bears' bullpen was brilliant over the final 2.1 innings. Stasiowski went 1.1 innings allowing a hit and a walk with two strikeouts. Austin Turkington earned his second save shutting the door on the Cardinal over two scoreless innings.

The loss went to Stanford starter Ryan Speshyock (0-3) who could not get out of the second inning. He allowed two hits a run and a walk while striking out three.   Cal wraps up its seven-game road trip this weekend at USC when they take on the Trojans for three.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

CW: Paranoia, PTSD, reference to drugging, Finn is an unreliable narrator

Death Valley on AO3

Asheville, North Carolina

Present Day

-

There was a young man with a typewriter and a chair writing poems on the corner for ten dollars apiece. Finn handed over wrinkled cash, so worn it felt like cloth and not paper anymore.

"What's your name?" The young man asked, looking up at him. A chilly breeze toyed with the scarf he'd wrapped around his neck, and he had an endless smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Finn couldn't remember the name on the driver's license in his wallet. He just shrugged. "It's not for me. Write a poem for my cat."

"Your cat? Sure, no problem." The young man's fingers settled over the typewriter's keys, and then he paused. "Uh, what's his name, then?"

Further down the road, another young man played guitar with his back against a brick wall. Next to him, tourists in coordinated outfits streamed in and out of a store that sold snow globes alongside tshirts and local jewelry. Someone laughed, briefly washing the guitar out entirely.

"Her name. She is a girl. I call her Little Mother." The young man blinked. Finn cleared his throat. "Because she has just had kittens, you see. Two months ago. Two kittens."

Well, three. But only two had been born alive. And all three now made Finn's truck feel more like a home. Or less like a cage, anyway.

"Aw, that's cute. Okay, yeah, I can work with that." The young man paused, and then began to type, fingers clicking in a stuttering rhythm as letters popped up on the slightly yellowed page.

Finn stood in silence and waited, letting his eyes wander. No one looked at him beyond the barest glance, and yet he imagined he could see them pause, take him in. Maybe wonder if he looked like someone who did not belong.

Maybe he fit right in, another scruffy man in an old army jacket barreling towards forty in a city full of people who had found their way here from somewhere else. Not like some cities he'd been to, where the people seemed to radiate determined ambition. No, in Asheville everyone seemed to have come here searching for some place where the downtown had more people playing instruments for money - or writing poems - than it did hurrying men and women in suits. Where ambition was overwhelmed by a moment to sit still.

Did he like it? He didn't know.

He saw too many men here, in the gas stations along the side of the highway, in mechanic shops when his tire went flat or his brakes needed replaced, who looked like Robert. Narrow faces with narrowed eyes. Jovial laughter with something cold behind it.

Maybe he was just paranoid.

Maybe every man who smelled like diesel fuel and had dirty coveralls would always make him think of Robert.

Maybe none of them looked like Robert at all.

"Hey, dude."

Finn blinked out of his thoughts to realize the young man had finished and was holding out the piece of paper to him, even waggling it a little to get his attention.

"Oh-"

"Your poem is ready-"

"Yes, I see-"

They were speaking over each other, and Finn's cheeks colored in vague embarrassment he couldn't easily define. He took the paper maybe more quickly than he needed to, half-ripping it from the young man's hand and turning to walk away.

His heavy boots splashed through a mud puddle leftover from yesterday's rain, but he barely noticed. He skimmed the lines of the poem, trailing down the paper like falling leaves.

Little Mother / like all mothers you make new worlds / held in a single set of eyes / a universe in the flick of a tiny tail / which makes me the man who feeds planets / a little kibble / so that pebbles / become mountains / and galaxies / expand

Well... Not the worst thing he had ever spent ten dollars on.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he dug it out, walking along the curve of a hill past a group of women, one in a tiara and a Tshirt declaring her The Bride.

"Hallo?"

He winced. No matter how long he lived in this country, his accent always thickened on that first word of every phone call. He saw someone glance at him - probably normal, totally normal - and yet his heart stopped. Then started again as they kept moving.

Every friendly smile seemed like Robert's just before he'd handed Finn the water bottle in the desert.

"Hey there." Noah's voice was warm and friendly, as always. "You good? We were supposed to meet twenty minutes ago."

"What?" He pulled his phone back to check the little clock numbers on the screen, then winced. "I lost track. I'm sorry, Noah."

"No worries. You've always been awful at keeping track of what time it is." Noah laughed, and maybe it meant nothing, but Finn felt like it was mocking, a little cruel. His eyes closed.

"I used to be better at it," He murmured. Barely speaking. Maybe not even out loud.

"Well," Noah continued after a beat of quiet, "Come on. I got us a table. Come sit down with me. We need to talk about your next six months or so."

Finn nodded before he remembered Noah couldn't see him through the phone, muttered an assent, and hung up. He walked past an empty storefront with papers taped, tattered and torn. Some advertised live music that had happened long ago. One was for a rally occurring next week. Three identical posters asked Finn to vote no on a proposition.

Not that Finn could vote.

Not that he could even have said no anyway.

The restaurant was takeout only, but when Finn stepped inside a sour-faced woman took him by the arm with fingers that felt like bear traps and pulled him behind a curtain, past the busy kitchen and into a room in the back.

Dimly lit only by lamps in the corners, it had four tables. Three were empty. One held a familiar face. "Hey, you," Noah said brightly. He looked Finn over-

Up and down-

Finn shuddered as the woman let go of his arm. He still held the paper with the poem in his left hand, wrinkled from his grip, slowly crumbling.

Maybe he didn't look at Finn that way at all.

"Hallo, Noah," Finn said, and moved on shaking legs to sit at the other seat at the table. "Why am I in Asheville?"

"Oh, just a town I like." Noah leaned forward. A little older than Finn, he smiled broadly. A friendly man, when he wanted to be. The table was so small their knees nearly touched beneath it. Steaming coffee was set out in mugs in front of them by the same woman. "Have some friends here, long-time friends. I wanted to talk to you about the last job getting botched. Well, not botched. You just didn't show up for it at all, did you?"

Finn swallowed. His throat felt suddenly tight, as if a belt had been wrapped around it and pulled hard. Weight on his hips and a smile like a skull grinning pale...

He took a breath. "I-... asked someone else to do it. Was it not done?"

"No, no, it was. But not by you." Noah leaned forward, resting his weight on his forearms on the table. His knees nudged firmly into Finn's. "I asked you to do the job, Finn. The more people we bring into each job, the higher the risk. I asked you, and you said yes."

You did not ask. You told. But Finn didn't dare say the words. He only stared at Noah, heart pounding. "I'm sorry," He managed, voice thin. "I didn't mean to disappoint you."

"I'm not disappointed."

"You're not?' Finn's fingers curled around the handle of his mug. Coffee tasted bitterly dark. Bitter to hide something dissolved in it? No, Noah wouldn't do that.

Or would he?

"Then... why did you ask to meet me here?"

Noah frowned, tipping his head to the side. "Because I'm... worried."

Finn blinked. "Worried?"

"Yes. I've known you a long time. Not like you to skip out on jobs, sit in one place for a week at a time like you have been... You were searching for the name last week."

Finn thought he had disabled Noah's ability to read his search history. He thought-

"... Do you have a keylogger on my computer-"

"Finn. Why are you thinking about Robert Weber again?"

Finn's breath caught. "Please don't say his name-"

"Tell me why you want to look him up again and why you're avoiding me and I won't. Why is Robert Weber on your mind?"

Every repetition felt like Bloody Mary. Three times in the mirror and Robert might appear, grab him by the throat and snarl, how dare you, little Mouse...

"Stop-"

His hand shook so badly he dropped the mug, coffee splashing across the table. His poem and his cats forgotten as he stared at the tinted liquid across the table. Noah swore and grabbed napkins to wipe it up. Finn was too frozen to move.

Noah left a pile of soaked napkins to one side and grabbed Finn's trembling hand so tightly it hurt. "Finn, please, talk to me. Why? Just tell me why."

Was it concern in his eyes and voice?

Or jealousy?

Worry, or anger?

"I-I don't know," He whispered, and slowly raised his eyes without moving anything else. Noah was slightly blurred through his eyelashes. "Why are you watching everything I do?"

Noah sighed. "You know why, Finn."

Because you own me, your very own Mouse.

"Do I?" His lips barely moved.

Noah's own lips pressed together in a line. His eyes were dark. "Do I need to say it again?"

Because you're mine. Finn tensed, waiting for it, to hear the words out loud. Because you belong to me.

All Noah said was, "Shit. It's because I care about you." Then he slid his own mug across the table. "Here. Drink mine. I'll order some more."

Finn nodded, taking the mug in both hands and lifting it to his lips to sip.

Noah believed the spill was an accident, and Finn felt himself relax. This way, he knew there wouldn't be anything in it to make him easier to hurt.

Not that Noah ever had.

Maybe Finn saw Robert everywhere. Maybe Noah didn't deserve this. But maybe he did. Maybe Noah was just another tool in the box, to him. You always lock the tool back alone in the darkness.

"I wish you'd just trust me," Noah said, and leaned his cheek against one hand, tone full of sadness and regret.

Finn kept his eyes on the coffee.

What would you do to me if I did?

-

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[dustedmagazine]

Myriam Gendron — Mayday (Feeding Tube/Thrill Jockey)

Photo by Justine Latour

Quebecois folk singer Myriam Gendron is far from the first artist to turn in some demos expecting them to serve as a rough draft, only to decide that the results stand on their own. Since that debut collection of Dorothy Parker’s poetry set to music (2014’s Not So Deep as a Well), Gendron’s only put out one further record (2021’s justly attention-getting collection Ma Delire: Songs of Love Lost and Found), but she’s been busy with literally life and death. It was only after having kids and then putting together Ma Delire that Gendron really started touring consistently, and then that was sadly halted because of her mother’s sickness and eventual death. That experience informs Mayday, an album of firsts for Gendron; first more traditionally “studio” recording, first time she’s made her music her day job, and first time she’s written most of the songs herself. Despite all those changes, though, Mayday is just as exceptional, intimate, and timeless feeling as anything Gendron’s done before.

On Ma Delire Gendron brought in Bill Nace and Chris Corsano for a song apiece; here she widens and deepens her net (and Nace is back too). A mutual admiration society between her and justly-lauded performers Marisa Anderson and Jim White resulted in the three working together on three songs here, about a third of the total running time. The results are stunning; Anderson and White have worked together to great effect before and Gendron’s richly crestfallen voice fits in perfectly, whether the duo are calm and reflective on “Long Way Home,” foreboding and restless on “Terres Brûlées” (with Nace), or exploratory and elegiac on “Lully Lullay.” The former two also feature Cedric Dind-Lavoie on double bass, and it’s hard not to wish for more from that particular grouping.

That’s not because the rest of Mayday is lacking, though. Gendron eases the listener in with the Fahey-homaging instrumental “There Is No East or West,” and although the title references a gospel song, here it seems to speak more to the feelings of doubt, uncertainty, and grief that course through Gendron’s songs. Whether adapting Parker again on “Dorothy’s Blues,” turning out gemlike instrumentals like “La Luz,” or leaning into the soaring sadness of “Look Down That Lonesome Road,” Gendron continues to be a singular voice (figuratively and literally).

The title of the closing “Berceuse” translates to “Lullaby,” and gentle tone and lyrics match. Until Zoh Amba’s saxophone squeals surge in, playing the track off as Gendron’s electric guitar slowly gets quieter. It’s a striking moment, and after a few listens on that it’s hard to imagine the song and the album without, as if the messiness of life is bursting in to remind us why we need to sing children to sleep in the first place. As always, the beauty of Gendron’s music feels both hard fought and carefully wrought, something worth sharing and protecting.

Ian Mathers