#Iowa tiny house

[tinyhomesofiowa]

The Future of Housing: Trend Toward ADUs and Tiny Home Living in Iowa 

People are moving towards Accessory Dwelling Units (ADUs) as an alternative type of housing. You can explore the world of tiny homes in Iowa with many different floor plans. You can also customize the space with the help of our design experts. 

In this blog, we will discuss ADU's advantages and share some insights into floor plans for tiny homes in Iowa City.  

What are ADUs?  

ADU stands for Accessory Dwelling Units which are small homes built right on the same property as the primary residence. These units can be detached, or attached to the main house in the basement, or even a garage conversion.

Top Benefits of ADUs  

Affordable: As compared to traditional single-family houses, Accessory Dwelling Units (ADUs) are very cost-effective. They can be used as guest houses, for rental properties, or to house aging parents in a close and safe home.  

Highly Sustainable: Tiny homes are also considered cleaner and more sustainable for the environment, as they do not use as many resources.

Why a Design-Build Construction Company?  

When it comes to building ADUs or tiny homes, you need to hire a design and build construction company to get the desired results. They know the right way to execute the plan and make it easy to go through the planning, and construction process.

Managed Process: A design-build company manages both the design and construction parts of the project. Here you must deal with one party with clear communication and the process will be well managed.  

Cost Efficiency: There is a scope for saving money by going through a design-build firm.  They are also good at budget handling and ensure to complete your home within the given budget.    

Highly Experienced: When it comes to design-build companies, they are experienced and put that expertise into your project. They also know the local regulations related to construction that help you in the long term.   

Tiny Homes in Iowa City 

The city of Iowa City is very favorable towards tiny homes and encourages people to build them on their property, by making the zoning and permit process much easier and faster.

Types of Tiny House Floor Plans in Iowa 

There should be many floor plan options to build your tiny home. Here are some trending options in tiny house floor plans Iowa that you can select for your dream house. 

The Studio Plan: It is the best layout for people who like open space concepts. There will be a large room including space for living, dining, bathroom, sleeping, and kitchen.  

One and two Bedrooms: There are a few different options for one and two bedroom ADU’s. It really depends on who will be living there and the orientation of the ADU for your yard.

Custom Design: Many ADU builders Iowa also offer custom design services which are affordable and able to create a floor plan to accommodate your specific requirements.  

Conclusion 

When it comes to building an ADU for your family, trust the builders of Tiny Homes of Iowa. We are a professional design-build construction company that will make your dream project into reality. Reach out to Tiny Homes of Iowa today!

[frances-baby-houseman]

I would have bled out in the parking lot

Amber Nicole Thurman's death is on Trump's hands

Bess Kalb

Sep 17

In 2019, about six weeks after my first child was born, I found myself on the bathroom floor in a small, but nonetheless unsettling puddle of blood.

“Oh no,” I remember thinking. “I just did the laundry.”

I called out my husband’s name, but the sound caught in my throat. The pain I felt inhaling to get enough air out of my lungs to yell the two syllables in “Char-lie” jabbed my guts like a bicycle spoke to the abdomen.

So I was quiet, trying to keep breathing in a way that didn’t move anything inside me, and the pain pulsed a bit, then steadied, then dulled, then evaporated into whatever hell ether it came from.

Because there is no G-d (unless there is, in which case I abbreviated His name so as not to desecrate it, and also thank you, King of the Universe, for subscribing to this newsletter) this was the one time in my life I hadn’t brought my phone with me to the bathroom.

I decided to sort of slither-lumber to the door like a lame harbor seal, because I didn’t want to stand and loosen the spoke that had just stabbed me. I reached for the knob and let the door creak open.

The cat was there, looking at me right at eye level, keenly aware what was happening, and completely unmoved by it.

“You are dying,” he blinked, “Pity. Have a nice time.” He sashayed away.

Fortunately, our house in Los Angeles was small enough that from the bathroom door one could see everything. My husband was sitting on the couch with our infant, and I knocked on the open door to summon him. Within one one thousandth of a second, he set the baby on the (since-recalled) donut pillow and was holding my head.

I sat up. I breathed. No pain. I took a picture of the bloody mess on my husband’s phone, texted it to myself, he found my phone, then I texted the picture to my OBGYN.

Apologies for being graphic, but within the puddle there was something roughly the size and shape and color of a fig.

“Is this ok?” I said to my doctor, the bicycle spoke scraping lightly at my insides again from all the lumbering.

“Come in,” she replied.

Within two hours, I was in the waiting room of her office, accompanied by my terrified but SMILING mother, who was still, as is the Jewish custom, in town for “a few days or so” after the birth.

An ultrasound which felt like the finger of Satan himself revealed there was retained placenta in my uterus. If I hadn’t come in, there would have been more hemorrhaging, then sepsis, then whatever the cat foretold.

The next day, I was in surgery getting a Dilation and Curettage.

I went home, pumped the anesthesia milk, then fell asleep perfectly fine, my sweet newborn cooing merrily in the bassinet next to his alive mother.

Amber Nicole Thurman’s story was the same as mine, but it happened to her in Georgia in 2024, not California in 2019. She was a Black woman in a healthcare system that disproportionately kills Black women, especially postpartum. In 2021, the Black maternal mortality rate was nearly three times the rate it is for white women. Post-Roe, the toll is and will continue to be staggering.

Because post-Roe, the procedure that saved my life, the D&C, is something doctors cannot perform in states where matters of life and death have been left up to non-medical Christian-supremacist superstitions.

I know the pain Amber Thurman felt when that placenta dislodged and carved its tiny, treacherous hole in her uterine wall. I know the terror she felt when she saw the blood, and the rush of dread when she thought of what her child would do without her.

And when I vote in November for Kamala Harris and every progressive down-ballot candidate, I will do it because she can’t. And I will do it so that women in Georgia and Idaho and Texas and North Dakota and South Dakota and Utah, Arizona, Nebraska Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana, Florida, South Carolina, and West Virginia won’t have to meet the same completely preventable doom.

This election isn’t just about Amber Thurman. Every day of my lucky, breathing life is about Amber Thurman. Because the only thing that separates us, is one of us bled out under the right Supreme Court.

Let’s raise absolute federal hell about it.

-- From Bess Kalb's newsletter The Grudge Report. I pay for this substack -- though it's free-- and think this is a message worth sharing far beyond her newsletter.

[reasonandempathy]

The weird radical/revolutionary politic larpers on this site are so allergic to political pragmatism I swear lmao. I am definitely left of the Democratic Party and I am certainly voting for Joe Biden in November. Not because I like him (I don’t). He is absolutely horrific on Gaza and that’s only the top (and priority considering there is a genocide going on there) of a list of complaints I have about him. I even voted uncommitted in my state’s presidential primary (the Pennsylvania one; I had to write it in) to protest. However, I’m still thinking pragmatically. Trump has said things that make me credibly think he will be worse on Gaza (insane that being worse on Gaza than Biden is possible but it is unfortunately), and that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Project 2025, the potential for him to appoint more deeply conservative justices, more of his aggressively screwing over poor and middle class people with his tax policies. And does anyone else remember the spike in hate crimes after the race was called for him in 2016? Before he was even inaugurated? Whether people vote or not in November we will still have to deal with one of these two men in office come January unless all of the internet ancom larpers overthrow the government by then (doubt), so I’d rather deal with the one who will be marginally less bad and who didn’t try to overthrow the government. Can’t have your revolution if nobody’s alive cause you kept pushing off politically participating because there was no perfect option. 👍

Political pragmatist anon, sorry for ranting in your askbox but I feel like I lose brain cells watching these people talk. The other day I saw someone say Biden is bad because Roe v. Wade fell under his administration… even though the reason for that was Trump appointed justices. 💀 (2/2)

Fucking insane. Sincerely.

It's a completely, flatly binary choice for anyone with a brain stem and sincerity. It's distilled into the two below images:

Where all major third party candidates are even on the ballot

How many electoral votes the largest of those (green party, a.k.a. Jill Stein) would win if they won every single state they're on the ballot for.

They are literally, legally, incapable of winning the election. They are not on enough state ballots to win and Jill Stein would need to somehow win California and Texas to even "win" all the states they're on the ballot for. Which, again, would still not be enough to win the presidency and throw it to the currently existing Republican House of Representatives. Which would put Trump in office.

It's that straightforward. That simple. That BLARINGLY obvious to literally everyone except these people.

On the one hand you have:

Significant and continuous support for Israel and it's genocide

Record levels of pardons for low-level drug offenses

the gearing up of the strongest anti-trust regime since the early 20th century

the most aggressive NLRB I've seen in my lifetime, with massive wins and institutional changes to help workers

Including getting Rail strike workers a week of sick-leave that gets paid out at the end of the year, which is better than NYC and LA sick leave laws

Millions of people (not enough) getting student debt forgiveness

Some trillion dollars (not enough)of investment in renewable resources and infrastructure

Proposed taxes on unrealized capital gains (a.k.a. how billionaires never have any money but can still buy Kentucky, Iowa, and Twitter)

Effectively an end to overdraft fees

The explicit support of leftist world leaders like Lula de Silva. Who he has explicitly worked with to expand worker rights in South America.

Has capped (some, not enough, only a tiny amount really but it's something) some drug prices, including Insulin.

Reduced disability discrimination in medical treatment

Billions in additional national pre-k funding

Ending federal use of private prisons

Pushing bills to raise Social Security tax thresholds higher to help secure the General Fund

Increasing SSI benefits

and more

vs

Said Israel should just nuke Gaza and "get it over with"

Personally takes pride in and credit for getting Roe v Wade overturned

Is arguing in court that the President should be allowed to assassinate political rivals

Muslim Ban Bullshit, insistently

Actively damages our global standing and diplomatic efforts just by getting obsessed with having a Big Button

Implemented massive tax cuts on ich people, tax hikes on middle class and poor people, and actively wants to do it again

"Only wants to be a dictator for a little bit, guys, what's the big deal"

Is loudly publicly arguing that the US shouldn't honor its military alliances after-the-fact

Tore up an effective and substantial anti-nuclear-proliferation treaty with Iran

Had a DoEd that actively just refused to process student debt forgiveness applications that have been the law of the land for decades now

Has a long record of actively curtailing and weakening the NLRB and labor movement, including allowing managers to retaliate against workers, weakened workplace accommodation requirements for disabled people, and more

Rubber stamped a number of massive mergers building larger, more powerful top companies and increasing monopolistic practices

Fucking COVID Bullshit and hundreds of thousands of unnecessary deaths

Openly supporting fascists and wannabe-bootlicks ("Very fine people" being only the beginning of it

It's really not fucking close.

[b0rtney]

you want homosexuals in every conceivable scenario?

Boy oh boy do i have the substack for u: mine!

NO PLEASE LEMME TELL U THE STORIES BEFORE U LEAVE--

Current is Cinnamon Muffins. TLDR: Six queer boys in a homophobic tiny town in Iowa are trying to survive winter break dodging awful parents, social stigma, and mental health crises.

Next up is How to Get Away with Marriage. TLDR: Guy with awful, religious parents marries guy who is living paycheck to paycheck so they can both get all their younger sisters out of their shitty situations (but they fall in love ofc).

Longer desc of these plus the stories coming in the next months are below the cut! (Genres include fantasy, sci-fi, dystopian, mystery/thriller, coming-of-age)

Cinnamon Muffins centers on Taylor Macready, a homeless senior in high school holed up in a sleeping bag under a bridge after his parents kicked him out. He's fully ready to just accept death when it starts snowing on him while he's stargazing, but social outcast Wes Post is taking his nightly walk in a new direction and stumbles (literally) on his longtime crush, Taylor. Dragging Taylor home, Wes's parents prove themselves the only reasonable parents in this book by setting Taylor up on their pullout couch and nursing him back to health. Then Wes, whose closest school relationships include the kids who bully him for his anxiety-related speech impediment, has to get in touch with Taylor's friends to let them know the situation. Meanwhile, the mean girls of Swisher High School are starting a campaign to get homosexuality banned at school. Administratively, it gets nowhere, but it inspires several small-minded shitwads to take matters into their own hands. While Taylor is used to getting into fights, Wes isn't, but he'll have to sink or swim, because the teachers are not paid enough to care what happens in the hallways during lunchtime.

How to Get Away with Marriage opens with Luke Providence, son of a devoutly Baptist family in Nebraska, proposing to Patrick Demden, son of a recently-deceased alcoholic mechanic. The wealthy Providence parents have a longstanding agreement that once their children get married, they will receive a trust of $100,000 to use on the down-payment of a house and to start a life with their spouse. Patrick's younger sister tutors Luke's younger sister, but Patrick's sister is 16. This age gap doesn't matter much to the Providence parents, but it matters a lot to Luke, so he strikes a deal with Patrick: tell the parents he'll marry the sister, legally marry the brother, everyone gets to move to Colorado and escape abusive religious parents and crushing poverty. He needn't have done something so elaborate, Patrick would have married him for any reason at all. But the secret doesn't stay secret forever, and the Providence parents eventually come knocking, trying to recollect their children and their money.

Future stories I'll keep shorter, but feel free to ask about them either in the replies or my askbox and I'll elaborate!

Assassin x Demon King will be getting books 2 and 3! ADK is about an assassin and the king he was supposed to kill, both of whom have quit their jobs and started trying to save as many people as the assassin killed before he dies of a slow-acting poison in twelve months. Books 2 and 3 will have things getting awfully tragic and somewhat more horny than before! (No smut will make it into the print versions of these, that will remain on my substack alone)

How to Find Your Friends After the End of the World is a fantasy inspired by the isekai anime genre. Five friends in their 20s are on earth as it is wracked by a violent battle between the Heroine of the Gods and her Nemesis, and then, suddenly, they aren't. Earth has been destroyed and they are now on a new planet, in new (non-human) bodies, strewn across continents! On their new wrists, they have tattoos with each others' names, plus one (or two) new ones: their soulmates. Court politics and wastelands of monsters await them as they try desperately to reach each other, and their soulmates try desperately to reach them.

HtFYF will also have a prequel, focusing on the events that led to earth's destruction, and the battle between the Heroine of the Gods, a young woman, and her Nemesis, who seems to know more about the gods than she says. Why do the gods keep choosing such young heroes? What has the Nemesis done to put the world in such peril? Will the Heroine get to graduate on time despite the sleep she's been missing!?

The following do not yet have titles, but are fully fleshed out works ready to be thrown onto Substack:

A trilogy of eleven teens assisting in the fight against an agency that traffics, tortures, and then sells children with preternatural powers and abilities, and an exploration of the trauma those kids emerge with.

A murder mystery where a woman's sister dies, the police rule it suicide, and the woman enlists the help of a rumored contract killer to help her solve the murder-- but why does this rumored murderer-for-hire seem to know so much about her sister's death? And who was truly responsible?

A campy novel about a woman who graduates college, goes back to her hometown, and finds her highschool crush is still there, still single, and has since come out as gay. Of course, the only solution is to co-adopt an at-risk child from a neighbor.

This post will remain pinned on my profile, but for the next few days I'm having a sale on my substack tiers-- 20% off! That makes the cost to you just $8 per month to get a chapter every other day. 15 chapters for $8; that's a steal!

[capnmachete]

Johnny Davis x plus-size fem!OC (Period piece -- mid-1960s, Bikeriders universe but canon-divergent)

PART 9: Please Mr. Postman Long distance and long-haul trucking make a brand-new romance a little complicated. Two-for-one today; should have Part 10 up later tonight or first thing tomorrow.

By-request tags: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler; @zablife; @lou1333; @potter-solomons, @hoodeddreams13 Thanks you guys for reading and for your wonderful comments! If anybody else wants to be tagged, just LMK.

(Part 1/Part 2/Part 3/Part 4/Part 5/Part 6/Part 7/Part 8)

Part 9: Please Mr. Postman

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  That’s where the first postcard comes from; it's got a picture of the Liberty Bell on it.

The mailman comes around midmorning; you're usually still asleep after workin' all night.  But you’re off on Tuesdays, and Momma’s got her weekly hair appointment.  So today you’re the first one to see the mail.

You don't see it at first; it's stuck between the electric bill and Daddy’s Reader’s Digest and mixed in with the coupons for Ivory Soap and Crisco.  And when you do see it, you figure it just got delivered to the wrong house. Mr. Meadows -- he's the mailman -- is gettin’ up in years. It ain't the first the first time he’s mixed up the mail. 

You don’t flip it over to find out which house it was supposed to go to, until you’re halfway back to the front porch. 

And there it is, big as day:  Miss Corinna Albright, 210 Lucas Avenue, Granger Iowa, written in careful print.  And on the other half:  J.D. XOXO in slanty left-handed cursive.  Which leaves you standin’ in the middle of the sidewalk, grinnin’ like a fool, butterflies havin’ a riot in your stomach.  And real glad Momma didn’t get the mail first, otherwise you’d be gettin’ interrogated right now. “He sure don’t say much,” Gus remarks the next day, lookin’ over your shoulder; you're showin' Sharlette the postcard while you clock out and she clocks in.  “Quit snoopin’,” you tell him, and poke him with your elbow.  You ain't bothered.  Johnny's the quiet type; don't talk much, so it stands to reason he don't write much either.

“So what? Lookit them X’s and O’s,” Sharlette points out, wavin' Gus away.  She turns the card over again, looks at the picture and the postmark.  "Dang.  Man's only been gone three days, maybe four.  You sure all you did was kiss him?” she asks you, eyes narrowed.

“Sharlette!” you squawk, and smack her shoulder. You ain't really offended, though, on account of that's just how Sharlette is. Likes to tease and get a rise out of people. 

She hands it back with a grin.  “I’m kiddin’.  But don’t go runnin’ oft and elopin’ just yet; I ain’t up to workin’ doubles every day until Gus hires somebody else,” she teases. 

“Don't get ahead of yourself; we ain’t even gone on a real date yet,” you grumble, pretendin’ to be annoyed.  Even though you ain’t really.  And Sharlette knows it.  She sees the tiny smile you can’t quite squash under pretend-aggravated, and smiles back, reachin' into the cooler for the milk.

--- The next postcard comes a few days after that – St. Louis, Missouri, with a picture of the Arch.  And another one early the next week.  Arkansas this time. No photo on this one, just says Arkansas in big, bright cartoon-looking letters. Maybe there ain't anything noteworthy enough in Arkansas to put on a postcard.

It don’t really matter what’s on the front anyways; it’s the J.D. XOXO on the back of each one that lights you up like a dang Christmas tree, every time.  They might just be postcards, and not fancy love letters, but each one makes you feel like a princess all over again. 

By the end of two weeks you’ve got a little collection goin’ – the three you already got, and another one from Memphis, with Graceland on it.  All four are stuck in the frame around the dresser mirror in your bedroom.  Every time you go to fix your hair or put on a little mascara, there they are – proof that Johnny Davis is out there thinkin’ about you while he’s on the road.  And it purely makes your day.

“That man’s sweet on you,” Sharlette tells you with a confident nod, lookin’ at the latest postcard.  “There ain’t no mistakin’ it.”

“Where’s all these postcards comin’ from?” Momma asks, when the inevitable finally happens and she beats you to the mailbox.  “And who’s J.D.?”

“Just a pen pal!” you lie, brightly, hopin’ it sounds convincing.  “I joined a club; there was an ad in the back of the Life Magazine last month.”  And you slide the card out of her hand.  And manage to keep yourself from snatchin’ it away fast enough to make her suspicious.

“Sure is friendly,” she comments, eyes narrowed.  Has seen the Xs and Os too.  Dangit. 

“Well, you know, folks in different places have different ways!  And some folks are just naturally more affectionate than others!”  you chirp, and hustle back to your room before your pink face can give you away.  Once you’re behind the closed door, you flop back on your bed, huffin’ a relieved sigh.  And spend the next few minutes admirin’ that postcard and daydreamin’, with a sappy smile on your face.

It ain’t that you especially like lyin’ to Momma.  And you ain’t ashamed of Johnny, or embarrassed about havin’ a new maybe-boyfriend.  Or gettin’ kissed into a floaty, muddleheaded daze right outside your own work.  But Momma’s set in her ways, and nosy.  And  got a lot of opinions and questions, most of which you don’t particularly want to hear, or have to answer. 

She’d have a fit, too, if she knew you were plannin’ to go on a date with a trucker.  A divorced trucker, at that.  According to Momma you can’t trust a divorced man.  Or truckers either.  She’s convinced every last one is a skirt chaser and a two timer, with wives and girlfriends scattered all over the map. 

And Daddy?  Well, holy moly, let’s don’t even bring Daddy into it.  He’s real protective and old fashioned. And just as quiet as Johnny but not half as easygoin'.  Has already scared off three or four fellas that wanted to take you out.  Just your luck that Smooth Melvin, of all people, is the only one Daddy approves of so far.  And that’s only because Daddy and Melvin Senior work together at the mill.  The two of ‘em spend nearly every Saturday evenin' sittin’ in the garage, drinkin’ beer and gruntin’ at each other, while Momma watches her shows inside.

So it’s a whole lot simpler to just keep everything under your hat for now.  You're grown, after all, and what Momma and Daddy don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.  Besides, you ain’t even officially had your first date yet, so there ain’t really anything to talk about.  (At least that’s what you tell yourself, because it makes you feel a little less guilty about keepin’ secrets.)

---

As nice as the post cards are, and as bubbly and happy as you get when one shows up in the mail, the phone calls are even better.  There’s only been two so far; they ain’t easy to manage on account of Johnny’s on the road so much.  The timin’ gets complicated, and long-distance calls from a payphone get real expensive real quick. And you don’t have much privacy, either, thanks to Momma at home and a certain unnamed nosy fry cook at work.  Somebody’s always around.  Johnny don’t have any privacy either, really – on the road for two weeks solid at a time, sleepin’ in the truck and callin’ from payphones here and there. Still –  you do get to talk a little bit, and you make the best of it.  The first time’s on your night off, real late, after Momma and Daddy have gone to bed.  You’ve got the curly cord on the wall phone in the hallway stretched about as far as it’ll go, down the hall and through the crack under your closed bedroom door. 

Which means you gotta sit on the floor next to the door while you talk.  Stretch that cord any further and you risk pullin’ the phone clean off the wall and makin’ a commotion.  And if you wake Momma up, then that’ll be the end of the conversation for the night.

“I like the postcards,” you tell him, keepin’ your voice down, twistin’ the cord around your finger like a lock of hair. "I wasn't expectin' that."

“Yeah?” he says back, and you can hear the smile in his voice.  Imagine the way his eyes are crinklin' at the corners.  “I know it ain’t the same as travelin’, and seein’ all those places for real, but it’s somethin’.”  There’s a little pause, and you hear a sound you recognize already – the bright metal clink of Johnny’s lighter, and a sharp injale.  “Besides, I hadda make sure you don't forget about me while I’m gone.” Not a snowball’s chance in hell you’re gonna forget about Johnny Davis.  “It just so happens I got a very good memory,” you tell him instead, grinning to yourself.  “But a little reminder never hurts.” You stay on the phone as long as you can, until you’re gettin’ sleepy and Johnny’s about to run out of dimes.  And talk about anythin’ and everythin’.  You tell him about all the latest gossip and goin’s on in LaGrange.  He talks a little about the girls, and about what his life in Deerfield is like when he’s home, which is hardly never.  And his bike.  Which has a name, you find out. “Louise?”  you ask him, surprised, laughin’ as quiet as you can manage.  “Why Louise?”

“Hell, I dunno, really,” he tells you back.  “It ain’t named after anybody or anything like that.  Just kinda looked like a Louise to me, I guess.” 

And you flirt, although not too much, what with Johnny on a payphone in a truck stop, and Daddy sawin’ logs down the hall loud enough to rattle the windows.  And you sittin’ on the linoleum floor next to your bedroom door,  because that’s as far as the phone cord will go.  You have to put the receiver down for a minute and get up and move around, because your butt’s fallin’ asleep. "Gonna have to get you a phone for your room," Johnny tells you, when you pick up again and explain. "Or a longer cord, at least. So's you can be comfortable while we talk. Can't have you sittin' on the floor gettin' all cramped up and uncomfortable."

The truth is you'd sit on a damn cactus if that's what it takes to talk to Johnny, hear that low, slow voice, remember the way his warm breath tickled your ear. "You're bein' awful thoughtful," you tell him instead. "Keep it up and I might just have to kiss you again next time I see ya," you say, and laugh. "Yeah? I guess I better hurry up and get back there, then," he says, and laughs, that warm cigarette-raspy chuckle.  It’s the nicest sound you’ve heard all dang day.  Only thing better is hearin' him call you sweetheart a few minutes later, when he says good night. You hang up and go to bed all warm and tingly, thinkin' about future kisses.

---

The next time he calls, it’s at the diner.  On a slow night, thank heavens, so you can actually stand still and talk for a minute.  You scuttle back to the tiny office, to the phone on the wall just outside the door, and snatch up the receiver Gus has left danglin’.  “You still up for goin’ on that date?” Johnny asks you, as soon as you pick up. 

You say yes so fast you nearly trip over your own tongue; it comes out in an almost-shout.  Loud enough to make Gus turn plumb around at the grill, and give you a funny look. 

“Well – I got a little time off comin’ up end of next week,” Johnny tells you.  “Cut a deal with my dispatcher to switch some things around, and got a coupla days off in a row.”  It’s enough time, he explains, to swing by for a quick visit with his girls in South Bend, then stop off at home for a night.  And then come to LaGrange. You're about tickled enough to jump up and down. And surprised -- you didn't expect this to happen so quick, but you sure aren't complainin'. "Really? What day?” you ask him, eager. 

"The 20th," he tells you.  "If I get an early jump and make good time, I can drop the load off and be in LaGrange before dark.  You free that night? Lemme take ya out someplace nice. Stay out as late as you want; I won't hafta run off so quick this time.” 

You peek inside the office door at the calendar on the wall. And then gasp. *The 20th?  September 20th?”  you ask Johnny, excited.  The timin' couldn't be more perfect! “The Webster County Fair’s goin’ on that weekend, over in Fort Dodge!” you tell him.  “It ain’t but maybe twenty, thirty minutes from here!” 

The county fair’s just about the most excitin’ thing that happens around here – bright lights and music, ferris wheels and funnel cakes.  It’s near about perfect for a first date. 

Johnny thinks so too. “Yeah?  Well alright then; that's what we'll do,” he tells you.  “You be good, Miss Corinna. Can’t wait to see ya.”

And you hang up floatin’ on air, stomach full of butterflies again.  And do a little two-second-long happy dance that earns you another sideways look from Gus.  You start right in on him, about needin’ the night of the 20th off, puttin’ on your best pretty-please and battin’ your eyelashes.

Gus grumps and crabs about it right off the bat.  You're not surprised, since there ain’t much Gus don’t grump and crab about.

But you ain’t worried. You got a whole week to convince him, or get one of the other girls to switch off. And you will do whatever it takes, move heaven and earth if you have to. Because there is no way you're gonna miss out on a date with Johnny Davis. ___ Song inspo: Please Mr. Postman, The Marvelettes (1961)

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This looked like a nice big old 1890 farmhouse, reasonably priced, in Vinton, Iowa. $399,999 (reduced $30K) 5bds, 3ba. But, I'm so confused by the layout and construction, I don't know what they did to it. Take a look.

This is an entrance foyer.

That has a glass wall & door opening to a nice curved hall with a pretty, original staircase. But, they don't show where it leads.

This looks like an entrance coming in from the barn or garage area.

Is it a ladies lounge area for the tiny powder room?

This room looks like a sitting room, but it's set up as a double office. Has a lovely fireplace and inlaid flooring.

The office doors open to this room that looks like it was once 2 rooms or more.

There's a library ladder that is used to access closet shelving, and then you move it and have to lift it down to access the weird high open shelving.

Turn right and there's this hall with a glass ceiling with some industrial windows on the left.

Which I think leads into this enclosed patio room that has an indoor grill with an exhaust hood.

And, then there's this room with a bar. Looks like there's a lot of unfinished construction projects.

Back to another hall.

At the end of this hall is the kitchen dining area. I think there's a glimpse of another ladder to access the high shelving.

The kitchen wraps around to this room were the wall's been removed, as you can see by the changes in the floor.

I think that this may be a full bath.

One of the bedrooms.

A children's room.

Odd bath with nightstands leads me to believe that there was a bed in here.

Small walk-in closet. Is that a shower curtain on the right?

Small bedroom with an open closet corner.

The primary bedroom has a balcony.

Back downstairs this looks like a workshop.

Garage/workshop.

Then outside is a pergola with a confusing ceiling. Maybe they were making storage above?

I can't make this structure out, but it looks like there's a cat tree and a slide.

Nice pool in the middle of all the structures, and it looks like a little town.

Hot tub under a pergola. There're stairs into the hot tub, so what is that other structure for? Spiral stairs go up to the bedroom terrace.

There's also a small patio on the side of the house. What's that little door set into the step? This home has such strange features.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/214-W-10th-St-Vinton-IA-52349/93825274_zpid/

[sharkjumpers]

I wrote this one when we lived in Colo, Iowa, which is a town no-one reading this will ever see. 775 people lived there and we were two of them. Our house was tiny and the pipes froze every winter; one winter they burst. We ate a lot of potatoes because they were cheap, and I taught myself to bake bread from scratch. We were young in our love and not yet married and there was a shack behind the house where I’d experiment with my boombox and my guitar to see what different sort of atmospheres I could get on tape. “There Will Be No Divorce” was one of the songs on The Coroner’s Gambit that took a long time to get right, and the final version was recorded in that little shack on a rainy day. Originally it was a much more uptempo song than the one I ended up doing that day; it had a sort of vaguely half-rockabilly feel. It sounded, I mean, more like the one I played at this session.

[westadventure24]

Day 2 - Mid-Day Fun

We have spent much of our time today driving across Iowa. It is true what they say…acres upon flat acres of corn, corn, wind turbines, solar fields, and, I know you are shocked, but more corn.

We may have taken a 1 mile unexpected detour to a state we didn’t intend to visit. As brief as our stay was, I can say the two miles of Nebraska we saw was nice. Good road anyway.

We did make our way into South Dakota as planned and Todd was thrilled to find the speed more to his liking. So, after an immediate increase in cruise control, we visited Sioux Falls for a nice patio lunch. I will let the pictures speak for themselves. The restaurant was the site of a power plant built in 1908 and the remnants of an old brick mill house that was only in operation for two years in the early 1900’s. Mom was pleased to see the mill house reconstruction had been sponsored by her colleagues of the Telephone Pioneers of America. (That is what the tiny sign says in the pic that you probably can’t see!)

Whew! That’s a lot for a mid-day update!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Marina Bolotnikova at Vox:

Every five years, farm state politicians in Congress perform their fealty to Big Ag in a peculiar ritual called the Farm Bill: a massive, must-pass package of legislation that dictates food and farming policy in the US. 

At the urging of the pork industry, congressional Republicans want to use this year’s bill to undo what little progress the US has made in improving conditions for animals raised on factory farms. The House Agriculture Committee late last month advanced a GOP-led Farm Bill with a rider designed to nullify California’s Proposition 12 — a landmark ballot measure, passed by an overwhelming majority in that state in 2018, banning extreme farm animal confinement — and prevent other states from enacting similar laws.  Prop 12, along with a comparable law in Massachusetts passed by ballot measure in 2016, outlaws the sale of pork produced using gestation crates — devices that represent perhaps the pinnacle of factory farm torture. While many of the tools of factory farming are the product of biotech innovation, gestation crates are deceptively low-tech: They’re simply small cages that immobilize mother pigs, known as sows, who serve as the pork industry’s reproductive machines.  Sows spend their lives enduring multiple cycles of artificial insemination and pregnancy while caged in spaces barely larger than their bodies. It is the equivalent to living your entire, short life pregnant and trapped inside a coffin. 

Ian Duncan, an emeritus chair in animal welfare at the University of Guelph in Canada, has called gestation crates “one of the cruelest forms of confinement devised by humankind.” And yet they’re standard practice in the pork industry.  While Prop 12 has been celebrated as one of the strongest farm animal protection laws in the world, its provisions still fall far short of giving pigs a humane life. It merely requires providing enough space for the sows to be able to turn around and stretch their legs. It still allows the use of farrowing crates, cages similar to gestation crates that confine sows and their nursing piglets for a few weeks after birth. And about 40 percent of pork sold in California is exempt; Prop 12 covers only whole, uncooked cuts, like bacon or ribs, but not ground pork or pre-cooked pork in products like frozen pizzas.  The pork lobby refuses to accept even those modest measures and has sought to link Prop 12 to the agenda of “animal rights extremists.” It has also claimed that the law would put small farms out of business and lead to consolidation, even though it is the extreme confinement model favored by mega factory farms that has driven the skyrocketing level of consolidation seen in the pork industry over the last few

For nearly six years, instead of taking steps to comply with Prop 12, pork lobbyists sued to get the law struck down. They lost at every turn. Last year, the US Supreme Court rejected the industry’s argument that it had a constitutional right to sell meat raised “in ways that are intolerable to the average consumer,” as legal scholars Justin Marceau and Doug Kysar put it. 

[...]

Overturning Prop 12 would be extreme, and it could have far-reaching consequences

Several other states have gestation crate bans, but the California and Massachusetts laws are unique because they outlaw not just the use of crates within those states’ borders, but also the sale of pork produced using gestation crates anywhere in the world. Both states import almost all of their pork from bigger pork-producing states (the top three are Iowa, Minnesota, and North Carolina), so the industry has argued that Prop 12 and Massachusetts’ Question 3 unfairly burden producers outside their borders. California in particular makes up about 13 percent of US pork consumption, threatening to upend the industry’s preferred way of doing business for a big chunk of the market. 

The California and Massachusetts laws also ban the sale of eggs and veal from animals raised in extreme cage confinement. Both industries opposed Prop 12 before it passed but have largely complied with the law; neither has put up the fierce legal fight that the pork industry has, led by Big Meat lobbying groups like the National Pork Producers Council, the North American Meat Institute, and the American Farm Bureau Federation. 

House Agriculture Committee chair Glenn Thompson (R-PA), who introduced this year’s House Farm Bill last month, touts “addressing Proposition 12” as a core priority. The legislation includes a narrowed version of the EATS Act (short for Ending Agricultural Trade Suppression), a bill introduced by Republicans in both chambers last year to ban states from setting their own standards for the production of any agricultural products, animal or vegetable, imported from other states. 

The Farm Bill language has been tightened to focus solely on livestock, banning states from setting standards for how animal products imported from other states are raised. It is less extreme only in comparison to the sweeping EATS Act, but also more transparent about its aim to shield the meat industry from accountability. At the Farm Bill markup on May 23, when the legislation passed committee, Thompson urged his colleagues to protect the livestock industry from “inside-the-beltway animal welfare activists.”  The provisions slipped into the Farm Bill may have consequences that reach far beyond the humane treatment of animals. They “could hamstring the ability of states to regulate not just animal welfare but also the sale of meat and dairy products produced from animals exposed to disease, with the use of certain harmful animal drugs, or through novel biotechnologies like cloning, as well as adjacent production standards involving labor, environmental, or cleanliness conditions,” Kelley McGill, a legislative policy fellow at Harvard’s Animal Law & Policy Program who authored an influential report last year on the potential impacts of the EATS Act, told me in an email. 

[...]

Why this Farm Bill faces long odds

Despite the monumental effort from the pork lobby and its allies, the odds of this year’s Farm Bill nullifying Prop 12 appear slim. Democrats, who control the Senate, oppose the House bill’s proposed cuts to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), which makes up about 80 percent of the bill’s $1.5 trillion in spending, and its removal of so-called climate-smart conditions from farm subsidies made available by the Inflation Reduction Act. Members of the House Freedom Caucus, on the other hand, are likely to demand steeper cuts to SNAP, formerly known as food stamps. 

The broader EATS Act has been opposed by more than 200 members of Congress, including more than 100 Democratic representatives and several members of the Freedom Caucus; Prop 12 nullification language is not included in the rival Senate Farm Bill framework introduced by Sen. Debbie Stabenow (D-MI). Many lawmakers and other observers consider the House bill dead on arrival, which would mean that a Farm Bill may not get passed until 2025.  Prop 12’s pork regulations, meanwhile, took full effect in California at the start of this year after two years of delay due to the industry’s legal challenges. After implementation, prices for pork products covered by the law abruptly increased by about 20 percent on average, a spike that UC Davis agricultural economist Richard Sexton attributes to the pork producers’ reluctance to convert their farms to gestation crate-free before they knew whether Prop 12 would be upheld by the Supreme Court. 

House Republicans want to use the Farm Bill to push back against even modest improvements for animals in factory farms.

[holycatsandrabbits]

Hey, y’all, it’s Weird Wednesday! Where on some Wednesdays, I blog about weird stuff and give writing prompts.

Today: The Villisca Axe Murders: 1912 Tragedy

On the night of June 10, 1912, eight people were murdered with an axe in a house in Villisca, Iowa. Josiah Moore (shown above), and his wife Sarah, along with their four children and two neighbor children, were killed in their beds by a person who has never been identified. And I mean never—the internet doesn’t even have a favorite suspect.

I used to live in Iowa, and I have actually been to the “Villisca Axe Murder House,” now a museum and historical site, and a frequent host to ghost tours. Visitors are free to leave their mark on the rafters in the barn, writing messages which range from the usual names and dates to oddly creepy warnings like “Don’t stand on your head in the kids’ room.” On my visit I was struck by how little has changed, though Iowa has traveled more than a century into the future: at the end of our tour, we were discussing suspects and expressing sympathy for the victims, exactly as people have been doing outside that house for over 100 years.

Check out the blog post for the whole story and some creepy writing prompts, such as: 

The Closet

According to an early rumor about the case, there was evidence the killer hid in a closet and left cigarette butts, and the mark of his own butt on a bale of cotton batting, to show he’d been in the house before the family got home that night at 9:30. Then the killer waited until at least midnight to actually attack.

So first of all, this isn’t based on any actual evidence. But it would make for a good story, because in June in Iowa in a little house without air conditioning, those closets would be sweltering. How would a murderer withstand hours in a tiny, overheated space? Could he be incredibly disciplined? Could he be having a psychotic break? Sneaking onto the paranormal side of things, could he be a ghost or inhuman creature? What would happen if a murderer attempted to hide in a closet and fainted from heat exhaustion?

DannyeChase.com ~ AO3 ~ Linktree ~ Weird Wednesday writing prompts blog ~ Resources for Writers

Image credit

[kaylawritess]

sypnosis: When Steve told you he wanted six kids, you thought he was joking. Spoiler! he wasn't.

Dad Steve Harrington.

"Steve do you really want six kids?" You ask, a little worried considering you're 9 months pregnant and about to pop and he's already talking about your second.

"Oh yeah. All girls too. Though a mini Steve doesn't sound too bad." He says, flicking through a magazine with his hand on your thighs that are draped over his lap.

"I'm not promising you six kids. If this one's gives us hell you best believe you're getting the snip." You say pointing at his croch and he winces when he thinks of it.

"I'd obviously never force you but doesn't a van full of kids sound fun? Never a dull moment in the Harrington house." He adds with a happy look on his face.

Little did you know your first daughter was hours away from being born.

21/11/87, The first Harrington daughter, Sylvie Harper Harrington, was born.

"She's so cute." You say, your eyes welling up with tears from holding your daughter for the first time.

"She won't stay this small forever." Steve complains, a sob leaving his mouth and you hear Robin's cackle from the side of the room.

"I'm not saying now but when she starts walking maybe we could have another one?" You cave and Steve looks up smiling.

"Really?" His eyes have such excitement and love filling them, how could you ever say no to him?

Steve was whipped. He knew he loved you but seeing you give birth to his child and raise her had him obsessed with you.

So it wasn't much of a suprise that 6 months after Sylvie's birth you were staring at positive pregnancy test.

16/2/89, the second Harrington girl was born. Her name being Juno Faye Harrington.

Both the Harrington girls gave their parents hell. You and Steve thought you were done with kids.

Steve was upset but he knew he would always love his girls but he never felt like their family was complete.

You weren't trying. But 4 years after Juno was born you were sat in a random diner, on the way to Iowa to visit your parents, which already had you nervous since they hadn't met Juno yet, the two lines on the pregnancy test didn't help to calm your nerves either.

4/11/93, the third Harrington was born. You and Steve hadn't thought of names after your other two girls made you not want more kids so after a very stressful pregnancy and a few days of thinking after she was born, Aven Samantha Harrington was finally named.

Juno and Sylvie were obsessed with their little sister. So was Steve. He missed the getting up at night and seeing you feed his daughters.

He missed seeing you getting excited over the tiny milestones.

It was you who brought up the idea of a 4th child.

Aven was one and a half when you started trying, you knew Steve was fertile but 9 months after you were heavily pregnant and trying to figure out a name.

"Why didn't we just find our the gender?" You ask with a huff, throwing the baby book down on the floor, but quietly not wanting to wake your daughters.

"We both know it's a girl. I'm incapable of having boys, not that I mind. I love my girls." He looks over to you and you have a look on your face.

"Livia! If it's a girl can we pleaseeee call her Livia?" You beg. Even going as far as to clasp your hands together.

"You're acting like I'd say no to you. Of course we can. What if it's a little boy though?" He says, rubbing your belly with a smile.

"Junie said we have to name him Wells." You smile, not hating the name at all.

"Hi Livia or Wells." Steve leans down and kissed your stomach.

4 days later, 22/1/96 Livia Rose Harrington was welcomed to the world.

Now with 4 kids life was more hectic then ever. Sylvie was 8 and wasn't happy sharing a room with Juno anymore. So they were house hunting.

What didn't help was Aven kept pointing at your stomach saying babies were in there.

"Aven, if mommy's pregnant why isn't she big?" You asked your sweet daughter with a sigh, trying to get her to go to sleep.

"Because the boys are only little mommy." She says, pushing her face into your chest while you sigh

That night, 6 months after the birth of Livia, you were sat on the toilet with a positive test in your hand. Just like you were 7 years ago with Juno.

On the 28th of May, 1997, you gave birth to twin boys. You also got your tubes tied that day.

Your boys, Lux Becker and Wells Elliot Harrington were born.

You and Steve agreed no more kids at the appointment when you found out it was twins.

Steve got his van full of kids and you got to feel like your family was complete.

Growing up in the house, there was never a quiet moment. Whether it was Sylvie kicking her younger siblings out of her room and then playing Metallica as loudly as she could (Eddie always gave her Cds)

Or Juno crying about how she can't figure out what to draw next and needs to call her uncle Dustin right at that very moment, didn't matter if it was 2am.

Or even Aven running after Steve with her makeup begging to make him pretty or asking if her she could go to a makeup store.

And Livia, their quietest child would have her nose in a book while her younger brothers ran around throwing baseballs at their dad who always had a smile on his face.

When Sylvie came and told you both that she was expecting at 18, just as you were 18 years ago. Steve broke out in tears.

Excited to be there for a whole new newborn stage and to be a grandpa.

Robin never let him live it down.

"Dude you're a whole grandpa at 37!" She teased and Steve's eyes welled up with tears again.

"My baby is so grown up." He sobbed and you rolled your eyes, moving yourself in front of him.

"Honey, you really have to stop crying when anyone brings it up. You cried in Cosco yesterday." He shoves his head into your shoulder, his body shaking as he cries.

"Mommy! My water broke!" You hear Sylvie say and Steve stands up so fast you stagger back slightly.

Sylvie waddles downstairs with her hospital bag in hand.

"Steve start timing her contractions. Sylvie come sit down we won't be going anywhere until your daddy calms down." You sit your daughter down and rub her back, letting her squeeze your hand through her contractions.

You look up at Robin and she's already nodding, knowing you're asking her to watch the other 5.

"Steve. Honey, snap out of it. Go start the car please."

"I'm gonna be a grandpa!"

...

Cute lil Steve fluff!!

[vaspider]

Your tags about your relatives on the post about the Manhattan project really struck a chord with me.

I've spent the last 20 years wrestling with my own ancestry in relation to the world wars. My grandparents were all catholics in Nazi occupied territory. One was part of a major node of the underground, a last stop before getting Jewish families and downed allied pilots back across to London. Another used her school bag to smuggle ammunition and forged papers through Nazi checkpoints. One was in a work camp for his teens for spitting on the German officer who ordered him to dig trenches for them. And the last volunteered to drive delivery trucks into Auschwitz.

The conclusion I've come to is that they're not me, I'm not responsible for their actions. I can only take responsibility for how their actions make me feel.

I am very much okay with my feelings about them. Being ashamed of the one I am ashamed of definitely feels like the appropriate emotion.

Sorry I haven't been able too keep even water down for 2 weeks and I'm loopy on painkillers. Tldr I understand how you feel.

Thanks. I appreciate it.

I haven't really talked about a lot of it publicly, but I've been working on art about it for a while. My grandparents on one side were both part of the Manhattan Project - both were broke farm kids who joined the Army because... well. Poverty recruitment is a thing. My great-grandmother grew up in a tar-paper shack in the Northwest Territories, my grandmother grew up in a tiny house on a farm in Iowa, and my mother grew up in a suburban bungalow in Illinois.

The Manhattan Project is where my grandparents met and were married so I literally exist because of that assignment, and the middle-class life that I grew up with is very much because my grandparents could afford a house in the suburban Midwest with the money they made (and not being shut out of GI loan programs on account of being white, and and and).

On the other side of my family are my Japanese-American cousins who had grandparents and IIRC an aunt in internment camps. (My uncle was born after the war.) So I have been kind of sitting with ... all of that... since I figured it out as a young adult.

No, they're not me. I'm not them. But the life I live now, and the life I had growing up, is very much because of their involvement in the Manhattan Project. That's part of my life, and pretending it isn't doesn't do me any good. I just don't talk about it all the time.

[brown-little-robin]

Artist asks: 7, 8, 9, 10, 16

Hiii Rebekah <333

7. Who are some artists that have inspired you?

answered here and I will also add: Clay Coyote artists from Hutchinson, Minnesota; artists of The Octagon of Ames, Iowa, including Steve Aitchinson (who makes these incredible tiny vases)!

8. How would you describe your art style?

umm... for ceramics... I guess... smooth? medium-smooth? Cute...? I mean, not all of it is cute exactly, some of it is more serious, but overall it's definitely kawaii inspired. My professor once called my sculpture work charming, and then clarified, not in a cheap, cliche way, but just genuinely charming, which seems to fit :')

9. What's the longest you've ever suffered from artblock?

In ceramics? Oh, only like three weeks maximum ever, which is kind of astounding. My ceramics hasn't ever been very limited by lack of passion or ideas or... or willingness. I've been blocked by life circumstances in college or while we were moving from house to house, which was painful, but not by just... not having inspiration. not yet, anyway! the recent three-week-ish art block was, I think, due more to anxiety about committing to working in porcelain (which is expensive) than to Art Block Proper. after I overcame my reluctance to use the porcelain, I made like thirty sculptures in four days.

10. How do you deal with art block?

Again, in sculpture, that's not really something I face too much. The biggest problem I come across is when I am just not feeling drawn to any particular animal or idea, and that's when I might get out my handy dandy TINY ZINE and just PICK SOMETHING and make five or six of it. I like doing sets of lots of the same thing to break through that kind of aimlessness; it allows me to make multiple sculptures with small variations without devoting too much brainpower to coming up with a new goal every time.

16. What was something you used to struggle to draw sculpt with confidence/ease, but have now mastered?

Big cats' faces! It took me a while to really understand the three-dimensionality of the face of a leopard. I had to spend a while studying their skulls before it clicked that the nose bridge and the muzzle and the cheeks and the eyes and the lips and the eyebrow ridges can be thought of as separate components that come together to create one face, rather than thinking of the face as One Whole Thing.

[numinousmysteries]

Vanquish by Wisdom Hellish Wiles (8/9)

On AO3 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

@today-in-fic

The sun was setting by the time Mulder and Scully made it back to Spartanburg. To avoid being spotted at the house, they parked the car on the next block over and walked the rest of the way. 

Hidden behind a thicket of bushes across the street they watched the house and waited.

Mulder could feel Scully’s fear radiating off her. And although he shared her anxiety—that their son would reject them or that something had happened to him along the way and they’d never see him again—it wouldn’t do them any good to both be too tightly wound to react. 

“We should’ve brought stakeout snacks,” he said. “Remember those disgusting pickle-flavored chips you used to get?”

That got a smile out of her. “Pickle Dilly,” she said. “And they weren’t disgusting, they were delicious. It was a shame we could only find them in the Midwest. It got to the point where I was secretly  hoping you’d pick a case in Iowa so I could get them. I remember your stakeout snack of choice to be much more repulsive.”

“Scully, pork rinds are a reliable source of protein”

“Along with excessive sodium, saturated fat, and a complete lack of  vitamins or minerals. I hope you’re not still eating that garbage,” she said.

He swallowed hard. “Well, I don’t have my in-house doctor in charge of my meals anymore. Maybe if she considered moving back in I’d be able to make better choices.”

Even in the dusk he could see her rolling her eyes. “Let’s talk about that after we figure out what’s going on here.”

“So you’re saying there’s a chance?” Mulder asked, lowering his head and leaning in closer toward her. 

She curled her lips inward and raised her eyebrows at him. He knew better than to push the issue right now, so he just smiled at her and gave her hand a squeeze.

The street they were watching was quiet, but was soon illuminated by the lights of a passing car.

“It’s stopping,” Scully whispered. They watched as the car turned off the road toward the house. 

“How are you feeling, Scully?” he asked. “You ready for this?”

She nodded. “I can handle it.” 

After they saw the car’s lights turn off and heard the front door of the house open and close, they slowly made their way out of the bushes and across the street. 

They had staked out serial killers and genetic mutants but realizing he was about to see his son terrified Mulder even more. His son. The tiny baby he last held only days after his birth was now a teenager. There was no way William would recognize Mulder, but would Mulder recognize his son? Or would he look like a stranger, any random kid he’d pass on the street without a second thought?

Walking ahead of Scully, he retraced his steps to the front door of the house. 

"How're you feeling?" he asked, turning back to her. 

She took a deep breath. "So far, so good."

This time they stormed inside both with guns drawn. The same man was in the study but this time he was joined by a woman they hadn’t seen in years—Monica Reyes. Scully was right. Reyes had betrayed them. There was no sign of William or the smoking man. 

"Where is he?" Mulder shouted.

"I've told you already—" the man started.

"Everything you told me was a lie. You've been working with Spender all along and I know you have my son."

"Mulder,” said Reyes. "We’re prepared to offer you a deal. In exchange for your son, we'll ensure that you both survive colonization.” 

"That's quite the offer," Mulder said. "Wipe out the entire planet and get to watch the world burn with the man who's hell bent on annihilating billions of innocent people. No fucking way."

"What we're offering you, both of you,” Reyes continued, nodding at Scully who kept her gun set on the heavyset man. "Is the chance to survive, alongside your son."

“Monica, how could you do this?” Scully said. “You helped me when William was a baby. You saw what we were up against. How could you join them?”

“Dana, as a doctor and a scientist you should understand. This is an opportunity to be a part of an incredible, conscious-altering journey. By making contact and cooperating with the colonizers, we have a chance to understand the greatest mysteries of the universe. And if you choose to join us, you’ll get to be with William.”

“Don’t you dare talk about our son!” Mulder shouted. “You need to tell us where he is now.” 

He turned to Scully who had put her gun down and was running her fingers along the spines of the books on one of the room's shelves.

"Scully, what're you doing?"

"He's in here."

Mulder turned to look at her while still trying to keep the heavy-set man and Reyes in his peripheral vision. Scully placed both her palms against the books and the shelf rotated open, revealing a room hidden inside. Mulder couldn't see inside from where he stood, but Scully gasped.

"Oh my god," she said. 

"Scully, what is it?"

She didn't turn to face him. He stepped backward trying to get closer to her vantage point while still being able to see the room's other occupants.

"William," she whispered.

"Talk to him if you'd like," the man said, startling both of them. "But he may be harder to convince than you'd hope."

The temptation to see his son was overwhelming and Mulder dropped his gun and joined Scully at the entranceway to the secret room hidden behind the bookshelf.

And there he was. Fifteen years since he'd last seen him and he knew immediately that the teenage boy in front of him was his son. He wore a black hoodie with the hood up but everything he saw was a pure combination of him and Scully. The boy was tall, probably taller than him,  but with Scully's blue eyes and fair complexion. He had Mulder’s angular jaw and nose.  William’s eyes reflected fear and anger and Mulder recognized the expression in himself. 

This isn’t how it should be, Mulder thought. They shouldn’t be reuniting with their son in this nondescript clapboard house in rural South Carolina. They shouldn’t be rescuing him from the men who’d been plotting against them for decades.

"Are you my real parents?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"Oh William," Scully ran to him and wrapped her arms around William. Mulder was hesitant to approach, nervous of scaring off the boy who had gone through so much already in one day.

 "It's us, William," Scully said.

William still seemed tense and he didn't move to touch Scully as she stepped back from their embrace. 

“I know you,” William said, facing Mulder. “I had dreams about you. We’re on the beach—”

“Building sand castles?” Mulder asked.

William stared at him, puzzled.

“I had those dreams, too,” said Mulder. “Even before you were born. I always knew it was you.”

“How?”

Mulder smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s a chance my exposure to an extraterrestrial virus allowed me to access another level of consciousness but I’d like to believe it’s just because I’m your father and—” 

He paused. “And I love you.”

It was the first time he’s said the words to his son since he left him. He meant those words, he was more sure of them than his own name or the fact that he stood in this room. 

“I–” William started.

“It’s okay,” Mulder interrupted. “You don’t have to say anything. I know you have parents who raised you most of your life, but I need you to know that I love you and I always have. And your mother loves you more than anything in the world.”

Mulder looked to Scully but she was silent, taking in the sight of her son. 

“Are you alright?” Mulder asked William. “We need to get you out of here.” 

"No," William shook his head. "I have to stay here. My grandfather needs me to save the world."

"That's true," a familiar voice said coming from behind them. Mulder and Scully turned around to see the smoking man. His skin looked like melted wax. Monica brought a lit cigarette to the stoma on his neck. 

"You motherfucker!" Mulder shouted. "You should be dead."

"Such language to use in front of your son--and my grandson,” the smoking man said. 

"I'm sure it's nothing compared to whatever horrible things you've been telling him.” 

Scully reached her hand out to Mulder's forearm to calm him down. "You can't use our son like this," she said.

"He's not using me. I want to do this," William said. "He said it's the only way anyone will survive. That we can preserve the greatest accomplishments about humanity this way. 

"That's not true, William," Mulder shouted. "This man is evil. He doesn’t care about humanity. He's using you to save himself at the expense of the entire planet. If you come with us you can help develop a vaccine that can save everyone. There has to be another way. 

“There is no other way,” said William. “They tried to develop a vaccine, but it failed.”

Mulder shook his head. “Scully–your mother can figure it out. And we have you now. You can help us.” 

“Why should I trust you? You gave me up when I was a baby.” 

Mulder turned toward Scully. His stomach dropped. As much they dreamed of reuniting with their son over the past fifteen years, he knew she dreaded this moment with equal intensity. 

Scully stepped forward and took her son’s hands in hers.

“William,” she said. “I realize this doesn’t make sense but I put you up for adoption because I wanted to protect you. I believed that as far as you were anywhere near me or your father you’d be in danger. The men who brought you here today have been targeting you since you were a baby. It broke my heart to lose you but I would have given my own life if it meant you’d be safe. I love you more than anything or anyone in this world and I’ve never stopped loving you.” 

William furrowed his brow and sucked in his lower lip. Mulder saw the gesture in himself and knew that Scully, too, was mentally cataloging all of their son's features and mannerisms and learning which were hers, which were his, and which were William's own. 

“How do you know the vaccine will work?” he asked.

“We don’t,” Scully said with a sigh. “But we have to try. I know you have a good heart, William.”

“How do you know? You don’t know me at all.”

Scully took a deep breath. “I know because I started feeling your thoughts today. I don’t know how it’s possible, but we’re linked somehow. I felt you. I felt that you love your parents. I know you’re scared, but you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

William softened, dropping his shoulders and unclenching his jaw. “I felt you, too. I felt your love.”

“Oh–” Scully started, hugging her son close and burying her head in his chest. This time, William wrapped his arms around her. 

Mulder gave in to the urge to hold his son and stepped forward to envelop both of them. He felt Scully’s warm form against his chest as he clung to the fabric of William’s hoodie.

“You’re taller than me now,” he said, pulling away.

“I guess it’s been a while,” William said smiling. 

“As charming as this family reunion is, we need to proceed,” said the man at the desk. 

Mulder and Scully pivoted around and saw the man and Reyes both holding guns pointed straight at them.

“We have a team of doctors ready to collect the boy’s bone marrow and begin the transplant. Will you two be joining us?” the man said, gesturing at Mulder and Scully.

“Never!” Mulder shouted, the veins in his neck straining. “And William isn’t going to be your pawn.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Reyes said. “We’ll have to proceed with Plan B then.”

Before she finished speaking, a cadre of heavily armed men clad in black military gear streamed into the room from down a flight of stairs. Blindsided by the sudden siege, Mulder and Scully were quickly overpowered. The men confiscated their guns and tied their hands behind their backs. 

“Get them out of here,” the smoking man said. 

Mulder and Scully struggled but the men easily forced them out of the house and down the driveway. 

“On your knees,” one of the men shouted.

They knelt beside each other and heard multiple guns cocking behind them. 

This is how it would end, Mulder thought. After so many near-death experiences, they were going down without much of a fight. Murdered execution style just yards away from their son. It was a cruel irony that they had just found William and now they were about to die. 

“William is going to survive,” Scully whispered to Mulder. “He’s going to be okay.”

He smiled at her. With a gun literally to her head, Scully only cared about her son’s safety. 

“I love you,” he said. He hadn’t said it since they’d been reunited but he couldn’t die without telling her.

“I love you, too,” she said, looking at him with wet eyes.

A crash of sound erupted behind them. Mulder closed his eyes, thankful that at least his death would be quick.

Then, silence.

Mulder opened his eyes. He was still alive. And so was Scully, kneeling next to him. They turned around and saw William standing above them. The men were on the ground at his feet—and their heads were gone. It was as if their brains exploded from within, nothing remaining but tissue and blood strewn on the ground.

“William–” Scully said. “How?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can do things with my mind, but I’ve never hurt anyone before. I just had to save you.” 

Mulder and Scully stared at each other and then back at their son. He crouched down to untie them.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Mulder.

[the-bagelbitch]

grad school final essay chronicles (all of them due May 9)

essay 1: research paper on transmasculine embodiment (18pg minimum)

- turned into a paper about how invisibility of transmascs is actually systemic (don’t even get me started on HBIGDA thinking the boob bone is connected to the piss bone)

- 10+ pages in and despite being totally novel research it is looking less like the type of research paper my prof wanted

- prof makes me rewrite it :/

- prof has lots of really stupid rules that I don’t like

- I cut notes into tiny pieces yesterday and make murderboard to connect the ideas and Frankenstein them all into a type of essay the prof wants

- 7 pages in as of today written today when I restarted it

- prof offered to give me moar feedback yesterday but did not reply to my email today :V

- I am still going to write the essay I got 10 pages into. It will be written. It is super fucking important trans history. I am SOOO mentally ill about this essay. it might turn into my thesis

essay 2: amatonormativity, anxiety, campus literature (16pg minimum)

- I’m interested in it but I honestly don’t care all that much

- prof likes my essays so I’m not too worried

- will finish after essay 1 (on page 8 of essay 2)

- I should have picked an easier type of project like syllabus creation

- fun fact this prof has a mugshot online

essay 3: WGS something (8pg min)

- we have prompts

- I have not looked at the prompts

- I didn’t do nearly enough reading for this class

- this will either be really hard or really not hard

project 4: zine on trans friendly housing (is like 30pg or whatever)

- gotta finish gathering data on one state

- gotta put it all in the doc n make it pretti

- so many things to do jeez

currently exploding the state of Iowa with my mind

also have to get grades done before the 14th

gotta grade 2 of the class’ big projects and scan so much shit and organize it and shit

I wish to dissolve into a fine mist

[kindness-ricochets]

Fic Stats Tag Game

Rules: Give us the links to your fics with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and your fic with the least amount of words. tagged by @tinyarmedtrex Most hits: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Republican National Convention - 25804 hits -

Jesper and Wylan meet at a farmers’ convention and, long story short, they might have to overthrow the government. Jesper was supposed to spend spring break at Nina’s—then a joint turned up in his backpack and his da decided he was coming to the convention instead. He’s miserable and bored until a chance encounter with a shy artist. He never expected to meet someone sweet, gorgeous, and interested in him in the middle of Iowa. There’s just one tiny problem: Wylan’s father is nationally prominent and openly homophobic.

Second most kudos: Things and Comforts - 811 kudos -

Everything is over and nothing is normal. Wylan should be delighted. He can live a comfortable life now, no longer afraid of his father. He can bring his mother home. He can spend the rest of his life making payments on that steep fee of Jesper's. (He hopes he can spend the rest of his life making payments on that steep fee of Jesper's.) Instead the return to Geldstraat brings new challenges. It's not Kaz or Jan calling the shots anymore, it's Wylan, and he'll need to decide if he's equal to the challenge of managing his father's empire, caring for the remains of his family, and becoming one of the few good men in Ketterdam.

Third most comments: A Measure of the Sum of Parts - 195 comments -

Wylan works to improve Kerch, partly by aligning with a growing workers’ movement, even as half the Merchant Council digs in their heels. Jesper knows he should be more, but he’s afraid to become more of a disappointment. The boys love each other. It’s enough… just barely. Then Jesper makes a terrible mistake, one that leads him to Ravka and a sojourn in the Little Palace. He needs to learn to control his abilities, he wants to, but that's easier said than done. Back in Ketterdam, Wylan digs into his family history, uncovering another of Jan Van Eck's dirty little secrets. Jesper and Wylan expected a reunion in Ravka. They never expected to mend their relationship at the heart of an international incident. Lies, poison, and lost children... just like old times!

Fourth most bookmarks: I had to go into my statistics for this because as far as public bookmarks, it's tied -- everything looks worse at night (I think I'm overthinking) - 158 bookmarks

It's Kaz's own fault for being a stupid skiv and getting himself nabbed off streets he knew like breathing. It's Kaz's fault. He tells himself that. (Repeatedly.) Kaz is held, captive and sick, in a basement he can't recognize, but when luck gives him a way out he runs to the closest safe place he can think of--Wylan's. Wylan doesn't expect a desperate, fevered crime lord to break into his house. He's stopped thinking life will be the way he expects, though, and sure Kaz is the Bastard of the Barrel, but he's Wylan's friend. What else could he do but look after him while he recovers?

Fifth most words: Love From 1964 - 75403 words

Ororo and Scott return to New York, but with so many homes lost, she struggles to believe in this one. What are you if you can't feel at ease in your own home or your own skin? Meanwhile, Charles plans to bring a new student to the school…

Least words: "Wylan" - 404 words

A single word can hold so much meaning…

That was fun! Thank you for tagging me! I'm not sure who to tag, but if you want to, please consider yourself tagged :D