#Latest commodity News

[macrostreet]

Navigating the Financial Landscape: Your Comprehensive Source for Real-Time Market News, Investment Insights, and Analysis on MacroStreet

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[annieavfx]

#AVFX Daily Forex Update

Hello Value Traders, Many many happy returns of the day!

[perrysoup]

Like, do Zionists think that as a US citizen, I’m not equally disgusted with my own government? Like, not just for the latest shit in the news, but its entire history.

Am I crazy? It’s always “you hate Israel cause it’s a Jewish state”

Nah dog, I hate the genocide. The capture of land. The murder of innocents.

AND MY OWN FUCKING COUNTRY SUPPORTS IT AND STILL COMMITS IT!

Refusal to rectify the torture caused to first nationers.

The over throw of a legitimate government in Hawaii to give us an excuse to build a Naval base there.

The treatment of native Alaskans as a commodity with their land.

Refusal to treat “our territories” as equals.

Just like you, I can hate multiple things at once. And I can push for change in more places than one. Wild I know that I don’t have the focus of a mayfly, but trust me, I can hate and change both at the same time.

Idk why it’s hard to realize that my disgust isn’t about Judaism, I think it is a fascinating and (overall) well meaning religion that people abuse and use to abuse. My disgust is, you know, the genocide.

Wild I know

[stockspredictor]

Australian Commodity Market : Prices & News

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The commodity market in Australia is influenced by a variety of factors, including global demand, weather conditions, and political and economic events. For example, a drought in Australia could negatively impact the production and export of agricultural products, while an increase in demand for iron ore from China could boost the price of the commodity.

Investors can participate in the commodity market through futures contracts, options, and exchange-traded funds (ETFs). These instruments allow investors to speculate on the future price movements of commodities and manage their risk exposure.

Overall, the Australian commodity market plays a vital role in the country's economy and is an important source of revenue for many businesses.

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week

🌍🌡️ - Climate Prophecy: The Forecast Is 100% Chance of 'Cool'

1. No cases of cancer caused by HPV in Norwegian 25-year olds, the first cohort to be mass vaccinated for HPV

Last year there were zero cases of cervical cancer in the population that was vaccinated in 2009 against the HPV virus, which can cause the cancer in women. The HPV virus is extremely common, basically everyone comes into contact with one version or another of the virus in their lifetime.

The vaccine was given to girls only out of an abundance of caution, they were the most likely to contract cancer from the viruses, and because there was limited supply.

2. ‘Every square inch is covered in life’: the ageing oil rigs that became marine oases

Built decades ago, California’s offshore oil platforms are home to a huge diversity of marine life. According to a 2014 study, the rigs were some of the most “productive” ocean habitats in the world, a term that refers to biomass – or number of fish and other creatures and how much space they take up – per unit area.

3. Vaccinations may have prevented almost 20 million COVID-19 deaths worldwide

Vaccinations estimated to have averted 19.8 million COVID-19 deaths worldwide in their first year, according to the latest Imperial modelling study.

In the first year of the vaccination programme, 19.8 million out of a potential 31.4 million COVID-19 deaths were prevented worldwide according to estimates based on excess deaths from 185 countries and territories.

4. Global climate policy forecast predicts ‘well below 2°C’ Paris Agreement climate goals will be met

They report only a 10% probability we exceed 2°C by 2050. Temperatures are expected to peak between 1.7°C and 1.8°C, which is consistent with the “well below 2°C” objective of the Paris Agreement in Art. 2.1c.

5. Young driver fatality rates have fallen sharply in the US, helped by education, technology

Crash and fatality rates among drivers under 21 have fallen dramatically in the U.S. during the past 20 years.

Using data from 2002-2021, the report says that fatal crashes involving a young driver fell by 38%, while deaths of young drivers dropped even more, by about 45%.

6. A Virginia woman was feeling sad. Her doctor prescribed her a cat.

7. Remote workers report saving $5,000 to $10,000 a year

What value would American workers place on the privilege to work from home?

In a 2022 survey by FlexJobs, 45% of remote workers reported saving at least $5,000 a year. One in 5 reported saving $10,000 a year. The savings average out to about $6,000 a year. The poll reached 4,000 workers in July and August of last year.

Three years into the remote-work revolution, research increasingly suggests that telework is a commodity, a job descriptor worth thousands of dollars in potential savings and improved quality of life.

---

That's it for this week :)

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[drdemonprince]

i was on NPR talking about Autism shit two weeks ago, and i have the book sales figures from that week and that national media appearance had.... absolutely zero relationship to sales. on the typical week these days, 1,400 to 1,500 copies of Unmasking Autism will sell. The week that I was on NPR there was a slight dip; only about 1,300 books were sold.

i have done a lot of press for my books. For Laziness Does Not Exist I did easily a 100 damn podcasts and radio shows and newspapers and excerpts in magazines. none of it corresponded to a noticeable bump in sales. the biggest "get" my publicist found for my latest book was the Glennon Doyle show, a booking she and her team celebrated and then spent months clamboring excitedly for... it, too, had no obvious relationship to sales.

Unmasking Autism became a bestseller because some other guy made a tiktok about it, and then a bunch of tiktokkers made videos about it too. all on their own. without any prodding from me, or any relationship to me. it was completely organic, passionate, and sincere, and rooted in the book's true merits and usefulness to other people, and that's why it inspired lots of sales. and continues to more than a year and a half later. all the press I did for Unmasking Autism prior to the release of that tiktok did relatively far less. NPR, Goop, the LA Times, Lit Hub, Jacobin, Huffpo, the New York Times, the Financial Times, MSNBC, Business Insider. Didn't matter. at least not much. so why do i bother?

publishers really ride your ass trying to make you give lots of interviews and show up for lots of events but it's all based on the worship of traditional media and magical thinking that it will somehow convert listeners into buyers. and that's just not how it works. the truth is 95% of books never sell more than 5,000 copies, and most people don't buy books or read them. i love reading but i dont think this is itself some terrible loss, as most books are padded-out commodities made for sale more than a work of true artistic passion or scholarly merit, and sometimes listening to a 90 minute interview with an author tells you the bulk of what you need to know.

it's freeing to know that the effort i put into getting my books out into the world have almost zero relationship to the books' success. marketing just does not work. it's a relief. unmasking autism did fabulously because it's actually both good and useful. laziness has had a long life span because it speaks to real problems in people's lives and gives them a message they are desperate to hear. but no amount of thirsty ass online shilling will make somebody realize that and it's maddening to try. you just gotta focus on doing good work, work that you enjoy making or need to make and that you feel good about, let things flop if theyre gonna flop, and keep on living your life.

which is all good news because i really do hate a lot of these fucking interviews. how can i stomach being on npr or in the atlantic or whatever these days given how complicit nearly all major media outlets are in justifying this genocide. like who fuckin cares about them, who wants their approval. who needs it. it's of no value

[viviennevermillion]

they're all here because of you

notes: just me bleeding my chronic loneliness and estrangement from people into the malleus x reader oneshot. also the frozen references may have been a little too obvious but at this point you can't tell me this man isn't canonically at least a little bit inspired by elsa.

synopsis: the birthday party at night raven college wasn't quite what malleus had hoped it'd be. luckily you were there to cheer him up.

contains: malleus draconia x gn!reader, hurt/comfort

warnings: angst, themes of loneliness

dark content creators and consumers dni

"They're all here because of you", Lilia had told him with a smile on his face as the students gathered at Diasomnia for his birthday celebration, "look at how many people came to celebrate you even though we're all from different lands and have different ways of life. Isn't this school just a curious place?" Malleus had smiled at the words of the older dragon fae. Indeed, he had been looking forward to another birthday at Night Raven College, especially in his third year when he had talked to more people and experienced more of human life than ever before. He felt honored that the humans had come to celebrate him. That he didn't have to eat the cake alone this time or stare out of the window, wondering if everyone was having fun with the festivities in the village below the castle; while he had to stay inside asking himself what it would be like to join them.

Few had been brave enough to walk up directly to him and wish him a happy birthday. But they're all here because of me, Malleus reminded himself, they're here to celebrate my birthday. If he hadn't come to Night Raven College, there'd be no reason to celebrate his birthday after all.

He observed the humans from a distance; watched as they shared the cake that had been ordered specifically for the birthday celebration. It looked like it would be finished in no time. More than half of it was already gone and Malleus looked pleased. He had overheard several people commenting on how the cake was delicious and he himself found it quite enjoyable. He sat at a table near the window with his own plate in front of him. Sebek sat with him and complimented him but Malleus didn't really listen. Sebek didn't seem to notice nor mind.

Malleus saw how some of the humans took out their phone and took pictures of themselves with the other guests, celebrating and having fun together. He pulled his own phone out of his pocket only to notice it was broken again. When did that even happen this time?, he sighed. He'd have to get a new one sometime soon and find someone to explain Magicam to him, so he could be in the photos and participate in interacting with his classmates online. Malleus thought back to the Halloween week and the "Draconia challenge". That didn't count, right? He felt more like a commodity or a tourist attraction at the time. Was this what being in photos with others was supposed to feel like? Was this how all of them felt too?

They didn't seem unhappy. In fact, a lot of them seemed to have a great deal of fun at his birthday. They had hugged their friends and told each other stories of their latest and most interesting memories. The countries they had seen during their holidays and the parties they had been to recently. They also discussed their plans together for the coming weekends. Malleus smiled. It sounded like a lot of fun.

But the lingering feeling of sadness in his heart stayed. They were all here because of him and yet, as soon as they'd leave the dorm lounge, that too would come to pass. Lilia, Silver and Sebek had been the only ones on this day to hold a longer conversation with him. Most had congratulated him and then moved on to stick to their own groups that they'd share his cake with and celebrate his birthday with. And Malleus was watching. That's all he really did, were he honest with himself.

He remembered the beginning of the school year when he had told you that he quite enjoyed the solitude. Maybe he just really found his own company to be the best he had; liked to stroll through abandoned ruins and ponder the ways of the world in silence. Or maybe, if he truly listened to the voice in his heart for just a moment; instead of pushing it away in hopes to never hear from it again; he'd find that that was not the truth. That sometimes he preferred solitude because it hurt less than this. It was what he was used to and it caused him less pain than the idea of being surrounded by people and alone despite it all.

Had people really come to celebrate his birthday? Or did they simply receive the invitation and felt like celebrating something, anything?

He observed as his human guests giggled about something he didn't understand and put a party hat on one of their friends; teasing them about it. And then he looked at his little table, with his half-finished slice of cake and Sebek rambling on endlessly about how powerful and great he was. He wondered if Sebek had noticed that no one else had sat at their table for the entirety of the celebration. At least he seemed content with it...

Malleus possessed all the power most wizards could wish for, yet he only ever seemed to lose. He felt like he had been born and put on a pedestal to look at and gather around. Like a statue on a busy plaza built to bring a community together but never really meant to be a part of it. Time passed him by like a fleeting shadow and all that remained in the aftermath of inevitable change were ruins. Perhaps that's why he found such comfort in them. They were what would still be here for him when all else faded. When the laughter in the halls had long since stopped to echo, the lights had gone out and the mortal souls that brought life to its corridors, painted the pictures on the walls and grew the vibrant gardens outside had left this world forever; ruins were all that remained. How he wished he'd be able to change along with the world. But time left him behind; always leaving his little world stagnant before he'd one day find it in ruins too.

Maybe things would change once he was king. Or maybe people would always fear Malleus. And Malleus would always fear he'd remain nothing but a statue. Influencing the world but never truly living in it the way everyone around him would.

He was tied to humanity by a cruel string of fate. He'd isolate himself to forget about his pain and forget about all he lacked but once he noticed his retainers were the only ones who'd come looking for him, he'd always crawl back for another try, hoping this time it'd be different. Maybe this time he'd make the friends everyone told him were something he should never miss out on; that this time he'd take the photos he'd look back on for years to come with a smile on his face and celebrate the birthdays that finally truly made him feel valuable for anything but being born as a prince with an insane amount of magic power.

He saw the snow falling outside and got up to excuse himself. This was getting out of hand. Malleus stepped onto the balcony, resting his arms on the balustrade as the soft and cold snowflakes got caught on his horns and in his hair and some of them mixed with the tears running down his cheeks. He knew he needed to get this under control. It wasn't befitting of a prince to cry at his birthday party. Or make it snow outside. He'd only cause trouble for everyone else and ruin the celebration for them. They were all here because of him, at least officially, and he had to treat his guests with the proper respect. He had to put them first and hope that while focusing on making this experience the most enjoyable one for them, he'd distract himself from his own feelings for a while.

"Were you planning to make an ice skating rink for everyone?", he heard a joking voice behind him, one he immediately recognized, "I'm sorry I'm late. Got held up by Crewel after class..." Your voice was soft and you took his hand in yours. You were observant, immediately noticing that he wasn't feeling too well. Seeing the tears on his face just confirmed that. You reached your hand out to cup his cheeks and gently wipe the tears away. "Hey, what's the matter?", you asked with a worried expression on your face, hugging Malleus gently. You could tell how distressed he was from the way he clung to you like you were the lifeline he was so desperately hoping for while drowning in a sea of solitude.

"I apologize", Malleus began, taking your hand in his again, "it's unbecoming of the host of a birthday party to just leave his guests alone like this. Let alone the future king of Briar Valley." You shook your head, squeezing his hand gently. "Your feelings matter too, you know?"

Malleus couldn't help but chuckle. Even Lilia would have tried to convince him to go back to the party and give it another try. You were the only one who made him feel like he really could show his feelings around you. That he could forget about being Crown Prince Malleus Draconia for a moment and just be someone you held dear and talked to about gargoyles and all the curious phenomenons of human society. He looked up to notice the snow had stopped. Or rather, it was frozen in mid-air, as if the storm had quieted down and what was left of it were glistening fragments frozen in time. He looked at your face and the smile you wore made him smile as well. Most were terrified of his magic, yet you reached out to it unafraid and with a sense of curiosity and wonder. You fished some of the ice crystals out of the air and examined them in your hands.

They were melting on your skin and you touched his neck in a fruitless attempt to tease him with your cold hands. Malleus chuckled but quickly returned to his own world where it was mostly him and his thoughts. "Did anyone notice?", he sighed, looking back into the Diasomnia dorm lounge with a longing expression. "I mean Lilia, Silver and Sebek-" "I get it", you recognized the pouting expression on his face. You sighed.

"Do you still want to be here?"

Malleus didn't hesitate; the words leaving his mouth almost like an automated response. "It's my birthday party and my guests-" "Malleus, be honest", you retorted and linked your fingers with his, signaling that you'd be fine with whatever he'd tell you. He hesitated for a while before a quiet "no" left his lips.

"Would you like to take a walk and look at the gargoyles around campus again? Or we could go to the village and browse that antique shop you like. I heard they got new stuff recently", you suggested, still smiling at him softly. Was this really okay?

You reassured him that no one would be mad at him for taking some time to do what felt right for him at the moment. He pulled you into his arms again and whispered a quiet thank you.

About an hour later the two of you were sitting on a bench near the beach of Sage's Island, sharing a big ice cream cup. Malleus loved to listen to your voice as you answered whatever questions he had for you. He had come to this school unsure of what there was left to learn for him, yet you taught him so much about the world in so little time. You were honest and had no issue explaining things to him in great detail, to make sure he really understood what you were talking about. He loved how enthusiastic you were about sharing your world with him. You always seemed so excited whenever he was unfamiliar with something you liked and you were able to show him.

He remembered how alone he had felt among the guests of his birthday celebration. How he felt like the world had been grey and dull in this moment; as he was forced to watch the people around him live each moment like it was the greatest yet. And then you had entered the dorm and brought color to his world. All the guests were there to celebrate his birthday yet he felt like today you were the only one who really saw him. Who pulled him out of his overthinking and told him it was okay to take a break. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and wished him a happy birthday after finishing the ice cream cup; putting it aside and resting your head on his shoulder. And for now, that was more than enough. Malleus chuckled and watched the sun set with a smile, holding your hand tightly in his.

On days like these he felt like a statue. Made to contribute something to this world while never truly being part of it as it changed and grew with every passing second. And you....you were the one person who'd stop by every day to place flowers down in front of it; who'd stay here for a while, content no matter if you were surrounded by others or if it was just you and him. You had dried his tears and soothed the ache in his heart and he knew you'd continue to do so, doing nothing but spending your time with him because you loved him. Because you saw him and you loved what you saw.

He found it curious how when he'd feel lost, just the fact that you took his hand and talked to him made all the difference for a moment. He leaned his head against yours as he watched the stars appear on the skies. He had power and status and today, on his birthday, he had received plenty of gifts from the other students. But ironically, the greatest gift he had today was you. And you promised to be there for the days, months and years to come.

[fanfreakinfiction]

Listen to the Music

Chapter One: Should've Been a Cowboy

Masterlist 🖤

7.3K Words // Joel Miller x f!southern Reader

Pairing: Joel Miller x younger/southern!reader (Could be video game Joel or HBO Joel. I like the 2003 timeline though, so we’ll just pretend the 2003 timeline is canon for both.) 

Chapters: 

One - Should’ve Been a Cowboy 

Summary: Jackson gets a jukebox which mean’s Joel has to install it! Annoying for him, but exciting for one certain someone who loves music. 

Tags: Multipart, SUPER slowburn, eventual smut, FLUFF, age difference, M/F, canon type violence, drinking, smoking, alchol, reader gives off innocent vibes but isn’t, Joel is grumpy, reader is southern, corny ass music transitions bc i love it, slight mention of religion (reader is from the bible belt), some mentions of smut.

A/N: Set in Jackson - probably a little out of canon but just rollll wit it. This is also a split POV! Also if you love 90s country music you will like this. I made a Tipsy Bison Playlist for you guys to check out where none of the music was made past 2003. 

Jackson was buzzing, quite literally. Every corner you turned, someone was eager to share the latest news.

"Y/n! Did you hear? Jesse and Astrid brought back that jukebox from the ski lodge! They’re gonna fix it up and put it in the Tipsy Bison!" Olivia shouted breathlessly from the stables' entrance, her jet-black hair falling in disarray around her face.

"Hell 'liv, you ran all the way here to tell me that?" You chuckled, taking a break from shoveling muck in the stables. Your Southern drawl emerged breathy and unusual from not conversing with anyone for the past hour. Wiping your forehead with the back of your hand, you greeted the teenage girl with a warm smile as she rushed to embrace you.

"Well, yeah! Mom said you liked music! Told me to come tell you! Said to meet her and Ginger there at 7:00 sharp!" Olivia exclaimed with contagious excitement.

You laughed, returning the embrace and appreciating the bond you'd formed with the young girl over the years.

The first friend you'd made upon arriving in Jackson was Caroline, a slender woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, and a mouth that matched yours. Hugging her hip was a young girl, Olivia, with jet-black hair and the same blue eyes. At the time, Olivia couldn't have been more than seven. In the four years since, Caroline had become like a sister to you, and Olivia like a niece. It was bittersweet watching her grow up, but you’d protect that little girl with your life.

"Well, your momma is right about that," you said, tucking a strand of hair behind Olivia's ear. "And I hate to tell ya, darlin', but Ellie beat you to it. I heard about the jukebox from her this morning." You turned Olivia towards Ellie, who was busy in the back of the stables, hunched over a worktable, oiling an old saddle Mike had found during a recent patrol.

"Ellie’s here?!" Olivia squealed, running off to join Ellie at the back of the stable.

Shaking your head with a laugh, you turned back to your work, the girls' excited chatter filling the stables.

As 6 pm approached, Ellie abandoned the saddle for a conversation with Olivia. Although it irritated you slightly, it also warmed your heart to see Olivia making friends her age. In this post-apocalyptic world, friends were a rare commodity, especially outside of safe havens like Jackson.

You were only five years old when outbreak day happened. Your parents were at work, and you were at daycare. You vaguely recalled your daycare teacher trying to stay calm, but panic eventually overtook her as she locked all the children in the bathroom. Your grandparents, miraculously, arrived to rescue you. Your grandfather, a Vietnam Vet who’d served two tours before leaving the military, was also a grizzled cowboy. He owned a ranch where he boarded and broke horses.

The most vivid memory you had of outbreak day was your grandfather bursting into the daycare with a .308 Winchester in hand, calling for you frantically. You recalled him nearly pulling your arms out as he scooped you up, then handing you over to your crying grandmother. Your grandfather reprimanded the daycare teacher sternly, instructing her to get the kids to a military outpost at the airport and then evacuate Tulsa. The exact words had faded from your memory.

You remembered the scent of your grandmother's perfume as you clung to her while she carried you out of the daycare. Fighter jets roared overhead, and you covered your ears as your grandmother hurried to their old Jeep. Your grandfather opened the passenger door for your grandmother, and she kissed your head. During the two-hour drive from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to his ranch, your grandmother had you play a game called "Keep Your Eyes On Jesus," where you'd focus on the silver cross necklace she always wore. That day marked the end of your life in the city and your chances of making friends. Your childhood died on the daycare bathroom floor.

"Helloooo, earth to Miss Y/l/n?!" Ellie's voice suddenly snapped you out of your thoughts as you continued to organize bridles, leads, and cinches.

You turned abruptly. "Hmm?" was all you managed as you met Ellie's gaze.

Ellie pointed to her empty wrist, giving you a knowing look. “It’s 6:20,” she said, her tone almost teasing.

"Shit," you murmured, quickly shoving tack items back into makeshift storage bins. Ellie laughed as she headed out of the stables with Olivia in tow.

---

Joel was exhausted, bone-deep tired. His knees ached, his back throbbed, and a relentless headache pounded behind his eyes. All this fuss over a damn jukebox.

Now, don't get him wrong; Joel loved music as much as the next person, and he understood why the whole town was buzzing with excitement. But he felt like people were acting as if they'd found a cure for the infection, not an old jukebox.

And yet, there he was, in the Tipsy Bison, helping to secure the wiring for the ancient contraption. A small crowd of men gathered around, drinks in hand, watching him work. Not a single one offered to help, and Joel knew why, but it still irked him to have the entire town gawking at him.

"You got time for leanin', you got time for cleanin'," Joel's dad used to say when he and Tommy were watching him work.

"Will it work?" Seth's voice interrupted his thoughts from over the bar.

Joel responded with a grunt as he connected two wires, causing the jukebox to spring to life. The bar fell silent, and Joel felt a wave of annoyance—or perhaps embarrassment—wash over him as he sensed everyone's eyes on him.

Slowly, he stood up from his crouched position on the dusty floor, his knees cracking in protest. He examined the jukebox, its lights aglow with a soft, white hue. However, the interior glass was so filthy that the song list was barely readable. His gaze fell on a doorbell wired to the coin slot. Joel pressed it once, his eyes scanning the various lettered and numbered buttons.

"S2," he mumbled to himself, thinking of Sarah as he hovered over the letter. With all eyes in the room on the back of his head, he slowly pressed the buttons into the old metal board of the machine, each button emitting a satisfying 'click.'

Silence enveloped the room, followed by a whirring sound.

Please don't make me look like a fool in front of the whole town, Joel silently pleaded, not caring to whom he addressed his thoughts—God, Satan, or Buddha.

Another click, more whirring, and then the old jukebox started singing like a canary.

"I'm in a hurry to get things done 

Oh, I rush and rush until life's no fun 

All I really gotta do is live and die 

Even I'm in a hurry and don't know why…"

The room erupted into cheers and hollers as the song "I'm in a Hurry" by Alabama filled the space. Joel released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. A hand clapped his shoulder, followed by another pat on his bicep, as various townsfolk expressed their gratitude. He grunted in response, uncomfortable with the attention. He couldn't help but think he preferred it when the town treated him like some cryptid.

"Joel... drinks are on the house tonight. I think this'll be the busiest night since we found that Bud Light truck," Seth said, crossing his arms and standing next to Joel to admire his work. Joel shifted uncomfortably but nodded his thanks to the man.

"So, uh, how does it work with no coins, I mean?" Seth asked, looking at the old doorbell attached to the wiring coming from the coin slot.

Joel let out a soft huff. "That there is the 'coin,' per se. Push it however many times for however many songs, but… I'd maybe limit people to three," he quipped, attempting dry humor.

Seth smiled crookedly. "Yeah, I'd hate to hear the same shit twenty times in one day."

Joel sighed. "Yeah, let me see what I can do about the glass, and it'll be nearly new."

With that, Joel carefully worked the glass out of the jukebox, his eyes widening slightly as he pulled back the grimy cover. He didn't know what he had expected, but this jukebox seemed like a unicorn. As he pulled back the filthy glass, a list of songs greeted him—mostly country music, some '80s hits, and a few oldies like Frank Sinatra. Seth whistled softly behind Joel's right shoulder as the music filled the cozy bar.

"Can't be late, I leave in plenty of time 

Shakin' hands with the clock 

I can't stop 

I'm on a roll, and I'm ready to rock…"

———

The snow crunches beneath your boots as you speed walk through the snow towards your tiny cottage on the outskirts of Jackson. It was a modest two-bedroom, one-bathroom house, but it had a porch with a breathtaking view of the mountains. The unusual emptiness of the streets at this hour suggested that most of the town's residents were either at the Community Kitchen or the Tipsy Bison.

Almost slipping on your porch steps, you chuckled to yourself, attributing it to the icy snow. Unlocking your front door, you immediately shed layers of clothing in a trail leading to the bathroom. Excitement pulsed through you as you started the shower, envisioning the possibilities that the jukebox might hold. Maybe it would play Johnny Cash or some new Alan Jackson track you hadn't heard before. Alan Jackson held a special place in your heart.

Thoughts raced as you hurried through your shower, eager to join the buzz of the town. Drying your hair hastily, you searched for your special occasion jeans. They were a pair of dark-washed Levi's, the kind you'd nearly sold your soul for at one of the general stores. They hugged you perfectly in all the right places and, most importantly, were clean—devoid of stains or blood.

Pulling them up over your hips and buttoning them up, you checked yourself out in the mirror. A dark red sweater with a v-neck and your patrol boots completed the look. You adjusted the silver cross necklace around your neck, a memento from your grandmother, and heard her voice echo in your mind.

"Just keep your eyes on Jesus, baby… we're almost to the ranch."

Breaking your reverie, you felt ready to head out for drinks and music. Slipping into your coat, you ventured out into the sunset-lit, snow-covered streets of Jackson. The Tipsy Bison came into view after a short walk, and your excitement threatened to burst from you. The line outside the bar, however, crushed your spirits.

"No way..." you muttered, coming to a halt. The entire town seemed to be here. You watched from a distance, scanning the crowd until your eyes landed on a blonde-haired woman nearing the front of the line. She turned and made eye contact, flashing a wild smile as she waved you over.

There was a hint of apologetic awkwardness as you joined your friend. Some people in line shot you dirty looks for cutting, but it’s not like the bar’s gonna grow legs and walk away. 

"About TIME!" Caroline exclaimed, enveloping you in a warm embrace as you met her outside the bar. "Ginger's already inside; she got us a spot at the bar!" Her excitement was contagious.

"Sorry! I had to go home and change. I didn't wanna come out smellin’ like a horse," you apologized, returning the hug.

"Oh honey, a shower doesn’t change that," she teased, playfully elbowing you.

"Caroline!" You gasped, feigning offense, and lightly elbowed her in return.

Curious, you peered into the bar, attempting to glimpse over the tall men in front of you. Music wafted out, and you heard the buzz of chatter as people walked in and out.

“It’s a shit ton of Country music," you overheard someone say as they walked away, "Well, what’d you expect from a ski lodge in Wyoming in 2003?” came the retort. Caroline shot you a knowing look, and you suppressed a smile.

The line gradually moved forward, and you stepped into the warm atmosphere. Caroline hung up her coat, and you couldn't help but shoot her an envious glance at her overly dressy top – a pink silk halter tied tank top that accentuated her figure beautifully.

“The hell’d you find that?!” You asked, a mix of curiosity and a hint of jealousy in your voice. It made her cleavage stand out, and it seemed perfectly timed as an unfamiliar song started playing from the jukebox, capturing everyone's attention.

“Her hair was Harlow gold 

Her lips a sweet surprise 

Her hands were never cold 

She had Bette Davis eyes…”

Being on your own for so long after your grandparents had passed had made you lose a sense of pride in your appearance. But being in Jackson, surrounded by other women again, ignited that desire to care once more. Caroline had been instrumental in helping you rediscover your femininity, teaching you how to braid your hair and transform dull button-ups into something more womanly. Caroline had been a high school senior when the outbreak happened, with a life and dreams you couldn't relate to. She aimed for Harvard, wanting to be like Elle Woods from a movie called "Legally Blonde." Those aspirations had seemed foreign, considering your upbringing on the Ranch, where your grandfather taught you to care for animals, garden, hunt, fish, and, of course, how to shoot – and shoot well. 

Caroline was the first person to make you question your beauty, to make something seemingly frivolous in the apocalypse feel essential.

"I believe that caring for myself isn’t self-indulgent, but rather an act of survival," Caroline had told you when you questioned the worth of bartering for old Avon makeup from the general store.

Caroline took your hand, pulling you toward where Ginger had miraculously saved some standing room at the bar. You hardly noticed as your gaze fixated on the Jukebox, where a line of people awaited their turn to pick a song. Your heart sank a little; you didn't think Caroline or Ginger had the patience to wait for you to choose a song.

Stepping up to the worn wooden bar, you were greeted by Seth's crooked smile. "Be back with ya in a minute, ladies," he said, his old hands moving as fast as they could to serve the bustling crowd.

"Bout time!" Ginger exclaimed as you turned to her. "I didn't think Seth'd let me save space any longer," she added with a laugh, her eyes scanning your and Caroline's outfits with admiration. "Damn girl! What'd you have to sell for those?!" She playfully ran her hand over the material of your jeans.

You rolled your eyes dramatically. "Oh, you have NO idea!" you began, but before you could continue, Seth returned.

"Two whiskeys, please," Caroline ordered for both of you, prompting you to resume your story. "You wouldn't believe it, okay..."

"Here we go..." Caroline rolled her eyes, and you playfully nudged her. Ginger hadn't heard this story before, and you were eager to share.

"I was rummaging through a house right after I'd left the ranch, and I found a Walkman! Battery-operated and a whole box of cassettes," you explained as Seth brought the whiskey back. Ginger listened intently as you continued. "I picked up some of the names I recognized from the pile. I ended up with like 10 tapes and a whole pile of batteries!" You took a swig and leaned on the bar top, facing Ginger, while Caroline leaned on your shoulder, clearly having heard this story many times before.

"Who were the tapes of?" Ginger asked, taking a swig of her dwindling beer.

"So I had an Alan Jackson cassette, I had a Shania Twain cassette, hmm oh! Johnny Cash's greatest hits, which were technically four tapes, one Journey cassette, George Strait, and then I even found a Marty Robbins tape!" You listed the tapes off, trying to recall them all.

"Sooo? What's this got to do with those Levi's?!" Ginger asked, laughing.

"Well, damn, hold on, sister, I'm tryna set the story up!" you retorted with a laugh.

"Anyways," you continued, "one day I'm navigating some thick woods. My headphones are around my neck, and I still have the music goin'. Well, I clipped the Walkman to the hip of my pants, and this fuckin' infected came outta nowhere!" You gestured dramatically with your hands. "This thing fuckin' leaps on me and pushes me up against a tree—"

"—crushes the Walkman!" You and Caroline said in unison, and all three of you burst into laughter, drawing the attention of others in the bar.

Tears welled in your eyes from laughing as you recounted the memory. "I'd never been so fucking mad in my life!" you recalled, trying to catch your breath. "I also haven't cried as hard since the day I lost that thing," you said dramatically as you took a drink. "Almost wish it'd bitten me instead of killin' my fuckin' Walkman," you added bitterly.

"Well, what did you do to it?" Ginger asked curiously.

"The infected? Oh. I fuckin' stomped that thing's head in," you deadpanned, throwing Ginger and Caroline into another fit of laughter. "Like... a lot," you repeated, deadpan again as you took another drink. "Fuckin' thing destroyed my Alan Jackson tape...anyways, I held onto the tapes, maybe out of bitterness. But once I got to Jackson, I traded the tapes for the jeans." Ginger made an "Oooh" sound, nodding as if she now completely understood.

Caroline tapped you on the shoulder, about to say something, when the sound of a very familiar song filled your ears, and you had to bite back the squeal that threatened to escape.

"It's Alan Jackson," you said, your eyes gleaming with a serious excitement that caught Ginger's attention.

"Come on," you said, pulling Caroline with you onto an opening in the bar floor as the chorus hit. You pulled her into a two-step, a dance you had seen your grandparents do every year on their anniversary.

"I should've been a cowboy 

I should've learned to rope and ride 

Wearin' my six-shooter, 

ridin' my pony on a cattle drive 

Stealin' the young girls' hearts 

Just like Gene and Roy 

Singin' those campfire songs

 Woah, I should've been a cowboy…"

You sang unabashedly, as if you, Caroline, and Alan Jackson were the only ones in the bar. Your head threw back in laughter after Caroline begrudgingly tried to match your steps. After a moment, you were so engrossed in your dance that you didn't even realize other people had joined in, dancing to the music. Ginger laughed from her spot at the bar as she watched your and Caroline's forgotten whiskeys.

———

Seth had been right. This was the busiest Joel had ever seen the Tipsy Bison. Brooding in the corner of the bar, tucked into a dimly lit table, Joel sat, nursing his fourth glass of free whiskey.

Shit. If Seth was offering, he wasn't gonna say no to free drinks.

Joel's tired eyes scanned the room as he tried to determine who he recognized and who he didn't. His gaze landed on a particularly familiar set of eyes. Tommy.

He watched as Tommy approached the secluded table, offering a crooked smile to the man.

"Big bad Joel fixed the jukebox?" Tommy teased as he sat down across from Joel.

"Did it for the free drinks," Joel retorted, attempting to deflect the sudden unwanted attention, his face flushing as he averted his brother's gaze.

"Well… you may have just earned some points with Maria," Tommy said with a genuine smile.

Joel smirked back. "Guess something good did come from this after all." He could feel the whiskey settling deep in his chest as he spoke to his brother.

Tommy glanced around at the crowd, but a roar of laughter snapped both of their heads toward the bar. Three women stood a few feet away, listening to one woman tell a story.

Joel narrowed his tired eyes. He didn't recognize the woman engrossed in her story. However, he did recognize the blonde with the revealing pink blouse. She scanned the patrons of the bar like a hawk, looking for her next prey and obviously uninterested in her friend's story.

The woman had approached Joel two days after he arrived with Ellie, asking to bum a cigarette and then bombarding him with a thousand questions as she batted her eyelashes at him. Her name was something like Karen, he couldn't quite recall. But when another bout of laughter reached his ears, his gaze locked onto your form, now less hidden behind the woman with her back to him.

He watched almost mesmerized as you laughed and smiled. Pretty, was the only thing his brain could manage. Suddenly, your face became very serious as you said something that made the two girls howl in laughter.

Tommy cleared his throat after an awkward silence, and Joel realized he had been completely caught staring at you. Their eyes met, and his little brother looked like he was about to say something smart, but Alan Jackson's music broke Tommy's focus.

"Holy shit! I forgot this song existed!" Tommy exclaimed with a nostalgic laugh.

Joel's attention was drawn back to the bar by another bout of laughter. Except, now, you had migrated to the middle of the room. Your arms were placed perfectly on the blonde chick as you began dancing. The blonde appeared obviously embarrassed by the sudden change, making a face of disdain. You laughed, the sound caressing Joel's ears, and he felt something stirring in him. Maybe it was the whiskey, but deep down, he knew it wasn't.

He and Tommy watched carefully as more patrons began to crowd the space, joining in the dance. Tommy let out a huff of laughter, his eyes now focused on the scene. As the song ended, everyone clapped, and Seth, the bartender, felt it appropriate to make an announcement.

"Everyone, thank Joel on your way out! He fixed up the jukebox," Seth declared, and a wave of applause and stares washed over Joel.

Joel could feel a flush creeping into his face at the attention. He cringed inwardly as all he could manage was a stupid smirk while looking down at his whiskey glass.

"Jukebox Joel!" someone in the crowd cheered, and Tommy choked on the beer he was drinking. Joel delivered a swift kick to Tommy's shin.

"Haha! What? Come on… it's better than Jackass Joel," Tommy laughed with a smirk as he teased Joel.

Joel actually let out a soft chuckle at that and shook his head as he looked back down at his empty glass. "Prick," Joel muttered softly as he glanced up at his little brother. "I'm gonna go get another." With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the table and made his way toward the bar to get another drink.

———

"I'm gonna go have a cigarette. Save me a spot!" Caroline swiftly moved to grab her coat, leaving you and Ginger at the bar.

Ginger looked at you. "So how's the stables?"

"Mmm, they're fine. I've recently gotten some help from this teenager, Ellie," you replied as you finished off your whiskey, paying no mind to the man who muscled in on Caroline's vacant space behind you.

"Is she a good help?" Ginger asked as she also finished off her beer.

"Depends on the day," you said with a soft laugh. "She's a great listener, just a little poor on the completion side of things. Like today, I asked her to oil this saddle Mike brought in from a patrol. Olivia stopped by to see me, and sure enough, Ellie just ended up talking with her for the last hour of the day. It's like she won't shut up. I swear, these outbreak babies are somethin' else," you added with an exasperated sigh. "She's a good kid, though. Smart as hell. I'm just mad I'll have to get up early to finish oiling the saddle before patrol." You finished with a final smile as you looked up to make eye contact with Ginger, who appeared as if she'd seen a ghost. She wasn't even looking at you but over your shoulder.

"Ginge?" you asked worriedly, placing a hand on her shoulder to shake her a bit.

"I'm gonna go grab a cigarette," she said hurriedly, shaking your hand off her as she all but ran out of the bar, leaving you standing there stunned.

In an instant, your senses tingled with the presence of an imposing, commanding figure emanating a cocoon of warmth from the shadows behind you. A shiver of anticipation raced down your spine, and a cascade of goosebumps rippled across your skin as you executed a deliberate, almost theatrical pivot to meet the piercing gaze of none other than Joel Fucking Miller.

———

If Joel had a dollar for every face he'd seen turn away from him in fear, he would've been a millionaire twelve years ago. But nothing felt as satisfying to him as watching your little friend scamper off to leave you with him.

He waited patiently for you to turn around before he spoke. His eyes drifted from the back of your head, tracing the contours of your figure, to rest on the soft curve of your ass. The sight made his breath hitch, and his gaze locked onto a familiar little red tag that stared back at him—Levi's.

Fuck  he thought to himself. Those must've cost a pretty thing like you a whole lot.

After what felt like ages, you finally turned to meet his gaze. Your soft, youthful face surprised him. You were young, younger than him, maybe even younger than Sarah would've been.

Your lips parted slightly as you gazed up at him with your fucking doe eyes. His eyes traveled south from your lips to the silver cross around your neck. He cringed internally, his gaze shifting away from your neck as he signaled to Seth at the bar.

"Mr. Miller..." Your voice fell warily from your lips, carrying a soft southern accent that caught his ear.

Joel grunted softly. "Mhmm," he replied, waiting for Seth to bring his last whiskey of the night. He had to force himself to look away from you.

"You're… Ellie's dad?" Your voice sounded sheepish, not in the usual "I'm scared of you" kind of way he was accustomed to in this town, but in a "I messed up" kind of way. He spared a glance at you, noticing how you fidgeted with your hands and struggled to make eye contact, trying to look up at him apologetically.

"Mhmm," was all Joel settled for after a long pause. Your face paled, and he had to look away to keep from laughing.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Miller!! Ellie has been a great help, and I'd love for her to st—" You sounded panicked, and he didn't like it.

"Kid's got ADHD or somethin'. Can't finish anything she starts…unless it's food or a sentence," the words flew from Joel's mouth before he could process what he had just said. Seth rounded the bar at that moment and handed Joel his whiskey.

Joel took the glass and was about to take a sip when your giggle froze him in his tracks. It wasn't a laugh or a chuckle, but a full-blown giggle.

"Haha! She is very food motivated! Sometimes I catch her going for the sugar cubes that are meant for the horses," you laughed as you spoke to him. Joel looked down at you with a crooked smirk, sipping his whiskey as he turned his attention back to his glass.

"Well… uhm, I should probably..." Your voice trailed off with a hint of uncertainty, and from his peripheral vision, Joel could make out a flush on your cheeks as you tried to awkwardly excuse yourself from his presence.

"You let me know if she gives you more trouble..." What the hell was he doing? Was he actually talking right now or was it the whiskey? Slowly, he turned to look at you, his left arm resting on the bar as he slowly set his glass down, shoving his right hand in his belt loop. You were flushed, perhaps you'd had too much to drink? Or maybe it was... nah. He looked into your eyes, his gaze searching yours for a moment before dropping to that stupid silver cross on your neck. He wanted to rip it off your neck while burying himself deep inside you. Your voice brought his attention from your neck and his thoughts to the present, where he stared into your eyes.

"Yeah… I, uh... I will." You almost sounded confused and curious. You were biting your lip, your face still flushed, your hair framing your face perfectly. He had to stop himself from grabbing you by the back of the head and forcing himself on you. "Thanks for fixin’ up the jukebox..." Long gone was the shy demeanor as your words came out like sultry silk. You stared back at him seriously, and he could tell you were being genuine. He tried to swallow the sudden dryness the whiskey had left in his mouth. His aching back and throbbing knees from fixin’ the damn thing long forgotten as he rolled your thanks around in his head.

Damn.

He grunted in response and, with a white-knuckle grip on his whiskey glass, he forced himself to walk away. He passed by you, his form squeezing around yours in the crowded bar as people danced. He forced himself to look straight ahead when your left shoulder grazed his chest as he nudged past you gently. He slinked his way back to his table in the corner, where Tommy and Maria now occupied two of the four chairs.

As soon as he approached, they eyed him and stopped talking almost immediately. Tommy spoke up first with a smirk. "So uh..."

"Shut it," Joel snapped, his words coming out harsher than he had intended, and Maria huffed.

"Be nice. You're on my good side for the night. Don't make that change before I've even had a chance to enjoy it," she glared at him. Leave it to Tommy to pick a hardass for his wife.

"She's nice, Joel, but... she's young," Maria said with a sigh.

He felt angry heat flicker in his belly, replacing the momentary desire. He glared at Maria, who stared right back at him, and he felt his jaw tighten, his teeth grinding.

"Hon, why don't we go dance... enjoy it while we can?" Tommy's voice rang out, and for once, Joel was thankful for his baby brother.

He watched carefully as Maria reluctantly agreed and let Tommy lead her away. Tommy shot Joel a knowing look as he disappeared into a sea of people. Joel settled back into his seat from before, his eyes scanning the now dancing and raucous crowd.

Unconsciously, he found himself searching for you, scanning the spot where you'd stood with your friends, but it was now occupied by some other men.

———

"What the fuck, Ginger?!" You spat harshly as you confronted the two girls who were practically shivering outside, puffing on a shared cigarette.

"What do you mean 'what the fuck'? You were runnin' your mouth about the scariest man in town's daughter!" Ginger retorted, a mischievous laugh escaping her lips. "I wasn't about to stand witness to you getting your teeth kicked in!" she added, taking another drag.

"Wait, you saw Joel Miller?!" Caroline chimed in as she put out the cigarette.

"Saw him?! She damn near insulted his daughter in front of him!" Ginger laughed, and you could feel your cheeks redden.

"I didn't know he was behind me! You could've said something! I had to apologize, standin' there like an abandoned idiot!" You playfully frogged Ginger on the arm, your accent growing thicker with anger.

"Ow!" Ginger winced as she rubbed her skinny arm through her leather coat.

"Wait, you actually talked to him?!" Caroline asked as if it were an impossible feat.

"Well, yeah. I felt kind of bad… Ellie is a good kid, she's just very talkative," you explained, crossing your arms to ward off the cold.

"And he talked back?" Caroline continued her interrogation.

"I mean if you can call a couple of pig-like grunts talking, then yeah, I guess," you replied with a shrug.

"Hmm…" Caroline offered as she gave you a once-over. "Come on, let's get back inside." She headed into the bar, with you and Ginger following behind.

The night passed fairly uneventfully, save for a few men asking for a dance. Caroline, as usual, was the star of the night, charming most of the men into buying her drinks and joining her on the dance floor. Ginger cozied up to a man you recognized from the kitchen, someone she had been with before. You were starting to feel the fatigue kick in when you realized the line for the jukebox had drastically shortened. Excitedly, you made your way to the magical machine, your eyes scanning the list of songs. You were in awe of the extensive selection: Journey, Patsy Cline – one of your grandmother's favorites, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and some you didn't recognize at all, like Linda Ronstadt, ABBA, Earth, Wind & Fire…

You didn't even notice a presence near the bar, watching as you scanned the list in awe. Your fingers guided you, pressing the doorbell button connected to the coin slot, as you had watched so many people do all night. 

Your fingers grazed over the letter "J" for Joe—Jesus. "J" for Jesus, you mentally reprimanded yourself. Then you moved to a number, "5," your age on outbreak day. You listened to the machine click and whir in amazement. Unsure of the song title or the artist, you waited to hear the first chords.

"Came in from a rainy 

Thursday on the avenue 

Thought I heard you talking softly 

I turned on the lights, the TV, and the radio 

Still, I can't escape the ghost of you..."

Leaning on the jukebox, you listened to the foreign song by a band called Duran Duran. The lyrics suddenly made you feel melancholic as you absorbed each word.

"What has happened to it all?

 Crazy, some'd say 

Where is the life that I recognize? (Gone away)"

———

Joel couldn't help himself. He wanted to blame the whiskey, but deep down, he knew he wasn't even close to drunk. From his spot at the far end of the bar, he watched as you walked up to the damn jukebox. You looked like a kid on Christmas, that twinkle in your eye, just like Sarah when he threw her a surprise birthday party with all her friends, or like Ellie at the Museum…

He watched you hesitate when it was your turn to pick a song. His eyes drifted to those Levi's, like they had been poured onto you. The way they clung to your curves made his mind wander. He imagined himself coming up behind you in his kitchen while you prepared to cook something that he had hunted. His chest tucking into the curve of your back while he pressed his hips into the curve of your ass. The thought shot an arrow of fire straight to his groin. Fortunately for him, Maria's voice echoed in his head. "She's nice, Joel... but she's young." He knew Maria wasn't bullshitting him about that. You hardly looked the same age as the women you hung around with.

His gaze shifted from the curve of your hip to the profile of your face. From this angle, he could watch your eyes scanning the song choices. He wondered what you would choose and, for a fleeting moment, told himself that if you picked a slow song, he'd have to ask you to dance. He watched your face crinkle slightly as you read through the songs, likely because you didn't recognize most of them. Sipping his whiskey, he waited to see the outcome.

He observed as your fingers grazed the buttons until making their final destination. He couldn't help but imagine what those fingertips would feel like grazing his body in the same tender way. Your smile lit up when the jukebox whirred to life, and he released a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding when the song "Ordinary World" by Duran Duran began playing. It was an odd choice, he thought to himself.

The semi-familiar song filled the now-dwindling bar. Couples still danced, others nursed their beers, and some chatted. His eyes remained locked on your face as you listened intently. He could tell you had chosen the song on a whim, not knowing it. He sat and watched as the once-childlike wonder on your face slowly dissolved into a heartbreaking frown, one that he had seen a hundred times before on different women's faces.

Heat rose on his cheeks as he watched the blonde from earlier drunkenly sling her arm over your shoulder. Suddenly, he felt like a creep for watching you for so long. He turned his gaze back to his now-empty glass as Seth came over to offer him another. Politely declining, Joel stood up slowly, adjusted his coat, and, feeling a pang of regret, he slipped out the side door of the bar.

"But I won't cry for yesterday

There's an ordinary world

Somehow I have to find

And as I try to make my way

To the ordinary world

I will learn to survive"

———

"Come on, kiddo… time for you to walk me home," Caroline hummed in your ear, her arm slung around you. Her alcohol-laden breath pulled you out of your self-wallowing music session. You slid your left arm around her waist, providing some balance as she leaned her head on your shoulder.

"My dad loved Duran Duran…" Caroline slurred into your neck, and a shiver ran down your spine. She had only mentioned her father once before, and it had been followed by a request never to bring it up again. Hastily, you changed the subject and led her to the entrance of the bar to retrieve her coat.

You grabbed her dark purple barn coat and draped it around her shoulders, making sure she was bundled up, then zipped up your own coat tightly. Caroline took your hand as you began to walk, leaning heavily on you. It had to be late because as soon as you stepped outside the Tipsy Bison, you felt your hair freeze. Both your and Caroline's breath fogged up the space in front of you as you surveyed the mostly empty streets of Jackson. Caroline's house was on the other side of town, and you mentally prepared yourself for the chilly walk ahead when Caroline made a mumbled noise into the crook of your neck.

“‘S lookin at you all night..” she murmured as you helped her navigate the snow-covered streets.

"Hmm, darlin'?" you asked, guiding her carefully.

"He was lookin' at you!" she repeated, a bit louder this time.

Confused, you adjusted your hold on her to prevent any accidental slips that could bring both of you down in the snow. "Who was lookin'?" you inquired, but she didn't reply. Suddenly, she went limp in your arms, and you let out a soft yelp at the abrupt change in weight.

"Carol?!" you called, trying to stifle a laugh as she put her full weight on you. "Shit. How much did you drink, darlin'?" you groaned, realizing that you were going to have to carry her home.

The walk across town to Caroline's house had left you wide awake. After taking her shoes off and tucking her into bed alongside a peacefully sleeping Olivia, you left the house quietly, ensuring the door was locked behind you. Stepping back out into the night, you were greeted by the sight of the quiet town, blanketed in snow with darkness settling in. A shiver ran down your spine as you took in the serene atmosphere.

You began your journey toward your own home, which lay on the opposite end of town. However, as you walked, your thoughts wandered back to the saddle that Ellie hadn't finished oiling. Despite your tiredness, you knew that if you went home now, you'd simply lay in bed tossing and turning, unable to sleep. With a sigh, you turned on your heel and headed back towards the stables, your hands shoved deep into your pockets to ward off the cold.

As the stables came into view, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. The door was ajar, and a soft light spilled out from within. You knew you had closed up for the night, and the thought of leaving a kerosene lamp burning in a barn full of hay and the town's most prized mode of transportation was, unthinkable.

An uneasy thought crossed your mind; maybe it was Maria or Tommy, someone needing to head out for a late-night patrol. However, such occurrences were rare unless there was an emergency. With cautious steps, you entered the stables as quietly as you could, your senses on high alert.

To your chagrin, you found the horses calmly chewing on the hay you had left for them hours ago. The pit in your stomach deepened as you scanned the area, trying to discern any signs of an intruder.

"H...Hello?" you called out, your voice sounding uncharacteristically shaky even to your own ears. You couldn't help but think sarcastically, Oooh, very threatening. In that moment a thought crossed your mind that maybe Jackson was making you soft. You stood there, waiting for a reply, but there was none.

Confused and still on edge, you carefully followed the source of the soft lantern light. It led you to the back of the stables and into the tack room, your footsteps echoing softly in the enclosed space.

There, almost right where Ellie had left it, you saw the saddle that Mike had found on his patrol. However, what caught your attention in the dimly lit room was the unmistakable sheen across the leather. It gleamed in the lantern light, catching your eye immediately. It had been fully oiled, a stark contrast to the untouched condition it had been in earlier when Ellie had been working on it.

Confusion wracked your body; did Joel make Ellie come back to oil the saddle? Your fingers gingerly rubbed the leather between your fingers. No, this wasn’t Ellie’s work; this was oiled to perfection. Ellie was a good kid, hell, a great kid considering all the other children who’d grown up in this hellscape, but she oiled saddles like she was pouring syrup on pancakes. No, this had been done by someone with skill and experience.

A soft smile crossed your face as you reached for the lantern. Maybe Joel Miller wasn't the monster your friends had told you about after all. You'd have to ask Ellie in the morning. 

As you stepped out of the barn, relocking everything up for the night, you couldn’t shake the warm feeling in your gut. A feeling you hadn’t felt since you’d eaten your last meal with your grandparents... a feeling that scared you.

Unbeknownst to you, a dark figure across the street watched from the shadows, illuminated only by the orange glow of his lit cigarette as he leaned against a column under the roof of the general store. Joel took a drag from his cigarette as he watched you relock the barn for the night. He tried to tell himself the warm feeling in his chest was from the cigarette he'd been puffing on, but he knew better.

Joel took one last drag from his cigarette, flicked it to the ground, and crushed it beneath his boot before heading home, maybe something good came from that damn jukebox after all… he thought to himself as his eyes followed your form walking off into the snowy darkness of Jackson.

[mariacallous]

Who is this speaking with a sneer on their lips and contempt in their voice before news of the Princess of Wales’s cancer broke? A monarchist or a republican?

“Kate's admission that she had doctored the photograph, and her apology for doing so, were the latest self-inflicted wound by the House of Windsor, for which trust and integrity are fundamental commodities.”

Those who do not know the UK might assume it is a revolutionary who wants to undermine trust in the integrity of the monarchy because they want it gone

Republican sentiment in the UK is indeed stronger than tourists like to imagine and the BBC likes to admit.

Irish nationalists and Brits of Irish descent are wary of the crown. Just 45 per cent of Scots want to keep the royals “for the foreseeable future”, with 36 per cent ready to get rid of them ASAP. Meanwhile, the constitutional pressure group Republic reports that for the first time a plurality of people under 45 favour abolishing the monarchy.

But however greatly they have grown in number, British republicans have little vim and less vigour. They (we if I am levelling with you) don’t care enough about the monarchy to abolish it, or most of us don’t. It’s not a political priority or a practical project.

Republicanism last grew in the UK in the 1990s after the marriage of Prince Charles (as he then was) to Princess Diana fell apart. Jack Straw and other Labour politicians of the day were Republicans in theory.

But in practice they imagined cancelling all their other political plans so they could focus on dethroning the Queen and recoiled at the prospect.

Even if a majority of the country favoured a republic (which it never has), an embittered monarchist minority would never forgive the government. And as the government became unpopular, as all governments do, the minority would become a majority and demand a restoration.

No way would serious Labour politicians waste their time. Nor would serious Scottish nationalist politicians who made the same calculations.

British republicanism died for the very British reason that it was too much trouble.

If you want to find creepy obsessions, and bullying, hectoring sadism, turn to the UK’s monarchists.

The quote I began with was not from some obscure Republican website, but from the Daily Mail, Britain's best selling newspaper and most-read news site. It is a monarchist institution, at least it says it is.

And if you think I am being a snotty intellectual sneering at the tabloids, the BBC was just as bad. The line between snob and mob in the UK is always thin and often invisible.

The BBC has a podcast dedicated to PR called “When it hits the fan”! In its latest episode it berates the royal family for making “big mistakes” in not explaining why Prince William missed the memorial service for his godfather, and compounding the sin by allowing his wife to be photographed without a wedding ring.  ( I know, the horror.)

The princess has now been forced by the pressure from those who claim to adore her to admit that she had a cancer diagnosis and now needs chemotherapy. She didn’t want to talk about it at first because, frankly, her health ought to be no one else’s business.

Given what we know, it seems at least possible, don’t you think, that her husband missed engagements because he was concerned about his wife

After leaving the hospital, she put out a picture of herself and her children she had edited to make her kids look good. She is not the first mother to have done this, and in any case her illness may have distracted her,

Now that they have forced her to talk about her chemotherapy, the ferrets are reversing and everyone who had hectored the royal family is sobbing and sighing.

To my mind, and I suspect to the minds of many other​s, they are displaying the sickest side of British monarchism.

Imagine a criminal who beats you up in the street. He kicks you when you are down, humiliates and destroys you. And just when you think he’s finished with you, he bends over and says with a sweet smile “how brave you are and how courageous. We are all so terribly proud of you.”

There is a limit to how much of this treatment modern members of the royal family will take.

Prince Harry and Meghan Markle have fled to America, and are hated for it. I accept that a part of that hatred is racist. A larger part is a modern version of British anti-Americanism. The self-aggrandising virtue signalling of the progressive American rich grates with many in the UK. It’s too egotistical; too “let’s talk about me” for traditional British people to tolerate​.

But the main reason why conservatives in general and the conservative press in particular hate them is that they have opted out. They don’t share royal duties. Instead of taking abuse, they call their lawyers. They just won’t play the game anymore.

In truth there are not many who will. The old queen stayed on the throne too long. King Charles was too old for the job when he was finally crowned, and now he is ill with cancer, as is the Princess of Wales. Meghan and |Harry have fled, and Prince William is pretty much on his own to do the royal duties of a monarchy whose supporters demand that it conducts itself on a grand scale.

I look at his children and wonder if they will put themselves through it or run like their Uncle Harry. You should not blame them if they do.

It’s people who claim to worship the royals who will drive them away or drive them mad.

Republicans will never kill the monarchy. Royalists just might.

[just-french-me-up]

Heatstroke

Fandom : The Sandman (AO3 link) Pairing : Dreamling (Dream x Hob) Rating : Explicit | 2.1k Tags : Smut, Fluff, Established Relationship, Blatant disregard for the laws of thermodynamics Summary : England is suffering through its second week of a scorching heatwave, and Dream's presence in his flat does nothing to cool Hob down... or does it? "I am not subjected to the Waking World's physics or weather patterns." "Neat trick that. Could use some of that right now, frankly." "Could you now?"

Heat was everywhere. It was the air he breathed, the water from the tap he drank, the sheets he slept on, the walls he tried to find shelter behind. It was under his skin, ever present, unescapable, and Hob felt as though he was going mad from it.

It had been one week of this, sweltering heat sweeping through the south of England, unleashing all of its scorching might, with London at its epicentre. The city had not been built to withstand such temperatures, and Hob's flat was no exception. Closing the blinds and sleeping with the windows open had worked for the first few days, but, insidiously, the heat had filtered in Celsius by Celsius, invading the space until there was no longer any respite from it.

Ever the harbinger of doom, the forecast had announced another week of this, sending London into a frenzy, between those who could afford to retreat north (or better yet, abroad, to more scenic and forgiving shores), and those who didn't have that luxury.

Hob was part of the latter.

Work kept him anchored in the city between lectures and research, the university administration staunchly refusing to trigger their remote learning protocol, citing the poor exam results following the pandemic as their main concern. God forbid they lose their prestigious ranking. At least the faculty's archives provided Hob with a few precious hours of cool air. Such commodity was hard to come by, these days.

At home, Hob had grown used to living in semi-darkness, the blinds permanently closed, only leaving a sliver of light in. He often congratulated himself on having bought a fan one heatwave ago, before the entire stock had been raided by his heat-striken fellowmen. It did little to cool him down, though. Hot air was still hot air, no matter how much velocity it hit you with. He spent his days in nothing but his underwear, moving as little as possible, taking his mind off the heat as best he could.

Nights were almost bearable. When he didn't spend them at the New Inn, Hob would lie on the couch, crushed by the thick atmosphere, listening to this or that book, his body far too hot still to fall asleep yet. He was struggling to follow his latest pick when a deep, familiar voice startled him.

"I was not aware nudity was the latest fashion."

Hob sat up awkwardly, staring at the dark silhouette standing by the bedroom door. God, when he'd told Dream he could waltz in whenever he pleased, he never imagined himself sweaty and practically naked when that happened. Well... not at the onset, at least. In spite of the relative darkness, he could see the quiet smirk tugging at Dream's well-studied, often worshipped lips. Also wait, was he wearing a turtleneck, of all things?!

"It's something of a national trend, at the moment."

Dream took a few steps around the living room, the hem of his coat swaying gracefully against his ankles. Hob could feel himself sweat just imagining the weight of those layers. Morpheus, statuesque as ever, didn't seem the least bit bothered.

"How are you not cooked medium rare, right now?" Hob asked, looking for the faintest hint of a flush on those fair cheekbones of his, finding none. That turtleneck had to be awfully warm around his throat, though, the black, soft-looking fabric clashing deliciously with his skin. If he could just slip a finger underneath... Another kind of heat spread through Hob at the thought, doing nothing to improve the miserable state he was already in.

"I am not subjected to the Waking World's physics or weather patterns."

He said it as though it was barely worth mentioning, boringly mundane, and not easily the most fascinating thing Hob had heard all week. Hell, all year. He relaxed against the back of the couch, observing Dream's slow prowl towards him, suddenly acutely aware of his lack of proper clothing and undignified posture.

"Neat trick that. Could use some of that right now, frankly."

A low hum rose from Dream's throat, a cross between a chuckle and a huff. He was looming over him now, their knees nearly brushing.

"Could you now?"

Whatever clever retort Hob's brain had come up with, it died on his lips as Morpheus' hand ran across his damp scalp, his fingers combing through his hair. His skin was cold, impossibly so, his touch leaving tingling trails behind, making him itch for more. Hob let out a hearty, breathy sigh, leaning into the palm of Dream's hand.

"Fuck, that feels good."

He didn't mean to sound so achingly needy, but it was, by far, the best sensation he'd had all week. He had tried to beat the heat in various (and increasingly desperate) ways, but nothing matched the soft, cold silk of Dream's skin sending shivers down his spine. It felt... clean. Like fresh fallen snow, pristine and undisturbed. Which was a descriptor he could not quite apply to himself, in spite of many daily cold showers.

"I'm disgusting," he groaned, thinking of the sweat no doubt covering Dream's fingers now, a sensation he didn't envy.

"You are human," he countered gently. "You can not pick and choose which laws of your world apply to you or not."

Hob flashed a sly grin.

"Save for one."

"Quite right," Dream conceded, amused.

His fingers were still raking through Hob's hair, providing much needed relief. Running so hot had helped Hob in the past, back when central heating was still but a literal pipe dream in someone's head, but what had felt like a blessing then passed for a curse now. Much like the walls of his flat, he'd been build to keep the heat in.

Dream's fingertips brushed his ear, causing delightful sparks to shoot down his jaw.

"How does it feel, then, getting to choose which principles of physics apply to you?"

He'd meant it as a tease, expecting another one of Dream's huffed chuckle, but the reaction he got was more intense than what he had bargained for. Morpheus' gaze was consuming, to say the least, his pupils almost too wide and eerily dark to pass as human. A hand left his scalp to follow the line of his neck, fingers trailing down his throat like drops of icy rain.

"At present?" Dream's voice was a low murmur. Hob could almost feel the warmth of his breath against his ear although Morpheus over him, his back straight. "Exquisite."

Hob's adam's apple bobbed at the brush of his fingers. He did not fully understand how Endless' senses worked, but he could bet everything he owned that Morpheus could actually feel his heartbeat through his skin, his heart wreaking havoc in his chest. His lack of proper clothing left him exposed, the effect of Dream's ministrations painfully obvious, preternatural abilities or not.

"You are quite warm," Dream pointed out, as though he was only now realising the extent of Hob's predicament.

"So that you're choosing to feel."

It was hard to fight the edge in his voice between the cold caresses exploring his shoulders and Dream's almost predatory gaze. His only garment was getting too uncomfortably tight, his erection pressing against the fabric with yet more torturous heat.

"Touching you would hardly feel the same if I shielded myself from it."

Exquisite, he had called it. Touching him felt exquisite, even like this. Hob could hardly fathom it.

"So I am the sun-soaked rock you cold-blooded beauty like to lie against for warmth," he quipped, smirking up at him.

"In a way, perhaps."

Dream's hands reached his torso, sending more shivers through him on the way down. Hob could feel his throat go dry as Dream lowered himself on his knees in a fluid motion, his pupils wild through his lashes. A hand trailed up Hob's thigh, tremors following in all of his leg. He did not expect the gasp that escaped him when Dream wrapped his fingers around his cock through his boxers. The cold felt odd, at first, though far from unpleasant. Quickly, Hob found himself wanting it more. The clash between his burning skin and Dream's was intoxicating, making his hips roll at the touch.

"I thought you liked touching me," he groaned, frustrated by the pesky, unbearable barrier between them.

Dream merely smiled, that fucking cheeky smile he'd given him in 1789, and Hob's hips bucked of their own volition. Fuck that perfect face of his, God! To add insult to injury, Dream's thumb brushed light circles against the head of his cock, drawing a hiss out of him, his cock aching for more.

"Dream."

His attempt at being firm melted into something more pleading, but Hob was past caring. He needed and he wanted and he was not above begging. Mercifully, Morpheus pulled down his boxers, exposing him hard and sensitive to his cold breath. A strangled moan rolled out of him as Dream lapped at the throbbing tip, the ice on his tongue on the verge of burning, but ultimately divine.

"Fuck!"

Hob threw his head back, reclining fully against the sofa, his body trembling from the heat, Morpheus' mouth and the pleasure rushing through him. The surreal combinaison of sensations was making him dizzy in the heavenliest way possible. By the time Morpheus had him in his mouth, his hand stroking the base of his cock, Hob was moaning mindlessly at the ceiling, his hand tangled in Dream's hair.

"Fuck, you feel so good, love."

He could barely focus on words half of the time, babbling praises, stretching his back to accommodate the surge of pleasure threatening to undo him. He could not remember what he'd said after a while, but Dream hummed around his cock with such sinful wantonness Hob felt blood rush to his cheek.

"Don't stop," he panted heavily. "Don't stop, you're going to make me come."

Dream dragged his tongue along his length, drawing relentless swirls around the head of his cock. Hob grabbed the arm of the sofa, holding onto it for dear life. Morpheus' cool breath against his oversensitive skin caught him off guard. Dream's eyes were black now, bottomless pools of stars calling for him to jump and drown in them. When he spoke, his voice purring and sultry, Hob could hear it as close as if he'd spoken right next to his ear.

"I want you warm on my tongue, Hob Gadling."

Fuck! The words were barely gone that Dream wrapped his lips around the tip, his eyes still staring into Hob's as he teased it with a pointed tongue. Overwhelmed, Hob spilled with a gruff shout, tension stretching all of his muscles taut, before his body sank into the sofa, boneless and breathless. He could feel the stifling pressure of heat in his lungs, exertion weighing his body down even more than before. The cold press of Dream's body came to alleviate the ache as he leant against Hob, a hand against his mad, immortal heart.

"Never died of a heatstroke before," Hob chuckled hoarsely, his voice nothing but a prolonged wheeze.

"This is quite a serious accusation."

He did feign offense really well, that one.

"I think you tried your best."

Hob wrapped a heavy, lazy arm around Dream's waist, seeking skin under all those layers.

"Wouldn't mind you trying again," he added, his brain still floating hazily inside his skull. Dream pressed his forehead against his, bringing him some relief. "I could get you out of all that bloody fabric, for a start."

"Perhaps you will. I am told the Waking World will suffer another week of this," Dream said, pointing his chin at the nearest window. "I would hate to withhold any helpful assistance from you."

"I'm sure you would."

They held each other in comfortable silence, Hob slowly catching his breath.

"Sleep is notoriously difficult for humans during such times," Dream said after a while. "It makes for strange dreams. Or no dreams at all."

"It's been a struggle for a few days, yeah."

Hob slowly furrowed his brows, replaying Dream's words in his head. A stupid grin then stretched his lips, pushing against his cheeks.

"Is this your way of telling me I've not been visiting often enough?"

"I would not word it in such terms."

He gave Dream's hip a light squeeze. Did he posh himself up on purpose to visit him?

"I missed you too."

The proud git would not say it, but the way he leant heavier on Hob spoke louder than words, anyway.

"So, would it please you, other... visits? Should the weather continue to interfere with your sleep?"

Hob did not have the heart to tell him those were called "date", in this day and age, although he suspected Dream would sooner disappear for a millennium rather than 'wording it this way'.

"Yes. It would, shitty sleep or not. Although I admit I do enjoy your blatant disregard for the laws of thermodynamics."

"I thought you might."

[player1064]

If you're still doing prompts: I just saw the rooney pic set and the beckham with carra and just either of Carraville being a hot commodity? Other people having crushes or being into them? And maybe them being obvious because they only have eyes for each other or so? Or being possessive

alright lads I am BACK (the essay uh. dont even worry about it.) I've been distracted from drabbles with a) my beville wip which is getting. long. and b) making a gary character thesis statement video which is also getting. LONG.

Anyway I was gonna do a Gary half to this (w/ Stevie and Michael Owen) but it's already at like 1.2k words with just the Jamie ones so if anyone wants me to write the Gary half u will simply have to send more asks adksjfkjdasfsvdsa...

---

Wayne is young, and excited, and he’s scoring a lot of goals.

England is fantastic, it’s a break in the routine, a chance to play with new people. A chance to prove to the whole world that he’s the best there is, that there’s more to the buzz around him than just talk. And there’s so many United players in the squad, there’s no fear of feeling lost or out of his depth.

Except, the United players are all senior United players, that little gang of Phil, Butty, Scholesy, and of course their ringleader Gaz.

Gaz is great, but Wayne has to put up with him every day of his life and he’s not sure he can stomach spending his free time at England camp listening to his ranting when he could be doing literally anything else.

The first time he’d been called up he’d still been with Everton, and being the only player at the club to get in the squad he’d not known anyone when he got to training camp. The Liverpool lot – or rather, Jamie Carragher and his less enthusiastic mates – had adopted him, but now just a few months later everything is different, because now he plays for Manchester United.

It’s stupid, really. The club rivalry stuff. The ‘stick with your own teammates’ stuff. David Beckham doesn’t play for United anymore, but he’s still sat at their table every day, saying stuff that’s not even that funny but that makes Gaz do this stupid over the top laugh that Wayne never hears at any other time.

Gaz’ll have a go at him for it, but he’d rather go sit with Stevie and Carra.

They’re sat at a small table in the canteen, just the two of them and Mo. Except Carra’s not sitting next to Mo like he did last season, there’s no easy banter flowing between any of them. Wayne ignores the tension, or maybe he just doesn’t notice it, and he takes the long awaited opportunity to sit right next to Carra.

Gaz likes to complain about the Scousers, and about Carra in particular. He can’t stand him, thinks he’s after his position in the squad or something, like anyone would want to be a right-back. Last time they’d played Liverpool, Gaz had sat in the dressing room moaning about how Carra was a ‘pathetic little whiny bitch’ and how ‘he’s the most miserable looking footballer I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting’.

Wayne’s not sure where Gaz is getting that from, he’s always thought Carra was quite nice. Friendly, even.  And he smells nice, which is unrelated but feels like it’s worth mentioning.

Even now that Wayne’s at one of his club’s biggest rivals, he still gives him a little smile and an “alright, Wazza?”

There’s a little flutter in his chest, and he grins back. “hiya, Carra. How’s things in Liverpool?”

Carra squints at him. “Did Neville send you over to spy on us?”

*

David is under a lot of pressure.

This was meant to be his last tournament, one last chance for him to finally do it, and now he’s sat in the dugout and every newspaper in the world is asking what his job is meant to be, exactly. He’s not a coach, his latest injury ruled him out of the squad months ago, but he’s still here, and everyone is still watching.

It’s weird, to be away with England and not have Gary by his side. He’s in a hotel in South Africa and he should be going out, enjoying the fact that for once he doesn’t have to be fit to play, but instead he’s staring at the door wishing Gary would walk through and complain about something.

It’s probably not fair to say that he misses Gary (you’re the one who left, you prick), but well – he does miss Gary. He always misses Gary. It’s a world cup, he should be here.

If he’d known, four years ago – if he’d known. He’d’ve done better, tried harder. But what thirty year old thinks they’re at the end of their international career?

So he’s here, now. He’s not a player, not a coach, he’s just David Beckham. Apparently that’s enough. The squad is changing, shifting into something unrecognisable. The senior players don’t bother with the club rivalry thing so much anymore, there’s not enough of them from each club to really justify it. So at lunch he sits with Frank and JT and Gerrard. And Carragher, who’s not got enough caps to really be a senior player at England, but who’s too old now to count as anything else. He’s always around, anyway – sticks to Gerrard like his shadow.

And sometimes – sometimes, David finds himself looking.

He’s all alone out here. He’s under a lot of pressure.

It’s been years, since he’s done anything like that. Four years, in fact. And it’s not that he’s just substituting one defender for another, but he sees a lot of Gary in Jamie. Always cross about something, always moaning. Always pushing himself in training as hard as he possibly can, always pushing the others to do the same.

And he’s not bad to look at, either. Though David’s not sure if that’s a point in his favour or not, he’s always had a bit of a soft spot for the awkward, ugly ones. Or maybe just for that one specific awkward ugly one.

He’s not quite sure how to broach the subject, spends a few days agonising over it before deciding to just get on with it and go knock on the man’s door.

Carragher squints at him when he opens the door. “Does the manager need me for somethin’?” he asks cautiously, like maybe he’s not sure what David’s job is meant to be either.

“Nothing like that, just wondered if we could talk.”

Carragher doesn’t respond, just crosses his arms and waits for David to talk.

“Um, I was thinking more like – in your room?” he says, trying to load as much meaning as he can into the words since Carragher seems a bit slow on the uptake.

Carragher waves him in and he walks ahead to sit on the end of the bed.

“If this is about that fight I had with your mate a few weeks ago, he’s the one who fuckin’ started it.”

“I – what?”

David’s not quite sure when Jamie would have had opportunity to fight any of his mates, or even which mate he might mean – they don’t exactly run in the same circles.

“I swear, he’s always in the referee’s ear, mouthy cunt.”

Ah. Gary.

He wonders when the last time United played Liverpool was. He wonders when the last time was that he asked Gary how a game went.

“We have nothing to do with the referees,” he says automatically, before remembering that he’s not really part of the we anymore, hasn’t been for a long time.

“Yeah, yeah. Well tell your little boyfriend that if he still ‘as a problem he can say it to my face, but it was his man who dived, not mine.”

“That wasn’t why I – you know what, never mind.”

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Grist:

A new report finds that the United States could more efficiently produce food if half the country’s protein supply came from plant-based or alternative proteins rather than meat or dairy. 

The analysis demonstrates how a shift toward a plant-based diet provides ample benefits for the environment and the climate. In its latest report, the Good Food Institute, or GFI — a nonprofit think tank that supports the growth of alternative proteins — calculates that if Americans replaced 50 percent of their animal protein consumption with plant-based options, then 47.3 million fewer acres of cropland would be needed to grow the same amount of protein.

That land, which altogether makes up an area roughly the size of South Dakota, represents tremendous opportunities for carbon sequestration and biodiversity, according to GFI. The organization argues that if those acres weren’t used to grow crops, they could instead be transformed into carbon sinks or used to restore threatened ecosystems. That would deliver climate benefits on top of the reduction of animal agriculture’s more direct emissions sources: manure and cow burps.

The U.S. currently devotes a tremendous amount of land to agriculture: Over 60 percent of land in the contiguous U.S. is used for agriculture, and 21 percent of that is cropland. A majority of the nation’s cropland — 78 percent — is used to raise crops that are primarily used to feed animals. 

The shift toward increased alternative protein production detailed in the GFI report would not require growing more plants. Instead, the U.S. could meet its current protein demand by growing fewer crops overall, and ensuring that more of the commodity crops we already produce — such as soy, grain, corn, barley, oats, and sorghum — are grown for human consumption.

“I think a lot of people, when they hear about plant-based diets, they’re like, ‘That’s going to take so much soy,’” said Priera Panescu Scott, GFI’s lead plant-based scientist, whose background is in material and agricultural science. But Panescu Scott, who co-authored the report, points out that soy is mostly grown to feed livestock, not humans. Worldwide, a majority of soy is used for animal feed, while only 7 percent winds up becoming tofu, tempeh, soy milk, or other foods. 

[magicwithclass]

Narwhal

Narwhal is a meme. It is a very old meme from back in 2016 and many have forgotten the history of this card. However, its importance in discussions about reserved list bulk and buyouts deserves to be recorded. After all, if we do not know our history we may be doomed to repeat it. In 2016, there were some amount of reserved list buyouts. Particularly, some cards were being purchased seemingly without reason. Typically, a reserved list card spikes in price because of natural demand. Maybe a new card comes out that synergizes perfectly with a reserved list card. Perhaps, a newly released set creates a strong two card infinite combo in commander or some other format. These scenarios sometimes trigger reserved list spikes because there is genuine demand as players jam the latest hot commodity into a deck. 2016 was the first time I saw some reserved list market movement that seemed to be based on manipulation rather than legitimate demand. It is possible that this was the year where it finally clicked that reserved list cards were in limited supply. Reserved list cards can never be reprinted but many reserved list cards were already approaching twenty years old. There was some concern that a group of people or a very wealthy individual would buy up all the bulk on the reserved list for pennies each. Even if there was no desire for any of the reserved list cards currently, some people knew that buying thousands of copies of a card for fifty cents could be very profitable even if those cards only ever reached a maximum of ten dollars per copy. Some people chose to cast their net very wide and buy reserved list cards despite playability or demand. The thought was that reserved list cards would all eventually rise in price due to scarcity and collectability rather than demand or playability. Some people had more discretion and only bought reserved list cards that they thought had potential playability in the long term. Do not forget that every card in the game just needs a single powerful interaction to skyrocket in price. Cards with unique or unusual effects also had strong speculation but there are clearly some reserved list cards that just don't do anything. Narwhal is one such card. For 4 mana you get a 2/2 with first strike and protection from red. Notably, first strike is considered a color pie break in blue but this is not a sufficient reason to play it. The flavor is awesome though! How are you attacking first with that huge horn in the way? How are you casting that fireball on my creature that is under water? The reason I bring all of this up is because in 2016 a youtube personality, formerly called mtglion, started buying out narwhals and then discussing it on his youtube channel. I am not sure if those old videos are still on his youtube channel but he is still active under the new name: UMU. His goal was not to break the market and spike narwhals so he could become rich. Instead, he wanted to see how easily a single individual could manipulate the market of reserved list bulk. Mtglion openly stated that he was buying out copies of narwhal to see the reaction. It was a meme. The card was selected because the probability that the card would ever have genuine demand due to playability was astronomically low. Instead, narwhals are cute, silly little animals and everyone loves those guys. Does anyone remember that episode of Futurama with the narwhals? Would people finally see that reserved list cards are an investment that will go up? Would people get scared that the reserved list was entering the hands of investors looking to pump but not dump? Would certain people hold a monopoly on certain reserved list cards completely controlling the market? At first, the price of narwhal did go up. In June 2016, a single near mint copy of Narwhal was almost ten dollars! That is insane for a card with artificial demand created by someone openly stating that they are manipulating the market. One person literally did move the market and he did not even need thousands of dollars to do it.

[butterflyinthewell]

The latest dad drama…

My dad is in the hospital and we get a break from him.

His hip is so severely bruised after his falls on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and then New Year’s Eve that he’s in agony and we can’t take care of him in this condition.

TW: emotional abuse, swearing, hospital mention

He kept falling partway off his bed between the mattress and the wall, waking us up all hours of the night to pull him back onto the bed, wailing in pain anytime we had to move him, and he was totally unable to sit up or stand and swing over to sit on his toilet commode.

Parkinson’s already limits his mobility, so any injury that makes him unable to handle his own weight or help us move him means we can’t take care of him. We had no way to get him out of the house except to call the paramedics to take him to the ER. They almost wouldn’t do it until my sister said “he has advanced Parkinson’s and he can’t help us move him around, we can’t take care of him like this.”

I tried to speak up and say dad’s needs are getting beyond us, that mom keeps hurting her back trying to deal with him and we need long term help, but both mom and my sister yelled at me to shut up. As always I got silenced and never got a chance to say what I needed to say. 🤬

Dad will be discharged from the hospital to a rehab facility for however long insurance will allow it and hopefully he will heal enough to be able to help us help him.

He should be in a nursing home, but my family is trapped in that crack of “too much income (a pittance from the government) to qualify for assistance of any kind, but not enough to afford any long term care” and I hate it so much.

I’m tired of useless “help” that still ends with us struggling to take care of him once a crisis passes. The way things are going we’re going to continue in this vicious cycle of fall, misery, hospital, rehab, home over and over until he finally dies, and I don’t know if insurance will keep covering that either.

This ER run didn’t make me panic because I know why dad had to go there and that it’s not life or death. There’s the COVID risk, but at this point I just don’t care if we all get sick anymore. I’m careful to wear my mask whenever I leave the house so I won’t spread it if I catch it, and will stay home if I end up sick from somebody else bringing it home. (I didn’t go to the ER with everybody.)

But we are tired and stressed out from dealing with dad day in and day out with no rest or break. This is a break we’re desperately in need of.

As much as his emotionally abusive ass pisses me off, I don’t want him suffering in pain like he was. He’s got pain relief and that’s what’s important to me.

I’m just grateful for a break and I think mom will be too once she calms down.

A part of me hopes a social worker looks at the situation and gives us options or some kind of loophole to get dad into long term care, but I won’t hope too hard. I know American healthcare is shit and they don’t care about disabled poor people at all.

Caregiving is a thankless slog and even the most loving person will slowly be destroyed by the nonstop stress of it. It hurts when you see how people pull away like you’re a plague. I’ve watched it happen to my family, it’s pretty disgusting, and it’s the most unfair to disabled people who aren’t getting the care they desperately need.

[cleoashbee]

The Authenticity Trap

The neo-humanism manifesto- cleo ashbee

Here’s the thing no one really talks about—there’s this constant, low-level tension between who we are and who we want people to think we are. And in the era of social media, this tension’s been cranked up to an almost unbearable degree. Authenticity and acceptance—these two forces we’re all navigating—seem like they should live in harmony. Like, in theory, the more “real” we are, the more we’d find people who truly accept us, right? But that’s not what happens. It turns out, the more you lean into authenticity, the less likely you are to fit into the neatly curated boxes society offers as paths to acceptance. And the more you chase that sweet, dopamine-laden acceptance from the digital masses, the less authentic you become.

It’s like a pendulum. Swing too far towards authenticity, and you risk being ostracized for breaking some unwritten, algorithmic rule of online engagement. Swing towards acceptance, and you’re on your way to becoming just another carbon copy in the endless scroll of influencers selling detox teas, self-care routines, or hashtag whatever the latest feel-good consumer trend is. What makes this even more maddening is that social media has amplified this divide. The internet, which could have been a place for true self-expression, has instead become a marketplace of personas.

Here’s where capitalism comes in, sneakily, but completely predictably. See, capitalism thrives on this gap between authenticity and acceptance, because it’s profitable. Social media platforms, built on the promise of connection and authenticity, have been quietly rigged to capitalize on your most desperate need: the need to be liked, to belong. Every like, follow, or share is currency in this new economy, where attention has become the most valuable commodity. The more you scroll, the more ads you see, the more products you’re sold—not just physical goods, but ideas, lifestyles, identities. And what’s really sinister is that this whole system thrives on distraction, on keeping you looking outward, obsessing over who you should be, rather than turning inward to who you actually are.

It’s no accident that we’ve become addicted to this endless exhibition of ourselves online. Social media offers a seductive kind of escape from ourselves—an opportunity to craft a version of ourselves that’s optimized for consumption. We crave distraction from the hard, unglamorous work of self-acceptance, so we turn to the next best thing: validation from others. But this validation is hollow, fleeting, designed to keep you chasing after the next hit. It’s like cotton candy—it tastes sweet for a moment, but it dissolves before it can actually fill you up.

And now, the pendulum swings wildly between two poles. On one side, you’ve got authenticity—raw, unfiltered, sometimes messy but real. On the other side is acceptance, which, in the digital age, has been hijacked by algorithms and monetized by platforms that have turned you into both product and consumer. We’re in a strange era where fame, something that used to be reserved for people who achieved remarkable things (whether through talent, leadership, or art), has been democratized—or, more accurately, diluted.

Welcome to the age of the influencer, where anyone with a phone and a knack for “content” can become famous. But here’s the rub: we’re not just elevating people because they’ve got some unique insight or skill. We’re making people famous for being famous. And it’s not the thoughtful, talented, or creative voices rising to the top; it’s often the people doing the most outrageous, fake, or plain stupid things that go viral. Half the viral videos you see are staged, engineered for maximum shock value, all in the hopes of triggering the algorithm’s jackpot: virality. We’ve gone from turning to experts—think world leaders, scholars, musicians, artists—for advice, to looking up to influencers whose only real qualification is that they’ve cracked the code on how to game the system.

What’s really terrifying, though, is how complicit we all are in this. We’re the ones following these influencers. We’re the ones liking, sharing, commenting, and perpetuating this system. And the thing is, we’re not just scrolling for entertainment; we’re scrolling for validation. We’re looking for someone to reflect back to us who we want to be, to tell us we’re doing life right. But in doing so, we’re feeding into a culture that prizes appearance over substance, clicks over connection, and shock value over authenticity.

So here’s the aha moment: you, me, all of us—we’re not just participants in this system; we’re its architects. Every time we scroll, like, or share, we’re reinforcing this pendulum swing between authenticity and acceptance, driving the very algorithm that keeps us stuck. And if we want to find balance, to bring that pendulum to rest in the middle, we need to stop feeding the machine.

The solution isn’t radical—it’s actually pretty simple. First, we can start by questioning what we consume and why. Ask yourself why you’re following certain people or engaging with specific content. Does it add something meaningful to your life, or is it just noise? Second, unplug—literally and metaphorically. Step away from the digital marketplace that’s turned your attention into a commodity. Go for a walk. Read a book. Have a real, face-to-face conversation. Finally, and maybe most importantly, practice being yourself, without performing it. This doesn’t mean dumping your entire emotional landscape online in the name of authenticity; it means cultivating spaces in your life where you can be real without needing an audience.

Bringing the pendulum to rest isn’t about abandoning social media altogether, but about reclaiming our ability to experience life—and ourselves—without the constant need for external validation. It’s about finding a way to be authentic and accepted without sacrificing one for the other. And it starts with recognizing that the person responsible for swinging that pendulum back to center is you.