#Peso did the stickers on the pieces!

[moussedoodles]

🐙‼️OCTO ALERT‼️🐙

An artist decided to redraw the Octonauts in her style!! Why?

Because I'm on a nostalgia high that's why lmao

In a world where most of the population consists of animal shifters, the Octonauts are a group marine biologists and activists who help bring attention to both the curious beauty of the Earth's waters and the harms that threaten its incredible ecosystems.

I imagine that the actual Octonauts show is something they funded to educate kids on the wonders of marine life!

Peso is the most recent member that was brought into the crew after their old medic had retired, but despite his timid attitude, he's just as devoted to their cause and cares just as much about the diverse marine environments as the other Octonauts, and they welcome their newest medic with open arms!

Captain Barnaby (Barnacles) was an ex-navy man and the esteemed captain of their crew! Despite both his imposing figure and the fearful animal he shifts into, the captain is a warm and kindhearted leader who had earned even the harshest people's respects (as seen with his first mate). He's certainly someone who you could depend on, and though he's a pacifist at heart, that doesn't mean the captain himself isn't defenseless. (There's a joke in there somewhere, something something navy, something something bear–)

Kwazii is Barnacle's trusty first mate, chosen by the captain himself! He's an ex-pirate, and though they didn't exactly get along when he had first met the Octonauts, the crew had learned to trust in both their captain's judgements and Kwazii's capabilities as he proved time and time again to be reliable, kind, and surprisingly well under pressure, as well as a person who's bound to lift anyone's spirits once he's in the room.

Click here for the rest of the Octonauts!

[michaelberry-blog]

Havana day 2: cigars and lots and lots of other things

Over breakfast, the German girl mentioned that she had purchased unbranded cigars in Viñales but realized she didn't like them. The factories there are forced to send the tobacco to the government before it is distributed to the major companies, but if you buy it straight from the plantation you get the quality for a fraction of the price. I bought them off her and realized I didn't even know which end was which. I stopped in a local bakery as I passed and bought some sweet bread for 1 Cuban peso. That's 3 cents! I munched as I walked to the Partagás cigar factory, through some of the most dilapidated neighborhoods I have seen in all my travels. The Cuban people are poor, yes, but they're not necessarily in need. The government provides free healthcare, schooling, and all basic needs, so the average monthly income of $15 probably goes toward rum and cigarettes. Life is not easy, but everyone can survive. I looked around for a hotel in which to buy a ticket to the factory. The owner of one B&B (which actually had an AirBnB sticker) was thrilled to meet me. "California!" he exclaimed. "Apples! Come in, I will explain everything." I'm not sure if he was talking about the fruit or the company, but he introduced me to his family ("California!") and we sat on the balcony. He informed me that the factory is overpriced and not quite authentic, and if I was going to Viñales tomorrow I should wait until then to see the real tobacco process. Everyone, I mean everyone, in Cuba is on the hustle. People in the tourism industry make more than doctors, so although the people are friendly, they also want your money very badly. Because of this, I expected him to try and sell me his own cigars or something, but he simply sent me on my way and told me it was nice to meet me. After that, I managed to ride in my first "colectivo" of the trip. They're hard to distinguish from normal taxis, but some of the old cars (called maquinas) run a set route and only charge 50 cents. It's basically hitch hiking. They let me off near the Viazul bus station, where I purchased my ticket to Viñales. In order to do so, I had to wait in a long line, then go to a different office, then go back to the original office, then the printer ran out of paper and everybody kind of just went on break. Next door was a little cafe where I had a surprisingly good espresso while listening to an old Skrillex mashup, circa 2010. I was loving it. Across the street I caught a cab with a friendly old man named Ricardo, who claimed he was the original owner of this 1957 Citroen and did all of the maintenance himself. Imported cars are taxed at an astronomical 10x, meaning the few newish German cars I saw would cost around $300,000! But you can't buy them anyway, unless you're a government official. I think my favorite thing is talking to taxi drivers. He dropped me off near the American Embassy, which used to display uncensored news to the Cuban people from large screens behind its gates. To counter, the communist regime created the Monte de Banderas: a monument of huge flags directly in front of the Embassy. How convenient! I walked for a while along the Malecón seawall, refreshed by the ocean breeze. Like a seasoned veteran, I caught another colectivo back to Old Havana to check out Castillo San Salvador de la Punta. This fort, along with its sister across the bay, protected the port from pirates and corsairs for centuries. There was a period when all of the riches of the new world came through Havana before sailing back to Spain, and attacks were so frequent that they even strung a chain across the mouth of the bay to effectively clothesline any would-be assailants. The man running the entrance was visibly bored, and stopped me for a while just to talk. He looked around the empty area to be sure it was truly vacant and pulled out a box of Cohibas, explaining that his family works in the factory and they're easy to pilfer. I purchased 2, and even if they're fake, it doesn't really matter since they were ten times cheaper than market value. I struck out on getting a colectivo back and ended up paying for a normal taxi. It was a 52 Buick, with a dashboard lifted directly from a 21st century Peugeot. Back in the hostel I discovered that my phone charger cable was missing. The outlet plug was still in the wall, but the cable was nowhere to be seen. I mentioned it to the señora, who became visibly upset and started talking too quickly for me to understand as she turned the room upside down. For now she gave me a battered cable one of the other guests had left behind. My feet were rubbed raw from all of the wet socks and the walking, so I chilled out for a while in the park to get some wifi and watched a fight break out in front of a cafeteria. One man chucked a piece of concrete at the other, who narrowly dodged it as it exploded into fragments against the wall. The Habaneros in the park watched with excitement. I was itching to hear some live music for which Havana is so famous, so I asked my waiter that evening if he had any recommendations. Without hesitation he responded "La Fábrica," which was a popular music establishment with different genres in each room, housed in a now-defunct oil factory. The hipster in me was excited. A spry Cuban with an Afro picked me up in his Chrysler, and roared through the hot night whistling at every sultry mamasita he passed. Despite what people had told me, La Fábrica was closed because it was Monday. So I had him drive me to another spot I had heard about, a subterranean venue where up-and-coming Cuban musicians and locals hung out. Also closed. Third time's the charm, and I ended up at La Zorra y el Cuervo. I'm pretty excited to be able to say the phrase "I went to a jazz joint in Havana" for the rest of my life. Cover included 2 (strong) Mojitos, and I chatted with the bartender until the music started and the place filled up. The song started out slow, lazy piano keys and soft rapping of drums. I tried to tap my fingers to the beat but it kept changing as the musicians searched for meaning, then lost it, then found it again. The tempo picked up. The drummer began to sweat, I could see the fog of his breath under the lights. The piano man stood up, pounding the keys and forgetting about everything but the moment. Then the tenorman hooped up and blew his top, squealing and blasting and through his trumpet poured all the answers to the questions everyone had forgotten to ask. Now I was living my "On the Road" dream! Dean appeared next to me, rubbing his belly and shouting "Yes! Blow man!" and digging everything. A group of 12 Americans came in, getting in the way of everybody and taking videos they would never watch again. Still, they were American, so I talked to them a while. I asked the bartender if he had any other recommendations, and he told me to go to El Gato Tuerto (The one eyed cat) for "music with feeling!" I walked the 2 blocks and sat watching the salsa band play their hearts out and the cute girl who danced with all the Cubans. Just then I figured it all out: dark skin, tequila, music, inability to keep myself away from Spanish countries... I must be Latin deep down inside.

[holatinola]

Beige

Our editor-in-chief asked us to describe a color without mentioning its name. So here’s what I did. 

Beige

By Allison Labitan

It was your unforgettable childhood, decorated by wounds and scars. It is the grainy hot sand underneath your feet. It turned dark since you love to play under the sun's scorching heat.

It is your teenage life, A hint of pink when you were in love, but turned pale when you were lonely or sick.

It was your 7th grade acoustic guitar, engraved with words, and ruined by absurd stickers. Jamming with friends every lunch break; you were amateur musicians and frustrated singers.

It is your 15-peso latte every morning, and your fresh Belgian waffle sandwich for breakfast. It is one of the blandest milk teas you have ever tasted, and it is your rejected pizza crust.

It is your grandma’s homemade polvoron inside that round tin can, with your favorite white chocolates and pieces of candy. She always put a pack of biscuits in your pocket to make sure that you’ll never go hungry. She never forgets to buy you a pasalubong; she always has that extra paper bag filled with goods she bought from the grocery.

It is the wrinkles around your eyes and around your lips. It is the folds and stretch marks on your thighs, and the calluses on your fingertips.

It is the smell of a cozy coffee shop; freshly brewed coffee and fresh pancakes. It is the smell of the library; the scent of old books and ripped book pages.

Tranquility: It is the rapture between the two of you. It is the moment when your skin brushes against his, and you feel the warmth of his body.

It is when you yearn for love; it is the scent of his body when he wraps his arms around you and you bury your face in his chest.

It is like taking a nap and falling asleep on the comfy couch. Sleeping next to your furry pet, or  next to the one you love.

Undisturbed.

It is home.

--end--

So here are the comments that I got from my co-writers. I was very happy that I made them hungry. HAHA. I felt kilig after reading these. 

“For one, I think reading this actually made me hungry (haha), but I like the vivid descriptions used as it really helps the reader imagine the scenario and gives off that sense of “peace”.”

“Use of words were on point. Such description puts the whole art into a masterpiece. The writer also made sure that once you read her story, it is relatable.”

“I can see very clearly the color this poem is about, and, yes, I also got a little hungry reading this. The first half felt like it was missing something, like there’s supposed to be more in it but that’s all. As I continued reading, the words flowed together better and better.”

“I love how this was able to incorporate little things that had a subtle hint about the color, it’s so beautiful and not everyone would pick beige. I love how you talked about the little things we often overlook, even food that are part of our childhood, it was a nice read and it was beautiful until the end.”