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a-fluffer-nutter · 2 months ago

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Spied On

A/N - Finally finished the fic for Day 14 of Tickletober lol. The prompt was "Lose," which isn't as incorporated in this fic as other prompts have for the others, but a loss does happen so...lol. So the main reason behind this fic is that my favorite fic I have ever read is from the one and only @wigglygiggler and while they aren't on Tumblr much anymore, I would still like to say that "You're a Sneaky One" is my favorite fic, so I made this, a kinda sequel to it. I've always wanted to do a TF2 fic, so why not use my inspiration from Wiggly and put my own personal spin on things. Here is a Sniper x reader fic and I hope you all enjoy!

Word Count: 3,815

Engine rumbling, you rode your motorcycle over the dip in the driveway, slowing down to a sluggish stop once in front of the RED base. Pocketing your keys, you ripped off your helmet and placed it on the leather seat of your ride before smoothing out your messy hair.

“Hello, darlin’,” your eyes flicked up at the sound of Engineer’s southern drawl, having heard you arriving well before you parked.

“Evening, Dell,” you smiled, smoothing out your jacket as you approached.

“What do we owe the pleasure?” Engineer asked expectantly. Normally, as Miss Pauling’s assistant, you arrived with a truckload of supplies, ranging from medical equipment for Medic to gun supplies and ammunition for most everyone else. Today, it was clear you had other business to attend to.

“Heard your teleporter is acting up,” Engineer stepped in line with you as you walked back in the direction he had come from, knowing exactly where the broken machinery was. Withdrawing a small USB from your pocket, you flashed the drive as you as your expression slipped into one of neutrality. “Got your fix right here.”

“Good, t’was buggin’ me that I couldn’t get it fixed,” he shrugged his shoulders as you smiled to yourself, always having appreciated that the man was the only merc that could recognize his own mistakes and shortcomings. If only the others were like him, your work would be so much easier.

“Firewall glitch, it seems. At least that’s what the higher ups said,” the USB clicked into place as you finally managed to insert it, making at least four attempts of spinning the drive around and failing to get it in the hole. Growling to yourself, the screen lit up vibrantly before you stepped over to stand in front of it.

“Figures,” Engineer mused, his voice trailing off as he walked off somewhere behind you. As you began to furiously type in your credentials, a shrill screech rattled your teeth. Turning around, Engineer was almost right on you, dragging a folding chair. “For you, dear.”

“Heh, thanks,” appreciating the gesture, you took a seat, your back instantly thanking you. Before driving here, you had assisted Miss Pauling with burying more bodies than you could count, the damned system dedicated to despawning corpses on the fritz…again. Having had no time between that job and this one, you had swiped a few baby wipes from the van and cleaned off any traces of blood and guts that you could find coated on your figure. You knew you smelled like a bloody daycare, but working with the mercs was like own one, so it worked.

“It’s you!” your temporary peace was sliced with a knife when Scout’s voice pierced the silence between you and Engineer. Of course, you didn’t dislike any of the mercs, the completely opposite in fact, but Scout was…loud and distracting. A delightful conversationalist when you sought one out, but when you were focused on something important, like fixing the teleporter so these mercs could stop bitching to Miss Pauling about not having access to good liquor, Scout was a bit of a nuisance. And by the sound of his voice, it seemed like he was intent on getting under your skin that evening.

“Hey, Jeremy,” you sighed, having no plans on humoring him today. The faster you could get this done, the fast you could eat and by helping them out, you knew the mercs would invite you to join them for dinner and that meant…

“I heard a rumor about you,” fingers stilling, you stared at your reflection on the screen, noting the clear annoyance in your eyes before continuing to type.

“Ah?” was all you could say, beginning to exit out of the program you were in. As you started to reboot the system, Engineer leaned over to see what you were doing, knowing you had to be nearly done. He was the only person that deeply appreciated your knowledge of technology and computers, and while you were never going to be an expert in munitions and defensive traps like he was, there was still an appreciation for the skills you had.

“You have a boyfriend,” flinch visible to both mercs, Scout began to point and laugh at you. Inhaling sharply, you wished for the reboot to go faster, your ears warming to a cool pink.

“Bold of you to say that as you’re the reason why Miss Pauling doesn’t come by anymore,” Engineer countered, taking the words straight from your brain.

“It’s not my fault the Administrator is a bitch that can’t appreciate a perfect love story,” you let out a huff of a laugh as the screen relit, the system live. “Though it would be a damn shame if I told her that you were smitten for a certain somebody.”

“Fuck off, Scout,” you uttered through your teeth as you began running a system diagnostic program, making sure your work was a success. While you were on a first named basis with both Scout and Engineer, you would switch to using their titles when upset, specifically with the younger man.

“What they said,” Engineer gestured to you with his thumb, the rest of his fingers folding into a fist. Engineer was a saint and for that you were thankful. As he desperately tried to draw away Scout’s attention from you, a green bar inched across the screen; the program nearly finished.

“But Engie, don’t you want to know who our friend here is into?” Scout’s voice lowered into his version of a sly purr, which sounded more like a dying kitten than a suave cat, though you knew the bastard thought he was hot shit.

“Does it really matter?” Engineer’s mouth was as straight as a heart monitor connected to a vampire, his patience wearing thin, which was hard to do, as he was certainly one of the most patient of the mercs. Glancing over at the screen as it let out the victorious noise of a scan finished with no errors found, you and Engineer let out a sigh of relief. All you had to do was get the teleporter to send you one burger, and you would be free.

“I think a certain man from down under would like to know,” Scout leaned closer to you, his mouth nearing your ear.

“And done,” you stood up suddenly, knocking Scout back as the teleporter flashed to life, the desired burger rotating an inch above the tray. Eyes wide, you looked straight at Engineer, trying your damnedest to avoid making eye contact with a now ornery Scout. “I’ll go get the others and tell them it’s time for dinner.”

“Sounds good,” Engineer drawled with a smile, watching you hastily head toward the closest door, wanting to get as far away from Scout and the entire situation as fast as you could.

---

“Here you are, mon amour,” Spy poured you another glass of wine, one out of his personal collection. The man found your taste in wine and “finer beverages” up to par with his own tastes. Thus, whenever you were able to stay for a meal or even a few minutes, Spy would emerge from his room with a bottle in hand.

“Thank you, Spy,” you smiled politely, glad to feel a bit pampered, despite the company you were keeping. Picking up the glass, you took a sip, appreciating the sour, yet crisp notes of the crimson colored wine. Spy had said the winery that this wine had come from was his hometown, though he had said this about most wines he had given you, so you knew the man was just messing with you. You never cared, as you enjoyed the man’s company, being one of the only mercs you could have a formal conversation with. He was also the only merc that would offer you wine after consuming an ungodly amount of fried food such as tater tots and French fries.

“Bien entendu,” Spy replied as he took your hand and planted a kiss on each of your knuckles, an innocent act that you could tell had another meaning, as you had noted a specific glint in his eyes as he placed your hand back on the table. Drawing you hand away, you gave him a short nod before standing.

“I should be going,” your voice was calm and polite, despite the chaos starting behind you.

You stood in the foreground of the beginning of a spat between Soldier and Demoman, the drunken Scotsman taking offense to Soldier’s suggestion of ways he could do better during their next match. While Soldier did not specifically blame Demo for that day’s loss, he did have many opinions on how things could have gone better, and based on what you had heard, most of these suggestions weren’t too extravagant. Having seen the entire match from your desk, you knew that everyone had performed poorly, though you would never say those words out loud. All the mercs liked you, of course, but if some of them heard you say this, they wouldn’t hesitate to skin you like a trophy elk.

Bottles shattering against walls acted as your theme song as you walked out of the room, narrowly avoiding Pyro’s boot that was thrown dangerously close to your face. Without flinching, you were a battle hardened warrior trudging through a warzone. Nothing could faze you.

“Don’t stay too long!”

Only one thing could faze you.

Sighing, you pushed Spy’s final comment to the side. You knew that Scout hadn’t been the one to tell him, the bastard doing his best to learn every little thing about his rival had certainly overheard one of your conversations with the man outside. Spy probably lingered outside the van as you stayed the night, watching you rush away early in the morning to get back to work, not wanting to be tardy as the Administrator would definitely use her power to find out what caused your delay. Thankfully, Spy would never get you in trouble with the Administrator, liking you too much to get you terminated, in both meanings of the term. Who else would he share a drink with in the evenings?

Turning back around to take in the mischief and hedonism taking place, you let yourself smile before slipping out the door.

---

Moon waning, the lot was dark as you made your way to your intended final destination for the night. Falling asleep was never really your intention, but it was always so hard to leave him, especially now that the two of you had come to terms with your mutual infatuation.

Familiar click resonating in the vast emptiness of the night, a small smile flickered onto your face. A warm light sliced through the darkness as a door to the camper van opened. You could never get the jump on him, even if you were intentionally being as silent as possible, though after being mutilated by and mutilating enemy spies for quite some time now, the man was always hyper aware of his surroundings.

“Hello, love,” your voice was soft, not wanting your words to be picked up by the wind, though you knew it reached its target. A gentle hum was heard from just inside the camper, the ray of light now partially impaired by a thin, shadowy silhouette. The figure hopped down onto the cool asphalt, small pebbles crunching beneath his boots as he turned on his heels to lean against the fan, eyes scanning your figure.

“How can you even see with those on,” sarcasm dripping from your words, a smile crept onto his face.

“Ya being insensitive. What if I told you they were prescription?” heart fluttering, you homed in on his words and thick accent, finally being able to hear it again after a week of busy work away from the base.

“Are they?”

“Oh, fuck no,” you let out a soft laugh as you had closed the distance. Now within arm’s reach, he drew you in with one arm around your waist. Placing a hand on his chest, you looked up at him and any chill from the night air vanished.

“Oh, uh,” cheeks growing warm, you had suddenly remembered your interactions with Scout and Spy from earlier. Nervously glancing over your shoulder, you stammered, “Ah, inside. Let’s…inside the van.”

“Right,” noticing your hesitation, Sniper scanned the lot, checking each window before ushering you around the back of the van, taking your hand to help you step up into the vehicle. “Best go in. Keep the mozzies off us.”

Shadowing you, Sniper did one last scan of the base before shutting the doors, then out of caution, locked them before turning back to you. He would never intentionally lock you in anywhere, not wanting to overstep a potential boundary, but with your sudden bout of anxious energy, he figured it was for the best.

“You alright?” you let out a long sigh before turning back around to face him. Sheepishly, you rubbed the back of your neck.

“Yeah,” you replied with less confidence than you had hoped for. “Fucking Scout, man.”

Brows arched; Sniper gestured for you to take a seat before he made his way to the fridge. Never needing to ask, Sniper withdrew two bottles of beer and placed them both next to you. Taking a seat on the other side of the bottles, Sniper leaned over to grab his kukri. Quicker than you thought was possible, the bottle caps flung across the van, rolling away for him to find another day.

“Scout knows about us,” you finally finished your thought, brain switching back on as Sniper handed you a bottle, the wisp of chilled vapor dancing in front of your face before you took the drink from his hands. “He would stop hinting at it while I was working with Dell today.”

“I’ll skin the bastard if he says anything,” Sniper tipped his bottle back, letting the chilled liquid slosh past his lips. “Kid’s got a big mouth. Maybe I’ll have a word with him before he spreads the goss around.”

“I can deal with Jeremy,” you sighed, mirroring Sniper’s actions as you took a swig. “It’s Spy I’m worried about.”

“Spook’s been watching us?” Sniper’s natural frown deepened. “Explains why you were all worked up.”

“He didn’t follow me when I left, but he certainly implied he had before,” you groaned, letting yourself relax enough to fall into Sniper, your head resting on his shoulder. “Demo was having a fit when I left. Started fighting Soldier by throwing bottles and shit. The loss today really fucked with a few of the guys.”

“You should’ve heard Soldier when we got back. Bastard wouldn’t stop following Heavy around. Something-something about wasting too many bullets or some shit,” Sniper’s head tilted down so it rested against yours. “If it wasn’t for Medic, Soldier’s arms would still be on backwards.”

Softly giggling, you slipped your hand on Sniper’s lap, finally feeling completely relaxed. The days since last spending time with him had dragged on, and you kept having to drag yourself out of your childish daydreams while on the job. You had been living for today, and now it was all paying off. His larger hand rested on yours the second you squeezed his thigh, running his calloused fingers over your knuckles with a gentleness that still shocked you, despite having grown close to him. Watching him through the monitors every day, ruthlessly killing any member of the opposing team he could spot, it was occasionally hard for you to separate the man you loved and knew and the persona he wore when working.

“No offense, but all of you looked like shit out there today,” a low chuckle resonated from deep in Sniper’s chest.

While your focus was always on the monitors that featured Sniper, you still had work to do. Analyzing each of the merc’s actions, you had a spreadsheet that detailed each major success and blunder for each person for each round. Rarely talking about your office life with the mercs, you did like to occasionally remind them of their faults when you are particularly irritated by one of them. It was always funny, until the man laughing was the one you were criticizing. Today, your notes were numerous, writing more than you had in over a month.

“Was an off day for everyone,” Sniper shrugged, your head rising gently with the movement. “Dunno why. I was probably off since I hadn’t seen your pretty face in a while.”

“Dork,” you teased, squeezing his thigh again, but a bit closer to his knee. Leg jumping unexpectedly, you drew away to sit up. “Did I hurt you? I don’t remember you getting injured before the match ended.”

“S’fine,” Sniper grumbled, avoiding your look of concern. Put off by this action, you crawled a bit closer, leaning around to get a good look at his face, as he turned away. Lips pursed, you were about to chastise him for lying about an injury, until you saw the redness of his cheeks.

“Oh,” your voice dropped, then your lips contorted into a sly smile. Hand back on his lap, you squeezed the same spot, “You’re ticklish here too? For one of the most ruthless mercenaries in the world, you’re pretty damn ticklish, now aren’t you?”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, much to your amusement. Mischief beginning to overcome you, you reached out and traced a finger down his exposed neck. Choking back a laugh, Sniper instantly whipped around and grabbed your wrist, holding it away. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Since when was it illegal to make my boyfriend laugh?” you teased, reaching your other hand out to tweak his hip.

“Is that what I am?” grin slipping onto his face, your words played in his brain like a broken record player. Grabbing your other wrist with ease, Sniper pulled you across his lap, twisting you enough that you landed on your chest. Before you could push yourself up, Sniper began to knead his fingers along your ribcage. “Hm, I like the way that sounds. If I’m your boyfriend, then I guess it’s not illegal for me to do this, then.”

“Sh-hihi!” squirming beneath his touch, you were completely trapped between his hands and his torso. You may be strong, thanks to the number of bodies you have to drag around to dispose of, but Sniper had the advantage of being a ruthless killer with few morals, so pinning you was easy.

“Somethin’ the matter, darlin’?” Sniper asked with faux curiosity, fingers crawling up your torso to worm beneath your arms. Your laughter amplified as you frantically tried to smack away his hands, with little success.

“It tickles,” you yelped through your laughter, desperately wiggling around in attempts to roll over. This action would give him more access to your sensitive spots, but at least you would be able to see his actions and use your arms more effectively. “Sn-sn-sniper!”

“That’s kinda the point, doll,” his words increased the ticklish sensations, intensifying your desperation. Allowing you to follow through with your plans, Sniper relaxed his grip and slowed his attack down enough for you to finally flip over. Not only did he not want to overwhelm you, but not being able to see your smile was growing old.

“You evil man,” sweetly giggling, you swatted at the man’s hands that skittered gracefully over your belly. Sniper was smiling slyly down at you, clearly enjoying the playful torture he was putting you through.

“Am I now?”

“Yes,” you peeped out before lunging up, wrapping him in a tight hug. Before he could react, you began to scribble your fingers over his ribs, nails tracing each bone, noting how pronounced they felt beneath your touch. “Sometimes I forget how thin you are.”

“Am not,” his voice was quiet, his words short. Body twitching beneath your touch, Sniper’s breathing became harsher, uneven, untrained.

“Are too,” you let out a chuckle, your chin resting on his shoulder. Fingers trailing down his torso, you grasped a bit of his shirt and tugged, untucking it so you could creep your hands beneath the fabric.

“You sneaky bugger,” unable to hold it back any longer, and wanting you to have a bit of fun, not that he would admit to that, Sniper began to laugh. Wheezy and raspy, as if his voice box was full of cobwebs, his laugh was melodious to you. Sniper would compare it to a koala in heat, but you adored the sound of his laughter. It was unrestrained, free, and very him.

“You’re acting like you hate this,” you teased into his ear, feeling him shiver away from the lips brushing up against the lobe. Blunt nails drawing chaotic designs into his belly and sides, you let out a small laugh as he refused to reply, just uttering a small groan of annoyance between peals of laughter.

Ever since finding out his little secret, you took it upon yourself to make him smile whenever the timing felt right. Normally, these little playful scuffles happened after a bad loss, like today’s, though sometimes one of you just needed a pick me up after a hard day on the job. Normally, the two of you were very serious individuals, especially when working. Both amazing at what you did, it was easy for either of you to get caught up in whatever nonsense the job brought you. Thankfully, after falling for one another, being able to pull off the masks of stoicism and relax when the two of you were alone became commonplace. While neither of you specifically liked to be tickled, the fact it was an easy way to draw laughter from your significant other made you forget about your general dislike of the action.

“I think that’s enough for now,” purring into his ear, you pulled your hands away from beneath his shirt and hugged him again, resting your forehead against his. “Feeling better?”

“Never said I was feeling bad, ya cheeky bastard,” he replied with no malice, smile still plastered to his face. As he ran his hands over your hair, you let out a soft, peaceful sigh. “But, now I’m completely knackered.”

“Mind if I join you, tonight?” you asked while yawning, your words sounding a bit distorted.

“Why wouldn’t I?” in one quick motion, he lifted you to your feet, sweeping you off him by hooking under your arms and stood. Letting out a small squeal in delight, you wrapped your legs around him, holding him like a koala as he walked you over to the mattress he called a bed, laughing the entire time.

Falling asleep with him was never your initial intention when spending time with him, but you were never going to say no to your love. This was just a perk of your job, so why not savor the moment.

#tickle fic #rose writes #tickletober #tickletober 2024 #tf2 #tftickles #reader insert

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yeslistenyourheart · 2 years ago

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Beneficial Sports Betting Principles

Sports betting isn't all karma and losing. There are many individuals out there that make a decent pay from putting wagers on sporting occasions around the world. However many individuals lose truckload of cash betting online, you don't need to be like them. By following a couple of essential principles you can benefit by betting dependably on sports.

You first need to set yourself a spending plan for your sports betting endeavor. This spending plan, called your bankroll, is a measure of cash that won't influence your living status if totally lost - all things considered, not every person can make winning picks. Your bankroll should be discrete from all everyday costs such as home loan, lease, utilities bills, and so forth.

After you have decided your bankroll, you really want to conclude how much you will bet on each bet that you make. The key is to bet a similar sum on each game. The sum that you put on each game is your betting unit. To decide your unit, you initially should conclude how moderate or forceful you intend to be. The normal measure of unit is five percent, however certain individuals make it 2.5 to 10 percent. This all relies upon your bankroll size and your wagering demeanor.

Your unit is the way to limiting your gamble while endeavoring to boost your benefits. The destruction of many sports gamblers is that they are disorderly and place wagers of various sizes. This wagering technique isn't the most ideal methodology since you are losing more cash when the huge bets lose in view of the juice. The more modest bets could either pay for the juice or just a portion of the juice. Therefore certain individuals can have a winning level of 57 to 60 percent yet lose. By putting a similar sum on each game you limit your misfortunes. However you could like one wager somewhat more than another, you don't need show that with your cash.

When putting down your bets, you just need to put down three to four bets every day, which ought to be your most grounded plays. Another principle is to never gamble the greater part of your bankroll at any one time. You generally need to give yourself enough ammunition to retaliate following a terrible day or long stretches of sports wagering.

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writer59january13 · 1 year ago

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This accidental arsonist sparked following matchless anecdote

I attribute being a grown mad scientist

linkedin with tacit approval of parents

(both long gone to the smoky afterlife),

and donned wizard trumpeting magic spells

while dark and stormy night

(one week before Halloween),

which usher nostalgic memories

encapsulated within the following poem

initially drafted quite some years ago.

Both parents possessed pedigreed panache

(but especially my father – renown Chemist

B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent

late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms

Kuritsky - gal whose troth thy then still

livingsocial nonagenarian widower papa

pledged, while holding some bubbling

sinister looking flask in hand while both

donned trumpeting finessed affianced

doctored formula to marry, when both

partook of blind date.

This combustible transunion link analogous

to their representative first electric kool aid

basic laboratory litmus test date), which

took place without a hitch, and telepathically

encouraged begetting retinue of revered

sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully

burned with passion KRISPR incubated,

inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook

ideally transmitted to prolific brood

of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,

and snapping with yen that burned from

within and without buns sin burner of this

cingular earthlinked son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment

willy-nilly (wonka like) with rather

explosive materiel, I received truckloads

of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent

benediction) to foster dare devil and

derelict pyromaniac precocity.

Those initial awkward formative forays

assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating

this, that or other liquid or powdery substance

found me meticulously measuring and

weighing the substances using kitchen

midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from

yours truly as well as momma and papa

when net result (of these early attempts

to blend powders and/or liquids) merely

fizzled and self extinguished

into near inaudible poof.

Continual daily practice (would lead way

for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)

after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e.

uber vaporous wisps to lyft yawping banshee

like holograms, or equivalent of 10,000 maniacs)

eventually bore successful fruit in the form

of near perfect results.

Success in hotly contested field Pyrotechnics

requires striking resemblance

to any other vocation.

One must be able, eager, ready and willing

to maintain burning passion no matter any

unforeseen setbacks or heat from an

objectionable source.

Yes, there would be an errant conflagration

(sometimes set purposely by adjunct professor)

as object lesson to master usage of fire

extinguisher/fighter, a vital piece of equipment

and evenhandedness for getting hold

instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)

to contain any runaway flame.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you

on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential

fire branded wizard in the making with

kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating

unpredictable concoctions, these lethally

marshaled nonchalant opportunities

provided quintessentially random results

though usually very wimpy in tandem

with totally tubular nerdy, geeky, freaky,

and dorky beastie boy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they

proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered

entire ceiling with variegated splotches.

These scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show

kith and kin unspecified years into smoky future.

Quite accurate to assume

father and mother coached,

goaded, and nurtured

exploratory ambitions and

tried not to stifle

(at least consciously or deliberately)

my early stage ambition

toward scientific artiste bent.

As homeschooled and to some extent self taught

chemically romanced muralist, I grew up (not

surprisingly) in Unitarian household paid

close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and

pursuit of understanding

an underlying credo, which

allowed, enabled and provided near endless

experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside talking head

nearly burning down the house

amidst talking heads practically in dire straits,

an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself,

occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady,

Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful

catastrophic outcomes occurred thru milieu

of mixing deceptively harmless looking

inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with latter)

via blithely cooking dicey elements forming

goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash

practically eliminated any pained regret to take

daring risks (such as getting married – ha)

in later life.

Despite favorable and lovable upbringing,

my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor

of our family and an excellent chef boyardee

to boot) still managed to insinuate (gently

as possible) the necessity to be careful when

igniting flammable materials lest

some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling

ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my

slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics

and much preferred to steer my attention toward

safer hobby such as the edible objets d’arts i.e.,

the much more drab field per how to present

and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be

faux renowned cook (this confession admitted

rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually

competed for my most favorite avocation activity

and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing

his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem

with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic

compounds filled numerous sized dishes

and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus

less riskier factor to combine and potchka

dry and wet ingredients together did rank

as considerably safer medium that still

allowed, enabled and provided me an equal

opportunity to test reactions, than those

earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive

appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative

outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous

looking household cleaning supplies or easily

acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an

apocalypse at three two four Level Road

on one particular nasty occasion.

I anticipated our domicile would become

rent asunder, and reduced into a black

and decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for

grace of some divine force no family

members nor pets succumbed

nor got asphyxiated from choking acrid air.

#funny #tinder

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crimechannels · 1 year ago

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By • Olalekan Fagbade Police operatives intercept truckload of Indian hemp - CP The Police Command in Rivers says it intercepted 300 parcels of cannabis sativa, popularly known as India hemp, during an operation in Port Harcourt. The Commissioner of Police in Rivers, Mr Nwonyi Emeka, disclosed this to newsmen at a news conference in Port Harcourt on Friday. He said police operatives attached to the command’s C4i Intelligent Unit, intercepted a bus loaded with the banned product after receiving credible information from an informant. “The 300 parcels of Indian hemp were intercepted on Oct. 28 after operatives, working with credible information, trailed a white coloured Volkswagen bus with registration number MUS 910 YA. “Upon sighting the approaching police operatives, the driver took to his heels but was arrested after a hot chase. “Shortly after the suspect was apprehended, operatives searched the vehicle and recovered 300 parcels whose content was suspected to be Indian hemp,” he said. Emeka said the suspect is currently being interrogated to reveal the source and destination of the illegal product. In a related development, the police boss said that police personnel, acting on information, burst a notorious gang of armed robbers responsible for many robberies in the state. “On Nov. 1 at about 4 p.m., operatives of the command neutralised a notorious armed robber after they received credible intelligence about the suspicious and clandestine movement of his gang. “The gang leader and his gang checked into a hotel located at Chokocho along Etche Road in Etche Local Government Area of the state. “Operatives of Octopus Strike Force (upon sighting the gang) immediately swung into action and engaged them in a gun duel and eventually gunned down the gang leader,” he said. He said the deceased suspect, who had been at large and in the command’s watchlist, had earlier attacked a victim around Rumuodara community inside the city. “The suspect shot the victim in his left leg which later resulted in the amputation of the victim’s leg as well as snatched the victim’s car valued at N13 million, among others. “Items recovered from the gang leader are one AK47 rifle, two magazines, 21 rounds of ammunition of 7.62mm and a police handcuff and the key,” Emeka said. The police commissioner confirmed that two male suspects who received the stolen vehicle from the deceased gang leader had been arrested and were providing police interrogators with useful information. Emeka said the police command is already on the trail of other fleeing members of the gang, and assured that the suspects would soon be arrested and prosecuted for their alleged crimes. (NAN) #PoliceoperativesintercepttruckliadofIndianhempsaysCP

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hardynwa · 1 year ago

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Sierra Leone police 'open fire at opposition HQ'

Soldiers have surrounded the headquarters of the main opposition party in Sierra Leone, as votes are counted in the country's presidential election. The leader of the All People's Congress, Samura Kamara, said live ammunition was fired into the building as he held a news conference. He said it amounted to an assassination attempt. Clouds of tear gas shrouded the building. It's unclear why truckloads of troops were deployed. The police have not yet commented on the incident. The opposition is hoping to unseat President Julius Maada Bio, who's standing for a second term in office. There was sporadic violence against election officials during the vote on Saturday after a tense campaign. Read the full article

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rhapsodybenny · 2 years ago

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Story idea: Setting is one of those schools that have an elementary school and a middle school right next to each other. Pokemon cards are HOT — both schools are obsessed with them, and they’re worth their weight in gold. Group of middle schoolers find a description of the long-term Noorseekee con in the library:

* Find a bazaar to run the scam on.

* Split into two groups — “buyers” and “sellers.”

* Sellers go to the bazaar with large numbers of “Noorseekee,” small, mysterious gold cups.

* Offer the Norseekee for sale to the merchants. Don’t expect much out of it — just small, minor sales as they “sample” the mysterious goods.

* A few days later, the buyers go to the bazaar, and demand all the Norseekee they can find, offering good prices. All the merchants who bought some make good, easy profits.

* Sellers visit again, and now the merchants are *much* more eager to buy Noorseekee, since they’ve seen the market for them.

* Buyers visit and buy a bunch of Noorseekee, making the merchants very happy (and rich).

* A few more rounds of visits from buyers and sellers pass, building trust and establishing the Noorseekee as some special ware or currency.

* After that, the buyers show up and buy out the bazaar’s entire supply of Noorseekee. They say they’ll be back with *enormous* amounts of money, and place an order for an equally enormous sum of Noorseekee.

* When the sellers visit, they gladly agree to provide that much Noorseekee — although they’ll need to charge a higher per-unit price for hush money to pull off that big a delivery. The bazaar agrees, because they’ll still make a huge profit.

* They visit again with all the Norseekee — cases of them, maybe even truckloads. They receive payment, bid them farewell, and wish them luck.

* Neither the buyers nor the sellers ever visit again. They split the enormous payout for all the Noorseekee between them.

* Eventually, the bazaar finds out the Norseekeee are worthless — those “golden cups” were disposable brass caps for ammunition. The storage containers holding them are worth more than their contents.

After hearing this, the middle schoolers hatch a plan — they’re gonna pull off the Noorseekee con in the elementary school cafeteria for a *huge* sum of Pokemon cards.

* They get together a crew — everyone in their homeroom, 30 people.

* After an extended period of problem solving, they settle on Magic the Gathering lands — dirt cheap, mysterious, mature-looking, and easy to get for free from the town’s gaming shop on event nights anyway.

* As a guise for the con, they set up the TCG Club. The club leadership is our set of main protagonists — the President, who discovered the library entry and is running the show; the Vice President, who is in charge of acquisitions — getting more lands and Pokemon cards for capital; the Treasurer, who handles the money — doles out the cards for each “shopping run,” makes sure nothing goes missing, makes the call for when they do the “big one;” and the Secretary, who’s in charge of security — makes sure no one’s likely to talk, oversees the shopping runs, confronts anyone who’s skimming.

* Story proceeds according to the con. Two or three crises, all resolved. Some nice characterization.

* For “the big one,” the challenge is logistics — how to make the massive trade without getting caught when they’re operating under the pretense that this is fine to do.

* The con is successful, and we get a lovely “rolling in the Bulbasaurs” sequence — pouring backpacks full of cards onto the floor, giving everyone a scoop of the pile, a wholesome scene of trading cards with dark undertones to match how they got them.

* All is well, until an arbitrary twist to shake up the ending — don’t have one.

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feigeroman · 4 years ago

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Thomas Headcanons: Scruff

Scruff was originally built in 1946, as a special order by a munitions factory somewhere in the Midlands. They needed an engine that was small enough to fit within the close confines of the factory, while still being powerful enough to handle the heavy loads which came in and out every day. An engine like Scruff fit the bill, and he worked happily at the munitions factory for over ten years.

Obviously Scruff was required to be fitted with a spark arrestor, to prevent the possibility of sparks igniting the explosive materials handled at the factory. The equipment was removed after he left the factory in 1957.

In 1957, the Ministry of Defence published a report announcing a major restructuring of Britain’s defences - among other things, this included the downsizing of the Army, the reorganization of the British aircraft industry, and a shift in policy towards the use of missiles in warfare. This had a major effect on the production of ammunition and explosives, like those made by Scruff’s factory. As a result of these new policies, the factory was closed, and Scruff made redundant.

Almost immediately, though, Scruff was sold to a power station in the same part of the Midlands. His work now involved moving trainloads of coal from the exchange sidings with the main line, taking them to be unloaded, and then bringing back the empty wagons. Sometimes, to break up the monotony, the coal would instead by delivered by barges from the nearby river, and so Scruff would take wagons to be loaded there. Other occasional loads included oil (for the power transformers) and drums of electric cable.

Scruff ended up working at the power station for well over twenty years. However, two things ended up working against him. Firstly, the 1960s saw the introduction and success of gas-fired power stations, spurred on by the availability of North Sea gas, which dampened the importance of coal-fired stations. Secondly, and more drastically, the late-70s saw the introduction of merry-go-round trains which ran directly between the collieries and the power stations. These operations did away with the need for conventional shunting, and so Scruff was once again made redundant, being withdrawn in 1979. His last work for the power station was helping to build the facilities required to accept these new trains.

A local preservation kindly offered to take Scruff into storage on their premises until a buyer could be found. They would have gladly taken him on themselves, but their expenses just didn’t extend far enough to allow them to run another engine - besides which, he was just too small for the group to have any proper use for him.

At that same time, the Sodor Island Council had been making plans to establish a central plant for sorting, recycling and disposing of all the island’s rubbish. They’d intended for the site to be served by rail, and when it opened in 1980, they employed Whiff (NWR #66) as their main shunter. Just a year later, in 1981, the waste dump had proven more successful than anticipated, and the work was becoming more than Whiff could handle on his own. What was needed was another engine...

As it happened, one of the members of Scruff’s preservation group usually worked in a local waste disposal plant, and happened to have served as a consultant during the construction of the Sodor site. Having kept tabs on the site during its first year of operation, he became aware of its motive power crisis, and through correspondence with Sir Topham Hatt was able to suggest the sale of Scruff as a solution. This sale was made, and Scruff finally entered NWR service in late-1981.

Although much smaller than Whiff, Scruff is also that much more powerful, and so is more capable of handling a lot of the heavier work undertaken by the waste dump. In recent years, this has extended to work further afield, as Scruff is usually the one to venture out to collect truckloads of refuse for processing, while Whiff stays behind and looks after the running of the dump.

As well as working at the waste dump, Scruff is also sometimes loaned to Crocks’ Scrap Yard, on the Brendam branch. His work here is similar, in that it usually involves him going out to collect truckloads of scrap to bring back to the yard (as seen in Samson Sent For Scrap) - although he’s also sometimes to be found shunting trucks at the yard itself.

#thomas the tank engine #the railway series #sodor #island of sodor #north western railway #ttte headcanon #ttte analysis #ttte scruff #scruff the rubbish engine #scruff the scruncher

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genvieve-of-the-wood · 4 years ago

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So I Voted Early

Vote for the cup of cold coffee

with cigarette ashes some careless man

dropped accidentally in them

never apologizing

to the woman who

was trying to make it

somehow more drinkable

at a diner

that buys their coffee

by the generic truckload

Vote for the shit sandwich,

the one with

two slices

of white bread

and artificial sweetener

sprinkled on the turds

with weird orange streaks.

These were the choices

left to me,

and I tell you, those who

care to know,

I chose the coffee.

I will choose the coffee every time.

I can fish out the ashes,

I can add sugar,

I can add cream.

Eventually,

I can even ask for a new cup of coffee.

But shit can possibly kill you-

the infectious bacteria,

not to mention

the contagious viruses

cannot be ignored

when ingested;

no matter how many times

you try to reinvent shit

it is a hazardous stink,

no matter if you call it

“nouveau cuisine”

or “not like those other sandwiches

on the menu,”or

biggest, most expensive “shit sandwich”

you’ve ever seen -

it is still shit.

I’ve seen people

order seconds and just

drown it in ketchup,

and call it wholesome,

and good for you, the family,

and it apparently prevents

the downfall of the economy,

whatever that is now.

The guy who invented

the shit sandwich

is hailed as a true Patriot,

and even has a book

inspired by him in

the Authoritarian Bible.

Here is a well known

passage from the text:

Ammunition 3:16-

“And lo, they cried out

in anguish when the boots

and knees were placed also

upon their necks;

the multitudes of believers

were in disbelief

that the Party of Solving Problems

Through Lies,Guns, and Knees

and Boots on Necks

that they had lifted up

now greatly oppressed and

lied to them, the dwindling

middle and the increasing

lower class.

And lo,

even their skin color

and religious fervor

could no longer save them,

even until the unspeakable end

of the glorious reign

of the American Emperor.”

The other party,

to quote a famous 1980’s hymnal

of existential contemplation,

“Same as it ever was,

Same as it

ever was..

Letting our days go by..”

They long for change,

but self sabotage it

every time,

and go back

to a comfort zone

that some say

made them numb

to a growing pain

in the varied and ignored masses.

I long for the day

when the choices

are a glass of clean water

for the thirsty,

good, nourishing bread

for the hungry,

a chicken soup everyone

helped make for the sick,

food for malnourished minds

and hopeless hearts.

Fear is

the worst sustenance

to give a democracy.

I will drink my

ashy cold coffee

and no matter what happens,

I know how to

go home

and keep cooking

for myself,

and putting soup

in jars for whomever

needs it.

@genvieve-of-the-wood November 2, 2020

#writerscreed #spilled poetry #spilled ink #poetic stories #smittenbypoetry #spilled thoughts #poets corner #poets and writers #poets of tumblr #hopeful #cynical #genvieve-of-the-wood

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muchadoaboutbucky · 5 years ago

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Love Thy Neighbor - 1

Set post-Endgame: Bucky’s got a crush on the girl next door.

PAIRING: Bucky x Native American!Reader WARNINGS: slow burn, minor anxieties, eventual smut

read the rest of this series on patreon

“Hey, we got a mission.”

Bucky jerks awake, shoving his hair out of his face. His eyes are heavy with sleep, and the sun’s shining heavy through the thin curtains. Alpine, disturbed by her master’s movements, shoots Sam a glare and curls back up on her pillow, tail curling around her feet.

“What time is it?” Bucky asks blearily.

“Almost nine, you missed your run.” Sam snaps his fingers. “C’mon. Fury wants us to report in ten.”

Bucky grumbles, fighting the urge to burrow back beneath his comforter and fall back asleep. He’d had a hard time falling asleep, eventually drifting off after downing several extra-strong tablets of melatonin that are still trying to work their magic.

He stumbles out of bed, reaching down to graze his metal palm over Alpine’s sleek white fur. The cat purrs lowly and rubs her head against his fingers, and then resumes her nap. In the bathroom, he runs his toothbrush through his mouth with closed eyes and splashes cold water on his face. He doesn’t bother putting on street clothes; he’ll only have to change when they leave the house and his sweats are more comfortable than they need to be.

They get assigned to Paris. A black-market arms dealer is set to sell a truckload of guns and ammunition to a suspected terrorist cell, and with less than two days on the clock until the deal is set to go down, they have to hurry. Luckily, Bucky keeps an emergency go-bag under his bed, and he’s just stepped into his boots when he spies Alpine still snoozing.

Someone needs to keep an eye on her.

“I gotta find someone to watch Alpine,” he says while Sam’s lacing his sneakers in the living room.

“What?” Sam cranes his neck to look up into Bucky’s anxious face. “C’mon, man, she’s a cat. She’ll be fine for a couple days.”

“What if it’s longer than a couple days?” Bucky swallows. “Someone needs to put her food out and change her water.”

“We’ll be back by Thursday.” Sam stands, arms folding across his chest. He only holds firm for a few seconds, until Bucky’s eyes go wide. “Okay…” he gives in, “ask Y/N. Since you didn’t see her this morning, might as well make up for it.”

Bucky’s cheeks go red. He looks down at the floor as Sam passes him on his way to the hallway closet. “I didn’t… she doesn’t—”

“Dude, stop pretending you don’t have one of the biggest crushes of all time, it’s painful.”

Bucky’s gut twists as he pulls his spare key to the apartment from the front pocket of his duffel bag. “I just… she’s nice, that’s all. Not a lotta people look at the guy who used to be the Winter Soldier and think good things, y’know.”

“You got exonerated in a court of law, nobody in their right mind thinks you’re guilty of anything.” Sam heads into the kitchen to grab a protein shake for the jet ride. “Especially Y/N.”

“I know.” Bucky sighs. “I’ll… I’ll be right back, I’ll see if she’s home.”

He drops his bag on the couch and heads out the door. It’s a brisk morning, and he zips his jacket up, tucking his hands in his pockets as he walks to the next door down. His heart is pounding in his chest, because he knows you have a security camera and he doesn’t wanna look like a creep knocking on your door when you’re not home.

Within seconds, however, your door swings open. You’re wearing a baggy AC/DC tee shirt and a pair of leggings… the ends of your hair are wet. You must have just showered.

“Hi, Bucky,” you chirp, flashing him a brilliant smile that makes his knees weak. “I missed you in the park this morning.”

He swallows the sudden dryness in his throat. “Overslept,” he excuses. “Look, I… I hate to put this on you, but my friend and I got called out for a job and we… or I need someone to…”

God it sounds stupid. So, so stupid… he’s a grown man with a cat, what the hell is he doing?

You lean against the doorjamb. “What is it?”

“I was wondering if you could watch Alpine for a few days,” he blurts out. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“I can do that.” You smile again, and Bucky’s stomach untwists. “When will you be back?”

“Thursday…” Bucky tries as best he can to muster a confident smile as he holds the key out in his flesh palm. “She just takes dry food, her bag is under the kitchen sink.” Bucky’s breath hitches when your fingers graze his skin. “So… I’ll leave a list, I guess…”

“Or you could text me?” You tug your phone from the pocket in your leggings. “What’s your number?”

He can barely speak. He’s been dying to ask for your number for weeks now and here you are just brazenly offering it up. He takes a solid three seconds to remember the digits, and he rattles them off, watching as you type his name into the little section and add one of those little emoticon things… the sun.

“I just sent you something,” you smile, “so you got mine too.”

Bucky almost pukes. “Okay,” he stutters out, “she’s got food and stuff for now, but just later today…”

“Got it.” You slip your phone back into your pocket. “I gotta get ready for work, but I’m off at six. I’ll pop by and feed her.”

“Thanks.” He swallows thickly. “Really, thank you, it means a lot.”

“It’s no problem.” You swipe your tongue over your lower lip. “Have a safe mission, okay?”

He bows his head, trying as hard as he can to stop from blushing. “I will. Thanks again.”

You close the door, and he turns on his heel, hiding a grin in his coat collar as he heads back to his own apartment.

***

The mission goes easier than either of them thought it would. They’re in and out of Paris in less than forty hours, and they take the opportunity of their “undercover-ness” to scout out a few local shops in search of something good to eat and a few souvenirs for their efforts.

Bucky doesn’t shop for himself beyond food. He has no need for little trinkets. Sam can browse all he wants, but Bucky tries to think of something that you might like. One shop has it all: a ton of Eiffel Tower ornaments, candies, T-shirts… at one point he catches himself sniffing tentatively at a lavender-scented soap bar.

No, no way. Way too personal.

In the end, he settles for a little snowglobe. It’s small enough to fit in his bag, and he makes his purchase while Sam’s still trying on sweatshirts.

They get in late on Thursday night, just as Sam predicted. Bucky sends you a text when they land at the airport, and the Avengers’ private car has them back at the complex in no time at all. The light is on in your apartment when Bucky gets to the fourth floor, and as soon as Sam’s vanished into their apartment, he knocks on your door. It only takes a few seconds to answer, and Bucky’s heart catches in his throat when you open the door, beaming up into his face.

“You’re back early,” you say, smiling widely.

“Yeah, uh… mission went quicker than we thought.” Bucky swallows heavily.

“I just filled Alpine’s bowl an hour ago and cleaned out her litter box,” you reply, almost completely unfazed by his awkwardness, “and I bought her a little catnip plant from work, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, you, uh... “ he clears his throat, “you didn’t have to do that, the litter box, I mean, I—”

“It’s no bother, my mom was a veterinarian, I’ve dealt with way worse.” You fumble for something on the little table behind your left knee and hold up the little bronze key. “You might need this back.”

“Thanks.” Bucky pockets it without really thinking—the touch of your hand on his matters more. “Oh, I got something for you,” he blurts out, unzipping the top pocket of his bag and fishes out the little snowglobe. “Just as… well, a thanks.”

You accept the little trinket, blushing furiously. “I love it,” you reply, “thank you.”

God, Bucky wants to kiss you so bad…

“D’you wanna get coffee?” he asks suddenly. “Or see a movie? That is, if you don’t y’know, have someone already, I don’t wanna intrude.”

If possible, your face flushes even more. “I-I’d like that,” you stammer, “a movie sounds good. Um… when are you free?”

“Saturday?” Bucky shrugs. “The place downtown has cheap tickets on Saturdays.”

You nod. “I… I can do that. I get off work at six again.”

Bucky chews on his lower lip. “I’ll come by for eight?”

“That works.” You smile awkwardly. “I, uh… I should probably let you go get some rest, huh?”

“Yeah.” Bucky takes a step back because if he doesn’t make some space he might just kiss you right then and there. “I can text you, yeah?”

“Totally, yeah.” You run your fingers through your hair and match him, stepping back into the little entryway. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you Saturday, then?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

You close the door, still blushing furiously, and Bucky walks into his apartment thinking of a million ways that could have gone wrong.

“I bet you were smoother than that in ‘43.”

Sam’s standing in the kitchen, smirking as Bucky drops his bag by the door and kicks his boots off.

“Shut up, I’m outta practice.” He shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on the rack. “Did you really hear all that?”

“We’re neighbors, I can hear everything.” Sam grins and pulls fixings for a turkey sandwich from the fridge. “Look, man, you’re trying to fit in. It’s a good thing.”

“I know.” Bucky sighs. “I didn’t even know if she was gonna say yes.”

“Well, she did.” Sam slaps the top layer of bread onto his sandwich and gestures to the plate. “Want one?”

Bucky shakes his head. “If I eat, I’m gonna puke. I’m just gonna go to bed.”

Sam watches him shuffle silently down the hallway and into his room. Alpine’s snoozing on her bed by the window, and she leaps off when Bucky closes the door, eagerly wristing around his ankles and purring happily.

“Hey, girl.” Bucky reaches down to rub his knuckles against the top of her head before changing into a pair of flannel pants. He’s exhausted and stressed, and his chest feels tighter than it should. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he rests his head in his palms, taking long, deep breaths to try and ease the tension. Sensing her master’s distress, Alpine rubs herself against his side, and Bucky only breaks his position to give her a habitual pet across the back before slipping into his bathroom and downing five tablets of melatonin. His system will kick it in within a few minutes, and he slips beneath the covers as Alpine curls up on her designated pillow.

“Everything’s gonna go smooth, right?” he asks. “I can do this. It’s just a girl, nothing to be scared of.”

Reblogs and comments are very much appreciated :)

MARVEL TAGS: @beefcakebarnes @breezy1415 @cosicas-cuquis @mariekoukie6661 @meganwinchester1999 @suz-123

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes reader insert

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smol-and-grumpy · 5 years ago

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Dear Dean (Chapter 1)

Re-post

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (Jamie Blum)

WC: 4.1k

Summary: After taking Saint Lo, by sheer dumb luck, Lieutenant Dean Winchester from the 29th Infantry Division, Baker Company, received a truckload of replacements for his platoon that was falling apart. Little did he know, that one recruit would change his life forever.

Chapter Warnings: Angst, minor character death

SERIES MASTERLIST

July 18th, 1944

The sound of boots on dirt roads is all that Lieutenant Dean Winchester can hear. The sun was burning bright, the air was warm, dewy tinted with salt from the sea. That morning Dean felt good. Maybe for the first time in days, things didn’t seem so extreme, so dire. And maybe it was weird that the rhythmic sound of boots calmed his heart.

Right, left, right, left, right, left.

Laughter echoed behind him in formation as one of his men rattle off a joke. The sound was quiet, like a whisper. He didn’t listen.

Dean squinted into the sun and then he heard one of his men break formation and jog ahead of him. “Lieutenant Winchester, I’ve got a joke for you.” Private Milligan walked backwards, breaking into a lazy jog. He was out of step and the rhythm of the company was not right anymore.

“Milligan, get back in line!” Dean ordered, his jaw tight.

The kid was no older than nineteen, a kid by all standards. He was younger than Dean’s younger brother, so somehow he looked like a little boy in his oversized helmet, with his rifle slung over his shoulder. “Come on, Lieutenant! Just one joke. Just one smile, not everything has to be so goddamn serious all the time.”

Deans eyebrows furrowed, meeting in the middle of his already wrinkled forehead. It was a good day and they were hopeful and Dean’d be damned if he tipped that hope away from this kid. “Fine, but it better be damned good, Milligan.”

“You got it, Sir.” Private Milligan grinned wide.

Right, left, right, left, right, left.

“So, a soldier walks into this club in a city in the outskirts of France, and there’s a girl, right? Pretty little thing. She comes up to this soldier. Saunters over, and he’s thinking… Hell, I’ve never seen hips like those.”

There are moments when time slows down. The first snow fall on a cold morning in Lawrence, a shared look with a pretty girl across a crowded bar, the smile on Sam’s face when Dean made a dumb joke. Those moments were nothing like this one.

Right, left, right, left, right, left.

Private Milligan jogged backwards ahead of the whole platoon and he gestures wildly with his arms, as if he’s telling the joke on a freaking stage and they were his audience. His teeth fully exposed and shining in the bright morning sunlight. He was still smiling when his back foot landed on the mine buried under the dirt. It was small, and rudimentary. It didn’t appear to be military grade, but yet…

Dean saw it before he heard it. Milligan’s foot landed with a soft thud on the dirt road. It was like he landed on a geyser, dirt and rock spraying up around him. It was almost spectacular, the wave of dirt swirled around him, reminding Dean of the tornado that almost took their house when he was eight.

Something hit his chest, hard, knocking him off his feet. On the fall he watched the crystal clear blue sky, littered with flying dirt like a Summer rain falling around him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel like he was at home again, with Sam. He felt something wet and warm on his face. His eyes fluttered open. It wasn’t rain that rolled down his cheek, it was deep red and sticky, like his mother’s cherry pie filling.

Dean pulled himself to his feet, forcing himself forward. There was a ringing in his ears, distinct and sharp, from his closeness to the blast. His eyes scanned his surroundings, looking for the kid. The kid he let out of step. The kid who just wanted to make him laugh.

“Goddammit! Cover! Cover! Everyone off the road! Off the road! Go go go!” He screamed himself hoarse because he couldn’t hear his own voice. He wanted to call out for a medic but then he realized that there wasn’t even enough of Milligan left to save.

Dean crouched down in the dirt and noticed the lone boot. It was Milligans. Shit!The kid was his responsibility, and now all he had was a spare foot in a fucking boot to send home to his family. The folded flag wouldn’t be enough to explain that he wasn’t coming home. He wasn’t coming home because he wanted to make his Lieutenant laugh. He wasn’t coming home because his Lieutenant was too distracted to realize that there was no laughter in war. There was no hope.

***

July 21st, 1944

Dean knocked at the door of the makeshift office of his CO before he straightened up and called out, “Winchester, permission to enter, Sir.”

“Permission granted.” The voice of Captain Mills was rough and maybe a little hoarse. No wonder, there were lots of shouting going on before they finally managed to take over Saint Lo and liberated the city of Germans. If it weren’t for the whiskey Dean had stashed away, he was sure he’d sound about the same.

The battle was a hard one. They were cut off from the other companies for a whole fucking day and the Germans moved in on them. Well, technically Dean’s company moved in through the front line of the Germans defense without them even knowing it. He didn’t know how it could happen, but he hoped that it wouldn’t happen again. It helped that a company of the 3rd Battalion did manage to break through to Able company. They were able to supply the trapped soldiers with food, but unfortunately, they were still low on ammunition, but at least moral did take a leap there - up until the tanks came toward them. They worked with the ammunition they still had on them and fluked their way out of the misery.

Dean had lost a third of his platoon and half of the men who are left, were wounded. A couple of them would be able to return, but the rest would get an express ticket back to England. He was surprised that he was still standing after it all. Maybe someone up there really, really liked him. He couldn’t lie, he had some close encounters with death. Especially the grenade that was thrown to his feet but, by some dumb luck, never exploded. Dean already saw his life passing him by in the back of his mind and, strangely, the only thing he hoped for was that there would be enough of him left to put in the ground. And, of course, he thought about Sam. How Sam was doing. He was out there somewhere, too, even though Dean never knew where. Sam was with the 3rd Battalion and they wrote to each other when they could. He hoped, above anything else, that Sam was doing alright.

The heavy door creaked open, ripping Dean back to the present, and he stepped in, whirling up dusts of sand. Captain Mills hunched over reports of the other platoons at his makeshift desk, that consists of old tires and a wooden plank, when he looks up to Dean. “Lieutenant, please, tell me you have good news.” The look on his face was hopeful and Dean almost felt bad that he won’t be able to live up to the expectations of his CO. Dean liked Captain Mills, the man did a good job. He didn’t want to disappoint him, but in war, he was learning, disappointment was the name of the game.

Dean strolled toward the table. He wished that he could cheer the Captain up. He forced a charming smile, it was the best he could do. “Sorry to burst your bubble, sir.”

“Ah, shit.” Captain Mills exhaled and rubbed at his eyes with his fingers that were smeared with dried blood and coated in dirt. He left a streak on his cheek. Dean wanted to point it out, but decided against it.

“Sir, we need replacements. I have less than half of my men left standing, and our sharpshooter is out.” Dean dropped the piece of paper onto Captain Mills’ table. Lord knows that he could use some technicians as well, but he also knew that at that point, he could consider himself lucky if he got privates who knew their elbows from their assholes. Word was that Basic was cut short, because they were losing too many men.

“Yeah, doesn’t look any better for Novak, Balthazar and Gabriel’s platoons either. You get what you get, Lieutenant.” Captain Mills clutched Dean’s report in his fingers and looked up to him with tired eyes.

Dean knew that. He got what he got, and he would be lucky if he got anything at all in that goddamn place.

“Thanks, Winchester.” Captain Mills said again, standing from his chair. He walked around the table to put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You’re my 2IC, do you think you’ll be ready?”

Dean wet his lips. They felt too dry all of a sudden. He frowned as he looked at his Captain, wondering whether the question was a joke. “Come on, you don’t mean that, Sir.”

“I actually don’t, but I think that my luck’s going to run out soon, Lieutenant.” Captain Mills said with a heavy sigh. He looked exhausted, heavy bags drooping under his eyes, despite him being only 31.

“You wanted Hitler’s head on a stick, Sir, and I expect you do hold it up for us.” Dean tried to make him smile, and it worked.

Captain Mills shook his head, a small grin spreading on his face. “Oh, the faith you have in me, Winchester.”

Dean shrugged with an easy smile on his lips, before Mills said that he’s dismissed.

Dean stepped out into the hot day and walked back to the building where the Baker company were staying until they could move out again. Move forward. There was always a new battle. A new city to liberate. A new stronghold to assault. New casualties, new deaths. His trigger finger twitched at his side, as he focused on the steady one two pace of his boots on the dirt.

He didn’t want to admit to Captain Mills that he was scared to lead. Leading a platoon was one thing, but leading the whole Baker Company was a whole different animal. Dean couldn’t care less about paperwork, and he didn’t know why Mills didn’t appoint Cas to be his 2IC. Cas would be a fabulous leader. He was fearless and he loved what he did. Dean was only good in following orders and cheering people up. Although, he could be a pain in the ass too, especially to new recruits, but that’s a whole other story. He guessed that there was only one way to his heart and to earn his trust and they’d have to work hard to get there.

At that moment, Dean tried not to think about it. Mills would lead them to Germany and Dean would try to keep himself and Mills alive plus all the other men whose life had been trusted to him. Dean shook the thought of Mills out of his head, because, right then, he wanted to think about the roof over his head. Wanted to think about the hot meal that he’d be getting tonight. He’d been out there for so long, he didn’t even know how real food tasted anymore and his mouth started to water just thinking of it. It was the little things, like Winchester Surprise and letters from Sammy that got him through the day. That helped him suffer through the bland rations and blistering Summer sun.

January, 1940

Jamie Blum lived alone with her three brothers in the rural town of Trenton in North Carolina. Life had never treated them well, but the four of them learned how to get by, if only by each other.

Their mother died when she gave birth to the twins, Jamie and her brother Jameson. Their father was an alcoholic, always had been from the way her brothers talked, and they were probably right. She didn’t need to be a genius to notice the alcohol influence in their names. Jim, Jack, Jameson, and Jamie. Well, their father named her Jamie, because he couldn’t be bothered to search for a girls name for her.

Their father slipped into depression after the death of his wife. Her oldest brother, Jim, found him in the garage one day, and told the others not to come in because there was not a lot left of their father’s face to be recognized. The day their father ate the bullet was the beginning of the end for the Blum children.

Jim and Jack dropped out of school straight after, taking on two to three jobs to keep the house and the twins in school. They insisted school was the only job for Jamie and Jameson. Do good at school, make them proud. Make Mom proud.

A year before the twins finished High School, they came home to a stuffed duffle bag next to Jim’s feet. “I enlisted.” He muttered, avoiding the eyes of his siblings.

Jamie would never forget holding him tight and crying into his chest. She tried everything to stop him. She insisted that she’d be able to help when she finished school. That he didn’t have to do it. It wasn’t the only way. “It’s only one year longer, Jim, please!”

Jim was having none of it. He held her face in his big hands, and looked her directly in the eye. He told her to keep on studying. His voice shook and it took everything in him to keep his hands steady as he swung his duffle over his broad shoulder. He prayed that his siblings would have better lives than he ever did. He wanted them to at least have a shot at it.

He left that evening, traveling cross country to get to the training camp. He promised to send his wages. It’d be more than he could earn there, he said before adding, that he calculated the numbers in his head, and if his figures were right, they could keep the house for a couple of years.

Jamie didn’t want to interrupt, even though it hurt, she didn’t want to say that there was no worth in keeping a house that he wouldn’t be coming home to. There was no sense in living in an empty box, but she didn’t say anything. Instead she wept into his chest. She had a gut wrenching feeling that she would never see him again, so she held on tight, her fingers curled in his shirt for as long as he’d let her hold on.

***

August, 1940

Jack had been antsy after Jim left. Even though Jim thought his leaving would relieve some of the pressure, it just continued to build inside of the second oldest Blum sibling. Jack was the head of the house. He had the role of father, mother, and eldest brother. So, when he heard the news about the upcoming draft, he decided that he wasn’t going to wait for it. It was the honorable thing to do, for country, and for his family. It was during the summer break from school when Jack, too, left Jamie and Jameson.

Jack, too, said that he’d send his wages home, and Jamie wondered that what the point of it all was? What was the point of having extra money when there was no one to hold her when she felt weak? When there was only half of her family left to return to after a long day? Who would Jameson look up to with both of her older brothers gone? She didn’t say all of the things that made her head spin, though. Instead she held tight to Jack and cried.

She never felt like much of a crier, but with every brother that walked out the door, with a duffle bag over his shoulder, another piece of her chipped away. She was dust in the wind, every blow sending away another piece of her. The pieces were so far away she couldn’t grab them in her hands, and she watched as they slipped through her fingers.

Her brother released her grip, and without second glance, Jack walked to the bus stop with his bag heavy on his shoulders.

***

September, 1940

Jamie and her brother were only 19 when Jameson decided that he, too, wanted to register for the draft. They sat at the kitchen table, across from each other, about to eat a meal that Jamie had worked on for the last hour. She tried all she could for any sense of normalcy since her oldest brothers left.

Although the twins were only a breath apart, they felt like miles when Jameson met her eyes, identical to his own. “I can’t stay here, Jamie.” Jamesons voice was low, barely a whisper. He picked at his food, absentmindedly, and all Jamie could think was, does he not like it? It felt stupid, but she was in shock. He swallowed down the lump that built up in his throat, and it was as if Jamie could feel it too. She swallowed.

She didn’t feel hungry anymore, and she stared at her brother, watching as his eyes well up. She tried to stab her fork into her dinner, but her vision was blurry and she didn’t even know if she managed to put something on it. She wanted to eat. Food was scarce, and they always finished their plates, no matter what. She tried to think about her empty stomach and that she needed food to survive, but couldn’t. Not while she felt like someone was clutching her insides in their hand. Not while they were squeezing hard.

“If you go, I go.” She thought she was talking to herself, but the words came out louder than she wanted them to, and she was sure that Jameson heard them, too.

Jameson frowned at her, knotting his eyebrows in the center of his forehead. “Jamie, you’re a girl.”

It was out and she couldn’t take it back, so she just looks at Jameson as she felt a teardrop running down her cheek. “And?”

“Girls can’t fight. Come on, Jamie.” At least his face lit up a bit at the thought.

Jamie took a fork full of mashed potatoes and proceeded to talk. “I’m sorry, have you met me?” The tears are still running down their cheeks, but there was also something else in the air. She wouldn’t say hope. That was too strong a word. They kept talking. Talking to forget the imminent.

“Well, I know you can, in theory, Jamie… but–” Jameson took a break to fork half of a sausage into his awaiting mouth, but Jamie cut him off.

“Come on James, we’re twins. Jamie is a boys name, too. You can register for me.” Her voice rattled off, her fork shaking in her fingers. “Go in on different days. I don’t want to stay here and wait on news of my brothers!”

Of course Jameson could never deny Jamie anything. She knew the way around her brothers, and could always sweet talk them into anything. Her stubbornness, paired with doe eyes could be a deadly combination to men. She knew that much.

So she batted her eyelashes, and poked out her bottom lip like she did when they were children. Jameson was her other half. She loved the other boys, but they didn’t give her peace like Jameson did. As babies, nothing could calm them down like each other. She couldn’t live in the house without him. She wouldn’t.

“And who knows, maybe I won’t get drafted at all? Maybe we both won’t?” She tried to ease the tension. She tried to believe her own words, too.

Her thoughts ran wild with the idea. She could see herself, next to Jameson in matching uniforms, truly looking like twins. No one would miss them in Trenton. The money for their house went to their aunt. She moved when their mom died, and since the house belonged to her parents, she was paying rent for them. Unless their aunt made a trip down from Detroit, no one would notice they were missing. Jamie thought that it was highly unlikely that she’d pop in for a visit. The Blum children hadn’t seen their aunt in more than 10 years.

Jameson didn’t say he wouldn’t enlist, and he didn’t say he wouldn’t add her name to the drawing, but they didn’t speak about it anymore that chilly fall evening. Their faces fell back to their potatoes, and they ate in silence.

***

January, 1944

Jamie came back from her evening class, to find Jameson waiting for her. He should have been at his job. She rushed home so she could surprise him with dinner. He surprised her instead.

She unlocked the front door, to find him sitting at the dinner table, a crumbled letter in his hand. Jamie didn’t notice that she was holding her breath, until Jameson started to talk. She didn’t want to listen. She knew the signs. All of a sudden, there was a pain in her stomach again, and she braced herself against the heavy armchair, her nails digging into its fabric, holding herself steady.

Jameson took a deep breath before he exhaled loudly, followed by a sniff as he brushed at his wet cheeks. “It’s time, Jamie. I’m going in.”

He stood up, and pulled his duffle out from under the kitchen table. He’d packed it when she was at school. Her head spun and there was a strange feeling in her gut that almost tore her apart.

Jameson left that evening, taking a piece of Jamie with him. She didn’t hug him. She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg him to stay. She watched him toss his duffle over his shoulder and walk out the front door. She watched the last piece of herself get picked up in the wind and taken away, and for the first time in her life, Jamie was all alone.

The house was too big for one person, and Jamie found herself curled in Jameson’s bed, wearing his shirts. She couldn’t focus on school, and spent a lot of time looking out the window, wondering if her brothers were safe. She wondered if there’d ever be a time when someone wouldn’t walk out on her. She wondered if she’d ever feel whole again.

July 22nd, 1944

The new replacements arrived in a line of blurred green and khaki. They all were faceless, standing at attention. Dean was already feeling tired just looking at them. He got 10 new privates. 10 new fucking rookies that probably didn’t even complete a week in Basic because the men were dropping like flies at Omaha and Saint Lo. 10 greenhorns who probably didn’t know how to secure a rifle, let alone use one, and he knew it was up to him to gather up all his patience to teach them.

Dean looked over the new privates, some of them probably not even 18. He would never understand why someone would lie to get into the army. Why would anyone do that? It wasn’t exactly a day at the beach. His gaze trailed along their faces, and Dean knew how they felt.

He saw that some of them were scared. They were frightened and shaking in their boots. Some stared at him, their eyes blank, emotionless. Those were the worst. It could mean that they had already given up, and they weren’t even in the shit yet. Dean could tell that the majority of them weren’t there because they want to be. Well, technically, he wasn’t there because he wanted to be either, so.

He eyed them up, one by one until his gaze rested on a short recruit. The guy’s shorter than the others. Dean came to rest before him. The private stared up at Dean with big brown eyes. They were really big, doe like. Just like Bambi, he thought. He saw the movie in a special showing at camp in 1942. Why they showed a Disney flick to a group of soldiers was beyond him, but he had to admit that he teared up a bit when the mom was shot. The privates lips were pressed together tight into a straight line, as if he was holding in a laugh. Dean could see the cheeks puffing up. Dean could’ve shouted at him, asking him what’s so fucking funny about going to war, but he was too tired for that shit so he let it slide. Instead he asked a different question, “What your name, private?”

“Blum, sir.”

CHAPTER 2

#dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester x ofc #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester angst #dean winchester wwii fic #spn imagine #spn au fic #nathalie writes

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peppy-pilot · 6 years ago

Note

"You mind giving me your folks' address? I'm definitely not planning on killing them over the whole homophobia thing."

"And you better not! As much as they are stuck in their prejudiced ways, they're otherwise residents of a dying estate. Their bigotries are catching up to them and no amount of help I'd provide would do anything for them beyond giving them ammunition as to why I'm a failure of a son and a brother. And even with all that, and as much as I'd take a lot of joy planting a bomb beneath that rickety excuse for a mansion, they're still family.

"..........It's 90239 Conejo Street, Lepus County. If you need a truckload of eggs and tomatoes, I know a good shop around Cerdo Boulevard that gets them daily."

#//ALSIFHASOFHAS LMAO #homophobia mention #lycanastrophe

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sgreffenius · 2 years ago

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This is major good news from the front, arriving on the same day as our election returns. The Russian army now has its back to the sea all along the southern coastline. Press them from the north! That gives them three choices:

A Dunkirk style evacuation

Surrender

Destruction of their army

The Russians will not win in this theater, or any theater. Reports of victory and defeat from Kherson are the same ones we heard from Kyiv, Donbas, and every other area where Ukraine has defeated its enemy: looting by Russian soldiers, often because they do not have enough to eat; officers who run the other way as Ukrainian forces approach; no plan for an orderly retreat.

The headline above finishes with, ‘a potential blow to Moscow’. I’d like to know why the editor inserts the word potential. Wars have turning points at key places. The victory at Kherson is a turning point, nine months into the war. Let’s hope that Ukrainian forces have enough ammunition to maintain their momentum, and that Russian forces suffer major morale problems as they are forced to fight in winter weather. Lend Ukraine the ships, helicopters, attack aircraft, tanks, and trucks they need to expel Russian forces by springtime. Give them fuel and ammunition to supply this heavy equipment.

Remember, when Ukraine agreed to destroy its nuclear arsenal in 1994, the agreement came with an implicit agreement that the United States and NATO would protect Ukraine, should Russia try to reincorporate the country in its empire. We have made good on that commitment, in part. Now we need to pull out all stops, to enable Ukraine to move ahead with no doubts about the level of support it receives. The Russian army will crumble under pressure.

One more strategic consideration: if Ukrainian forces can continue their successful attacks in both the east and in the south, they will force the Russians to defend a line they cannot possibly defend. No Russian wants to fight in Ukraine anymore - not the draftees, not the convicts, not the reservists, and certainly not the soldiers who die by the hundreds as their leaders run away. Supply Ukrainian armed forces with the equipment and ammunition they need, and this war will end in victory for Zelensky and company. If that happens, we will be rid of Putin sooner than death can claim him.

If Zelensky had accepted U.S. offers of evacuation to the West, Ukraine would have lost this war. Leadership matters. Instead, Zelensky said, “I don’t need a right, I need ammunition.” He addresses the Ukrainian people on television every night, to update them on the war, and to encourage them. They will continue to fight. Every time Putin addresses the Russian people - and I can tell you that does not happen every night - his speech is so full of lies that his audience regards him with contempt.

Russians are a canny lot. You cannot start a war, bury truckloads of soldiers in body bags, and tell your audience the war is going well. Putin is in trouble, his army is in trouble, and his nation is in trouble. Help Ukraine end this war as soon as it can. That means no negotiations until Ukraine destroys Russian armed forces on its territory, or forces them to leave. The process of destruction and retreat began in the east and northeast in September. It continues in Kherson and the south this November. Do not let the Russians reestablish a stable front, anywhere.

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narniakid · 6 years ago

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The majority of 2018 I spent educating people about the worst drought in 800 years. The Central Coast listened; we not only banded together to raise thousands of dollars, but we filled an entire truckload of donations to deliver to farmers in Western NSW.

It all began sometime around February, when I can recall seeing an article somewhere about how Australia was currently in drought. My family own and operate Mangrove Produce and Hardware, where we supply hay, grain and feed to locals in the Mangrove Mountain region. My mum had mentioned she was having a bit of trouble sourcing feed, because with no grass for cattle to eat, the demand was quickly rising – and so were the prices.

One night when I was reading statistics and stories about the drought, I stumbled across a charity called Rural Aid, who’d been running their fundraising campaign, Buy A Bale, for some time. The aim was to encourage donors to purchase a bale of hay for a struggling farmer by donating $20 or more. It was a fantastic idea, and I got in contact with them. At a time when they weren’t a very well-known non-profit nationally, they were eager to send me fundraising materials to help raise money and spread the word.

March 2018: Help my Mum & I raise money for Buy A Bale!

As I asked around friends and family, and began posting about the drought on social media, I found that most didn’t even realize the majority of our own state was in the middle of severe drought. My good friend and photographer Andrew Cooney approached me with an idea; he discussed travelling to the worst of the drought-affected areas to document the damage, and we agreed to team up with our fundraising efforts to educate the Central Coast and just how bad it really was. Below are some of his photographs from his first visit to a farm in Gunnedah, NSW, and they speak for themselves.

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His photographs caught the eye of Samuel Lentini from Eastcoast Beverages – a local juice company on the Central Coast. Sam decided that he wanted to come on board our fundraising campaign as well, and so – with me still busy collecting our donations, spreading the word, and putting together marketing materials – Andrew and the Eastcoast Beverages team headed to Gunnedah once again, where they delivered a truckload of orange peels from the factory for the cattle to eat. It was such an extraordinary site, it attracted a lot of media attention, including The Daily Telegraph, ABC and Prime 7!

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We spent another few weeks fundraising in person and online, when all of a sudden, the national media seemed to wake up. TV stations and major news publications started to report on all the debt, all the cattle lost, and all the mental struggles the farmers were dealing with.

That was when I met a lady named Sara Evans. She came into my workplace at the radio station, after listening to the breakfast shows discuss the massive impact of the drought. A co-worker steered her in my direction, as I had already been campaigning and fundraising to support our farmers for several months. Sara basically said to me, ‘I’ve got a truck and a driver who’s willing to donate his time, I want to do something really BIG to help these farmers.’

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We both agreed to organize a Coast-wide donation drive, which was a huge job, and we’d only given ourselves a month to plan, market and collect donations leading up to the event day. The idea was to run a drive-through drop-off zone in a central location near the freeway, as we wanted to make it as easy as possible for the public.

We both had a bit of previous fundraising experience, but nothing of this scale, and we hadn’t taken into account exactly just how much help we were going to need – pallets to pack the donations on, a place to sort and store the goods before they were loaded onto the truck, a forklift and qualified driver, traffic control on the day, a LOT of fuel money to get the semi-trailer across the state and back… we’d sort one problem, and then another would arise. And we were juggling this all while still working full-time. It was definitely a giant learning curve for both of us, but we were so incredibly grateful to have the help from dozens of local businesses.

Working for a media company, I was lucky enough to have marketing materials at my disposal – radio interviews and commercials, flyers and posters, and access to our promotional cars to draw listeners in on the day. My whole workplace was extremely supportive, and I am still so thankful to this day for all of their help. I couldn’t have pulled it off without a platform to send out the message across in the first place.

The Central Coast For Our Farmers Donation Drive was a success – while the number of people we had wasn’t as many as we were hoping, the amount that came brought an enormous amount of goods. There were donors who had collected that much dog food, groceries and water that they had to make second and third trips to bring it all to us. We had local schools collect items, business owners filling boxes and boxes of stuff at their workplaces, and families who had added extra items into their trolleys every week when they did their own shopping. It was just phenomenal how much people wanted to help. I certainly didn’t expect collecting enough donations to fill the entire truck, but we did!

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When deciding on where we were going to deliver the donated goods, we had a look into some of the most remote parts of the state, where help hadn’t yet reached. We chose the Packsaddle region, an area about 180km north of Broken Hill. The standout feature of this barren land was a popular venue called Packsaddle Roadhouse on Packsaddle Station, where tourists and truck drivers would often stop to stay the night and grab a feed. The roadhouse was also home to the local SES Base, and Sara got in contact with the venue owner, who kindly offered up the venue for free to deliver and unpack the donations for the farmers, as well as a place for us to stay the night.

We began the road trip about 2 weeks later, with volunteers from Rotary Gosford North coming along as well. My wonderful Dad offered to drive my partner and I in his car, and on the first day, we traveled 14 hours to Broken Hill. As soon as we passed the Hunter Valley region, it was like entering a different country – the overcast weather and rolling hills of the wine country suddenly turned into flat open plains scattered with gumtrees. Everything was so incredibly dry and brown, it was hard to believe that it was once all green. We passed lots of herds wandering the roadside, with farmers leading them from behind to any patches of greenery they could find – the paddocks had turned to dust, so they were forced to look beyond their own properties for food.

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The halfway point to Broken Hill was a town called Cobar, and that was really when the effects of the drought were evidence. I almost expected a tumbleweed to roll past as we got out of the car for a stretch. From there, it got worse – we passed countless signs marking where rivers once were, now dry as a bone. The amount of dead animals on the roadside almost doubled, and as we drove the endless, straight route towards Broken Hill, there was almost no evidence that it had actually rained 50mm in the previous 24 hours. Most of the puddles had dried up already, and the sudden dump of rain had washed away the top soil on any spring crops that were planted. It was heartbreaking to think that at the time we were travelling, it was supposed to be the peak season for growth, but there wasn’t a blade of green grass in sight.

After a night’s stay in Broken Hill, we drove another 4 hours north to deliver and unpack around 60 pallets of donations. Sara and I had organized a party for all the local farming families at the roadhouse, and some had already arrived when we got there to help us set up.

The people I met were just amazing – the most hardworking, honest and down to earth people who could laugh at anything. The best part was seeing the joy on their faces. These farmers, they’d been stuck in a depression, some had really been struggling to get up to work each day. I feel so humbled and privileged to get to see first hand these people reunite with their neighbors and friends, some who they hadn’t seen for months, but had known all their life. We cooked them a free feed for lunch and dinner, treated them to plenty of free beer and set up the truck as a stage where they sang, danced and partied on till early hours of the morning.

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Most of them owned well over 100,000 acres. I spoke to a beautiful woman who’d lived on the land her whole life. To give you an idea of the size, the entire city of Chicago in the USA is around 149,000 acres – she had 250,000 acres, with a few thousand head of cattle. I asked when she’d last received rain. She laughed and said the last time she can recall was late 2015 – more than 3 years ago.

She had 10 working dogs, and the bagged dog food cost too much, so she was shooting kangaroos for them to eat instead. Each dog needed about 2 kangaroos each for a decent feed, but the ammunition for the bullets cost hundreds as well, with each bullet equaling about $5 each. There were hundreds of goats on her property which she could also shoot and sell (too skinny for the dogs to eat), but their value had dropped to $2 per goat – less than the cost of the bullet needed to shoot them.

This same lady had broken down in tears when we showed her the shed full of donations, because it wasn’t the donations themselves that brought these people overwhelming joy – it was the fact that we had gone to the effort to collect them, bring them out here, and put on a big party for them.

We wanted to show them that we cared beyond just making a cash donation for a farm thousands of kilometers away, we wanted to say ‘we hear you, we know you’re there, and we’re coming to give you a well deserved break from the day-to-day stresses of the big dry.’

Every farmer would only take the bare minimum of what they needed, insisting that there were others that needed it more. It was like a big supermarket; they could grab bags and boxes and fill up their utes with whatever they needed. They put aside boxes and pallets of stuff for their friends and neighbours who couldn’t make it.

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Many had told me that a major problem they’d encountered was the rise of bore water in the area. The water quality from the bore water, due to a substantial increase in bores being put in, meant they had to go deeper, and the little water that they could get was full of poisonous minerals and wasn’t drinkable. Most of the money they had went to buying bottled water and bagged feed, because hay prices had skyrocketed.(My family’s own business was suffering too, and we were getting phone calls from all over the state with people willing to travel hours and hours for any hay available to purchase). A lot had told me in terms of food, water and feed, they were down to about 3-4 weeks supply on hand at a time, because they couldn’t afford to redirect any money to stock up. The donations we brought have added another few weeks’ worth of supplies for them and – as equally as important, if not more – a well needed mental relief.

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Andrew and I have continued to raise funds for Buy A Bale, long after I returned from delivering donations with Sara and the Rotary team. We just recently crossed the $19,000 mark, thanks money raised at our local Grill’d restaurants through their Local Matters program. We also raised money through selling merchandise and continuously spreading the word through an online campaign, radio commercials, money tins in our workplaces and articles in local newspapers and magazines.

Despite raising the money and delivering the donations, what truly touched my heart and made this experience stand out from other non-profit work I’ve done was actually travelling there and seeing the devastating impact of drought for myself. It’s one thing to press a button, share an article, give some money, but to actually see the difference it’s making is just extraordinary, and to this day it is one of the most challenging but life-changing things I’ve ever done.

Local businesses are doing it tough and desperately need an economic boost from visitors. A recent NSW Business Chamber survey in regional areas found the drought has negatively impacted more than 84%. Domestic tourism is the backbone of many regional communities, with 86% of domestic travel done by car.

Tourists spent $110 billion in local towns, cities and communities in regional Australia during 2016-17. However, of the international tourists that do visit, over 90% only stay in Sydney or Melbourne.

The best thing you can do to support our farmers is get out and shop in the local shops, eat at the local pubs, and get the money flowing through the local economy again, because the drought affects everyone – not just everyone in these remote towns, but our whole economy.

Drought conditions of NSW as of 24th January 2019 (Source: edis.dpi.nsw.gov.au)

How I Led A Team Of Volunteers to Deliver A Truckload Of Donations & Raise Over $19,000 For Aussie Farmers The majority of 2018 I spent educating people about the worst drought in 800 years. The Central Coast listened; we not only banded together to raise thousands of dollars, but we filled an entire truckload of donations to deliver to farmers in Western NSW.

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writer59january13 · 2 years ago

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This accidental arsonist sparked following matchless anecdote

I attribute being a grown mad scientist

linkedin with tacit approval of parents

(both long gone to the smoky afterlife),

and donned wizard trumpeting magic spells

while dark and stormy night

(one week before Halloween),

which usher nostalgic memories

encapsulated within the following poem

initially drafted quite some years ago.

Both parents possessed pedigreed panache

(but especially my father – renown Chemist

B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent

late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms

Kuritsky - gal whose troth thy then still

livingsocial octogenarian widower papa

pledged, while holding some bubbling

sinister looking flask in hand while both

donned trumpeting finessed affianced

doctored formula to marry, when both

partook of blind date.

This combustible transunion link analogous

to their representative first electric kool aid

basic laboratory litmus test date), which

took place without a hitch, and telepathically

encouraged begetting retinue of revered

sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully

burned with passion KRISPR incubated,

inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook

ideally transmitted to prolific brood

of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,

and snapping with yen that burned from

within and without buns sin burner of this

cingular earthlinked son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment

willy-nilly (wonka like) with rather

explosive materiel, I received truckloads

of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent

benediction) to foster dare devil and

derelict pyromaniac precocity.

Those initial awkward formative forays

assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating

this, that or other liquid or powdery substance

found me meticulously measuring and

weighing the substances using kitchen

midden malodorous kid gloves.

Frequent disappointment arose from

yours truly as well as momma and papa

when net result (of these early attempts

to blend powders and/or liquids) merely

fizzled and self extinguished

into near inaudible poof.

Continual daily practice (would lead way

for me to enter Carnegie – Mellon ---- Hall)

after countless travails, trials and trolls i.e.

uber vaporous wisps to lyft yawping banshee

like holograms, or equivalent of 10,000 maniacs)

eventually bore successful fruit in the form

of near perfect results.

Success in hotly contested field Pyrotechnics

requires striking resemblance

to any other vocation.

One must be able, eager, ready and willing

to maintain burning passion no matter any

unforeseen setbacks or heat from an

objectionable source.

Yes, there would be an errant conflagration

(sometimes set purposely by adjunct professor)

as object lesson to master usage of fire

extinguisher/fighter, a vital piece of equipment

and evenhandedness for getting hold

instantaneously jetting kickstarter live matches)

to contain any runaway flame.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you

on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential

fire branded wizard in the making with

kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating

unpredictable concoctions, these lethally

marshaled nonchalant opportunities

provided quintessentially random results

though usually very wimpy in tandem

with totally tubular nerdy, geeky, freaky,

and dorky beastie boy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they

proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling.

There such handiworks practically covered

entire ceiling with variegated splotches.

These scorch marks keepsake frescoes to show

kith and kin unspecified years into smoky future.

Quite accurate to assume

father and mother coached,

goaded, and nurtured

exploratory ambitions and

tried not to stifle

(at least consciously or deliberately)

my early stage ambition

toward scientific artiste bent.

As homeschooled and to some extent self taught

chemically romanced muralist, I grew up (not

surprisingly) in Unitarian household paid

close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and

pursuit of understanding

an underlying credo, which

allowed, enabled and provided near endless

experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside talking head

nearly burning down the house

amidst talking heads practically in dire straits,

an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself,

occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady,

Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful

catastrophic outcomes occurred thru milieu

of mixing deceptively harmless looking

inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with latter)

via blithely cooking dicey elements forming

goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash

practically eliminated any pained regret to take

daring risks (such as getting married – ha)

in later life.

Despite favorable and lovable upbringing,

my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor

of our family and an excellent chef boyardee

to boot) still managed to insinuate (gently

as possible) the necessity to be careful when

igniting flammable materials lest

some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling

ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my

slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics

and much preferred to steer my attention toward

safer hobby such as the edible objets d’arts i.e.,

the much more drab field per how to present

and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be

faux renowned cook (this confession admitted

rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually

competed for my most favorite avocation activity

and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing

his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem

with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic

compounds filled numerous sized dishes

and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus

less riskier factor to combine and potchka

dry and wet ingredients together did rank

as considerably safer medium that still

allowed, enabled and provided me an equal

opportunity to test reactions, than those

earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive

appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative

outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous

looking household cleaning supplies or easily

acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an

apocalypse at three two four Level Road

on one particular nasty occasion.

I anticipated our domicile would become

rent asunder, and reduced into a black

and decker ashen funeral pyre, yet for

grace of some divine force no family

members nor pets succumbed

nor got asphyxiated from choking acrid air.

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