#WHY IS THERE REFLECTIVE PLASTIC EVERYWHERE WHEN THE SUN EXISTS
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The interior designers of the 2023 Kia Forte ummmmm need to be beaten with hammers
#Rant#car made for gnomes#WHY IS THERE REFLECTIVE PLASTIC EVERYWHERE WHEN THE SUN EXISTS#even the pedal placement is shit#We created the torment nexus by forcing the driver to keep their leg perfectly forward and never relax#Three buttons to turn AC off#stupid ass car#this has been Car Rant#Cars
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I used to hate it when there are humans in my pictures. I used to hate it when I wanted to take a picture of the earth or the sea or even the sky and no matter how hard I tried, there would always be a human there. tHey would stand there and look out towards the horizon. That line, where you’re not sure what's ocean and what's the sky anymore. I liked to take pictures of sunlit moss and forests. I liked the way each leaf had a different colour when the sun shone through it and made the green light up with gold. I used to hate it, when there was a sailboat on the water, lamps ruining the view and fences. Fences are everywhere. It’s honestly ridiculous how many fences there are. I used to hate it, when I had to wait for so long just to take a quick Photo of the space in front of me without a human in it. my family had been long gone by then, a red jacket just visible bobbing up and down the path ahead. They thought I was ridiculous. They couldn’t understand, still don’t understand, why I hated the humans there. ,,Well there are humans everywhere!”, they’d say in that frustrated kind of manner. Yes, there are humans everywhere. 8 billion of them.
I used to hate the houses in my photos. Standing there quite rudely, not budging a millimeter when all I wanted was to photograph the sunrise. I walked then. I found a place with a willow tree that was standing right at the edge of the lake, water already sipping at its roots and leaves hanging right over the water. There is a house there now too, on the other side of the lake, slowly creeping into my pictures. I am afraid of heights yet all I want is to sprout wings and fly. Fly high enough to get a good picture of the sunrise without any houses or high towers bellowing out smoke as if they wished they’d be chainsmokers not chimneys. But then again, up there is a place without trees and without moss and without the sea to reflect all those sparkling morning rays.
I used to hate the trash in my pictures, left there by humans who couldn’t be bothered enough to pick it up. It is just everywhere. It's in the water and in the soil. It's always there on the ground and sometimes even in trash cans. By now we all know it's in our blood. They tried to do a study once, on the effect that plastic has on us. They couldn’t find a control group.
I used to hate humans. They are awful and ruin the world for every breathing and living thing that is co-existing in it with them through no fault of their own. I used to hate how humans creep into every nook and creep into every picture. THey are there, always lurking in the shadows, behind smiles and in the fences. I used to hate how they came closer and closer taking me with them. I am not one of you, I wanted to scream. Leave me be, leave me my photos. ,,We are in them, look.”, They just said and showed me their fences and their sailboats and their trash and their smiles and their houses and their windmills and towers and buildings so high even the clouds can’t escape them with the fastest winds. I tried to ignore them. Picture a world without them, without us. A better world, a peaceful world. I used to be so angry.
I am not angry anymore. I am just sad and resigned. Humans never chose to be born either. We just were. And then we were raised and our parents made mistakes because our grandparents did and their parents before them and somehow. Somehow, we managed to come this far. With houses that are warm in the coldest of nights, when the frost glistens on the leaves underneath the stars and I can capture that beauty with the click of a button and then go sleep in a comfortable bed, knowing that tomorrow I will wake up without frostbite.There is a joy in running over the sandy dunes and walking with a dancing step, bobbing up and down in a coat that is ones favourite colour.
I used to wish us gone. A world rid of its parasites. But we are children who ought to raise themselves and we are doing it. SLowly but surely we learn from our mistakes and cry out in agony as others commit them. We yell at each other for the freedom we envy of the bird and the wisdom we envy of the whispering trees. We get angry and angrier yet, standing together against our siblings who wish to keep us others small. We hate them for their mistakes, forgetting ours. It is sad that we are so incapable of learning and thinking when we most ought to. It is a tragedy that humans are still children, incapable of simply stopping, sitting down and reflecting on that thought we just had, on that stick in our hands and on the stones we’ve thrown and wanted to throw again. We are incapable at washing those hands because the blood on them is so old, it has soaked into our skin in the grotequest of tattoos. ,,No!”, I want to scream. ,,I am not one of them.” But aren’t I? Haven’t I stubbornly stood in the same spot, miserable and scornful, waiting for the people to just,go.away! Haven’t I missed moments with my family that I will never gain back, that will forever be lost and that I know, know so surely I will grieve dearly when that family is gone. Will I not wish to have visited more? Will I not wish to have talked more, listened to the bad jokes more? Will I not wish there was a picture of that house of ours, of that ridiculous red jacket in the dunes, of that sunrise with a bit of a glass in the corner, of the lamp where we sat, of the fence where we stood and the sea that we looked at?
I used to hate humans in my pictures and I still do. They aren’t beautiful or magnificent like that. THey simply aren’t my focus. Other people do that better than me. But they are ghosts, whispering to us so loudly it is really a scream :,,look, there in the corner. Look! And remember me.”
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Edo Tensei
I don't even know why am I doing this. Maybe to let my sorrow out? Well, either way, enjoy.
Isn't it nice? Peace can be achived, even if temporarily.
You can make civilians and shinobi live together peacefully, regardless of clans.
Tobirama was always skeptical about that, but his big brother showed him that it's not impossible.
Still... why is he smiling? Tobirama can't help but feel hatred towards him and his so called friend as he looks down on them from the tree he is sitting on.
They are laughing, training together, even being affectionate... what kind of brother is that?
Hashirama doesn't care to notice as Tobirama stares at him, rather just drowns in self pity as he had gotten a harsh comment from Madara.
Maybe, perhaps, that will never go away. That little habit of his.
Watching that unfold... all he can think about is how foolish it is.
Tobirama never had any hate in his heart towards Hashirama, but it hurts.
It hurts that he has to walk alone in a flower shop, because he is the only one who remembers.
He shook those thoughts out of his head though, as he already took out his wallet. He greeted a smile to the man wrapping up some roses,
" Good morning Inoae "
The man greeted back, happy to see a regular.
" Good morning, Lord Tobirama. "
He is not going to lie, being called that makes him feel a little icky, he isn't Hokage yet, or is it certain that he will ever be. However, formality is kept.
It's not like it will matter in a few years, right?
He just went on to choose flowers.
Four purple hyacinths for the first bouquet.
Two pink tulips and two delphiniums for the second one.
Two white tulips and two gladiolus for the third one.
They were all so beautiful, yet they only caused silence. He wished he could, but Inoae couldn't look the man infront of him in the eyes. He knows all too well what does this mean.
Tobirama was used to it. Usually he is greeted with silence upon entering a room.
And that silence followed him everywhere.
Well... not the cemetery. Where his brothers were.
He walked his way in, getting more and more nervous as his heart went quicker upon approaching the huge rock where his brothers are laid.
Dare he call it a grave.
Although, he was quite scared to face them just yet. So he decided to go to the left side of it, paying his respect to someone else's brother,
" Izuna, are you listening? I am sorry.. no, I just ask for your forgiveness. I hope you are watching over your brother, he seems to be doing well. "
He had placed the first bouquet of flowers down the cold shiny rock. He didn't know if the feeling in his chest is emptiness, or rather guilt.
It could be both.
Now came the hard part, going to the right side of the rock.
He can't call it a grave, he refuses to accept it.
He had placed the beautiful flowers down, bowing as he spoke.
" Itama... Kawarama... Please forgive big brother, he didn't come to your anniversaries. Even if he didn't come, I hope I am enough. Please don't hate him for this. Are you doing alright.. ? I wish I could hug you both for one last time, " tears streamed down his face as he grabbed his chest, gasping for air " I am sorry you could never make it to 10. I am so so sorry.... this isn't how it was supposed to turn out like... it really wasn't.... "
It was dawn when Tobirama caught his two younger siblings painting their face in the reflection of the river by their house.
He had approached the two giggly smaller ones as he noticed that they have their mothers make up paint in their hand.
It was cute, how excited they were over a few crushed up wet roses..
" Say, what are you doing? "
Itama looked at him, holding a brush for him to take,
" We are wearing warrior make up! Try it too! "
And so he did. He squat down alongside them, copying the motions they did,
" So tell me... Why are they dots? "
Kawarama smiled, clapping his hands together, happy to answer,
" It will bloom like a flower! It's just dots now... But when we will reach 10, it will all be lines, mimicking the shape of lowers! "
Itama nodded, as he adjusted the hand of his older brother,
" Yeah! Hashirama already celebrated his 10th birthday! So it's between us three now! "
Tobirama hummed, murmuring a little 'I see' as he painted his face. That was, to this day his favourite memory with his brothers.
And it keeps repeating over and over, he can't stop thinking about it. It pains him, if not everday, every other day.
Even as he looks through their family album and seems their cut off hair, from the first time they each got a hair cut.
The circles under his eyes barely tell a story compared to how swollen it has became. He had cried all day, his heart crushing.
He stroked over the plastic covering of the hair, sighing to himself in the darkness of his own room, being surrounded by nothing but cold..
... and a bunch of research papers.
" I wish I could bring you two back just by this... I miss you so much "
One thing is for sure, ghosts exist.
Tobirama had found out that a long time ago, by experience.
Turns out, hating your father and trying to please your brother's wishes only results in your dead father's spirit yelling at you whenever you manage to stay up after 5am.
Tobirama sniffed and wiped off his under eyes.
It's time to be stronger, it sucks to drown in self pity, day by day everyday.
And so that was the start of it all. The start of Edo Tensei.
Both the sun and moon had fallen down multiple times while Tobirama spent weeks in his office, only leaving for small wash ups.
He was desperate, he had a goal in mind and he for sure going to achive it.
Sleep was something he... well forgot to do, but came to him naturally. Each time, he had envisioned all the failed attempts that had happened.
It's been months, he is used to it. Used to all the dry tears on his cheek after a few minutes nap, as he still hears the painful scream of his little brothers. He wants to get it right. He so does.
Just what is he missing? What?
He has calculated everything imaginable. So why.. why don't they look human?
Those questions rang louder and louder in his head as he made an attempt to revive his brothers in their - now - family home.
Well, the little hill next to their garden tree.
Itama and Kawarama were sad. They couldn't be as grown up and as human as their big brothers.
They tried to comfort their older brother too.
He was on his knees, punching the ground with his fists as tears stormed down his face.
" Why, why, why? ", he asked, over and over.
Not to mistake him for an idiot though, once he felt two little hands stroke his back, he had wrapped his arms around what he knows as his little brothers.
" It's okay "
" Thank you for trying "
Those small little voices trying to comfort him.. their gentleness... It should be the other way around. It really should.
But why is he like this? It's hard to admit, but Tobirama is ashamed. It should be the other way around.
The ground broke, and suddenly there was water everywhere but around the three of them.
It was almost destructive, flooding everything around them, breaking of their tree, turning into a water tornado.
It took a mental breakdown for Hashirama to notice what's wrong, as he ran there yelling out
" Tobirama! "
That was the last thing in Tobirama's memory before his coma.
Hashirama must have solved it, he guesses. After all, not only their house is new, but their list of forbidden jutsus are too.
#the way this is a mess#tobirama#naruto#hashirama#itama#kawarama#senju bros#can you guess who is my favourite brother
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Summertime, and the Living is Easy
Tags: season 15, Sam-centric, Sam and Dean Winchester, 500-1,000 words
warnings: alcoholism, implied eating disorder
description: hunting doesn't ever seem very busy in the summer, does it?
// // // // // // //
Sunset on the summer solstice found Sam Winchester drinking natty lite shirtless on the back deck of a motel somewhere in the endless plains of the Midwest. This is 8:03 exactly, and he is reflecting on the shitty taste of his beverage. He would drink something better, but the good stuff is 17 ounces of not on his diet.
The cicadas chirp a little louder, and Sam wonders whether it's the noise or long days that have monstrous activity at a low every summer. Not that he's complaining, nobody wants to run around chasing things that can kill you with a glorified peashooter full of salt in 90° heat. Nobody (sane) really wants to do it at all, but the heat really makes a difference, especially when your uniform is long sleeves and jackets. Once when Sam was a kid he tried hunting a ghost in jorts and a t-shirt and learned why not to do that pretty immediately. He got teased at the next school for looking like he got in a fight with a shredder and isn't keen on adding to his intimidating stature. The scars from drawing blood for spells and brushes with death are enough.
After awhile, when the sun is mostly set, Dean joins him. Dean lasts a full minute before talking.
"So what're ya' doin' out here, dork?" He grunts from the plastic law chair a foot or so away, the one Sam didn't take because it had bird shit on it. He's not going to tell Dean that, of course, and considers it revenge for trying to steal his toothbrush.
Sam shrugs "It's a nice evening."
True enough.
"Yeah, nice for the Midwest in late June. Nice... I don't know 'bout that." Dean scoffs, turning fully to look at Sam. "What's with the diet shit you're drinkin'? I know it can't be for flavor. You saving your figure for someone?"
The joke might've been funny at some point, even if neither remember when that point passed (if it ever existed). Sam looks at him a moment weighing up answers against the past, and going for a half truth.
"Normal beer isn't good for you. I know this isn't either but... less so," Sam chuffs "either way it's just fermented and distilled carbohydrates."
There-- just there-- is the tension caught between them building, two planets rearing up to pull the other into breakneck orbit. Dean looks at him like an alien, and it's all Sam can do to make it out in the darkness. When he does, he looks away again. For his credit, Dean is not disgusted in particular, just confused and maybe a little concerned.
"Way to make beer lame, geek boy." He just grunts.
Sam, however, sees his brother dismissing his concerns again and can't bring himself to parse how he feels about it; some combination of reliefangerfear tied up like the Gordian knot in his chest, blocking the words from his mouth and throat.
A moment ago he was peaceful.
Sam takes another sip and finds that it has lost all redeeming qualities under his brother's sharp eye, tasting like watered down gasoline. He drinks it anyway, craving not the flavor but the release that's getting harder and harder to come by. Dean had a beer, too, and it's not his first judging by the steadiness of his hands as he scratches something into the right arm of his plastic lawn chair. They're both functional alcoholics anymore, but Sam thinks they should get something of a pass since it's their sixth end of days. They deserve frequent shopper coupons from Gas and Sip's everywhere from the sheer volume of crappy liquor in tiny bottles they've bought to privately mourn the apocalypse.
But that's beside the point, the sun has set on the solstice and nothing happened. Not that anything was expected to, but still. The world is awful empty when you're the only people in it.
#im sorry i didn't add episodes in the description i wanted it to be a surprise :(#this is shamelessly romanticizing summer#for those that are curious: it's disgustingly hot and sam is just Weird#sam winchester#dean winchester#supernatural 15×19#season 15#later seasons#fanfiction#fanfic#supernatural#spn#tw alchoholism#tw ed mention
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Out of Control
The world passed by in a blur. Trees sped along outside the windows of the car. The engine roared like a dragon and the vehicle’s driver felt an unnatural fuel and fire in her veins.
A blood-red rising sun reflected off of her shades, glossy and shiny and marred only by a tiny crack on the left lens of her sunglasses. Clad in little leather racing gloves, Emily’s hands gripped the steering wheel like iron vices.
Something about the hum and the vibrations and the constant growl of the machine kept her calm. She loved the feeling of sheer speed, slicing through the world like a knife; and appreciated that sense of escape from reality that it always gave her.
Now, more than ever, she needed that calm, that sensation of riding the eye of the storm—that escape. Because she was going to see Julian’s killer in person and it was going to take everything out of her to not lose her mind.
Was it the gravity of fast motion, pushing her back into her seat that helped center her? Was it the threat of deadly accidents that freed her mind from every burdening thought and worry? Or was it because she felt both in control and dangerous whenever she drove too fast?
Emily wondered, but refused to answer her own questions.
She maintained a speed just a few miles per hour above the legal limit. Just enough to make good time on her ride to Starkford Penitentiary, and just enough to try to talk her way out of trouble if a cop pulled her over.
Thoughts surfaced. Thoughts about Kathryn Shaw. Emily tried to push them back down because they only made every one of her digits tense up more—the leather of her gloves cracked as her grip around the steering wheel tightened.
Any efforts to dispel the thoughts all failed. The image search on Shaw haunted Emily. Kathryn Shaw was just some forgettable D-list celebrity and the spectrum of her headshots ranged from pretty young lady all the way to monstrosity who had gone under the knife of plastic surgery too often for her own good. Murdering Julian Stone would probably be her biggest legacy, overshadowing her pathetic acting career and her quest for the perfect face.
This only fed the tension building in every fiber of Emily’s being, because Shaw’s obsession with her own beauty was what had killed Julian.
But was it just tension? Or pure anger welling up inside? The engine’s growls grounded Emily for a brief glimpse, allowing her to notice just how obscenely fast she was going now, and she eased up on her leadfoot for a bit. Every thought of Kathryn Shaw just poured more gasoline onto the flames of Emily’s fury.
As you know, every time you pour fuel into the flames, you run risk of the fire igniting the stream, traveling back up its length and blowing the canister up in your hands. That exact image entered Emily’s mind and made her crave another cigarette. It hadn’t even been five minutes since the last one.
No matter.
She rolled down the window on her old Charger and lit up her smoke. Swore up a storm as a chunk of tobacco got stuck on the car’s internal lighter and fumed out of the slot when she returned it. Instead of pulling over to fix this like a sane person, Emily took her eyes off the road and tapped the lighter outside her car door.
When she looked up, the honking of a horn ripped her right back into the reality of her current whereabouts and she reacted just in time, swerving back onto her lane of the road. The honking persisted, blaring and trailing off as the other car traveled down the opposite lane, expressing what she considered to be a petty anger when compared to her own.
Emily flipped the other driver the bird and took a long, greedy drag from her cigarette to cool off.
She always found it strange how little such near-death experiences like this never really fazed her. Some part of her was always prepared to die. Hell, the other part of her was already dead.
All the nights she had spent alone ever since Julian’s death, looking out over the nightly skyline of L.A., she had gone through every single stage—from wanting to die, over not seeing a purpose in life anymore, to wanting someone to pay, and ending up with a fire flaring up deep down inside of her, fueled by her darkest thoughts and fantasies. A fire that made her swear more than she ever used to; a fire that motivated her and would drive her to ever greater heights in her career.
Telling the truth, no matter how much it hurt. Exposing lies and toppling the liars. Bringing down all those awful pyramids of deception, tearing down the walls of filth built by the life-thieves and the soul-violators. Destroying the machinery of oppression fabricated by the real monsters of this world.
Her thoughts spiraled. The moment she realized she was thinking about her quest for truth and revealing the darkness to the world, no sooner did she remember that Shaw was to blame for her current anger. Emily had always been angry with the world: corrupt politicians feeding their fat faces, greedy psychopaths running the business world, and selfish assholes walking all over the downtrodden were everywhere. They didn’t even lurk in the shadows—no, the ghouls just lived in our very midst, normalizing their wicked ways and turning people jaded to the point of not caring anymore.
Every time she blinked, another six such shit-sticks just sprung into existence somewhere else.
While smoking cooled her down, it couldn’t put a lid on the boiling pot of rage bubbling in her belly region.
The whole ordeal of this prison visit alone would have been enough to make her mad, just thinking about it.
Short visiting hours. She had had to make an appointment over a month in advance. Fill out huge forms and provide copies of all sorts of personal documents. Wait for approval. Get all sorts of instructions on what she was allowed to wear or not: no orange, no underwire bra, no yoga pants, no sleeveless shirts, no open toes.
Luckily, her childhood friend Carlos had warned her about all this from his short stint in working at a different prison in the past. They might have just turned her away the moment she showed up if she didn’t meet all of their ridiculous requirements, and put her through the whole rigmarole of applying all over again.
All of this just to schedule a conversation—with her fiancé’s murderer.
Emily snorted, blowing smoke out of her nostrils. She flicked on the radio. An effective distraction would be great, any time now.
An overconfident voice actor spoke, “Enjoy a flat white at a price that’s easier to swallow from the—”
Raspy voice, trained in feigning gravitas, said, “Most of the things I do are misunderstood. Hey, after all, being misunderstood is the fate of all true—”
A dulcet male voice sang, “I’m gonna kick my feet up and stare at the fan, turn the TV on, throw my hand in my pants—”
Annoying advertising. Annoying talking. Annoying pop music. She kept poking the device to switch the channels. At the very least, she could direct her anger at the shallow superficiality of the world of radio entertainment, letting the heat die down somewhat and reducing the boiling of her blood to a low simmer. She avoided any news. News would just add to her anger.
The sunglasses shielded her eyes from the blinding light of the morning sun, still low on the horizon over the woods lining the road.
More smoking, idly ignoring all the chatter and music from the radio, and sitting on the lid to the pot of rage inside of her. Another two hours of driving flew by. The landscape around her transformed along the way, with her Charger exiting the lines of trees and darting over the long roads in the hills, in the middle of nowhere.
Like blacking out, she sighed when she seemingly came to her senses in the lobby where visitors could wait.
The anger was back.
The stupid card machine kept spitting out her dollar bills while she attempted to charge it with money. After the sixth attempt and growing increasingly anxious about the guy breathing down her neck behind her, Emily slapped the top of the device three times.
One of the guards nearby cleared her throat and shot Emily a dirty look. Emily just glared back at her but swallowed a glib remark. Either she wanted to bottle all the anger up and direct it at someone truly deserving, like Shaw, or she didn’t want to get into trouble until she had done such.
In truth, Emily wanted answers. She just wanted to know why Kathryn Shaw had killed. The most mysterious thing about Julian’s death was why Kathryn murdered him. The police said that he had turned her down for repeat requests to conduct further rhinoplasty where other surgeons had already turned her down before, and she had snapped. Bludgeoned him with a tire iron and stuffed him into the trunk of her car.
Finally, the card reader swallowed her cash. Emily groaned and muttered more profanities under her breath and left, engulfed in a cloud of mounting frustration and volatile impatience. The man waiting in line behind her dodged away a full step when she glared at him while she took a walk to the vending machines.
Thinking about the circumstances of Julian’s death did the opposite of helping her temper or curbing any anger.
Supposedly, Kathryn had thought that beating Julian over the back of his head had only knocked him unconscious. In truth, he must have died slowly in her trunk. Painfully. The police detective Emily talked to didn’t say it in those exact words, but she knew enough to piece it together.
Not only anger accompanied Emily that day, but something else: fear.
Fear that she might lose control and do something like strangling Kathryn. Also, a fear of seeing the face of a murderer who had had so much surgery done that Emily only saw her visage as an accurate and frightening representation of what Kathryn truly was deep down—a monster.
The crazy bitch had killed her Julian because he refused to help her continue destroying her own damned face? The choleric reporter wasn’t satisfied with that explanation. It was so simple. Too mundane.
Maybe Kathryn Shaw could offer the straight dope. Maybe Emily could tickle it out of her, provoke her into spilling something she wouldn’t admit to the authorities. Maybe something darker.
Another wave of fury washed over her when she stood at the vending machines to get some snacks and something to drink. Everything cleaned out—empty. Nothing for her to buy after wasting cash on the stupid card machine?
Fuck this place, she thought. Fuck the entire prison system.
Under normal circumstances, she would have blurted that out; released her rage at one of the people working here. However, she wanted to avoid sabotaging her chances at speaking to Kathryn. Not only had the private penitentiary made this visit an absurd chore, she had had to get through lengthy talks with Shaw’s lawyers to get this going without outside interference.
Emily had signed waivers and papers just to promise she wouldn’t be using or publishing anything that transpired in this meeting.
In a huff, she sat down in the waiting area. Checked her emails on her phone to find another way of distracting herself. Canceled interview meeting. Bill. Bill. Bank complaining about her account being in the red. Bill. Advertisements. Annoying newsletter. Complaints about details on an invoice. Just a swamp of unanswered, unread messages she could not have cared any less about right now. Still, she found something oddly meditative about sifting through them and getting some of this busywork done.
Until she reached one mail: from an anonymous source in the crime syndicate exposé she was working on. The informant was backing off, chickening out, refusing to meet for a statement.
Emily blacked out. Next thing she knew, the display of her phone was covered in a spiderweb of cracks. Several people in the waiting room stared at her and her surroundings had gone dead silent.
A guard stood next to her and fidgeted, one brow arched as she stared Emily down and said, “Ma'am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you can’t get it together.”
Emily nodded in defeat. Whatever she had just done that resulted in cracking her own phone—shouting? Screaming? Beating inanimate objects? The startled looks from the strangers all around her told her that her outburst had been profound. She also felt a lot calmer, like the valves had opened for a spell and released some of the steam. Judging by everybody’s reactions, she must have given off that exact air.
Though the anger was still there, albeit more subdued.
Emily Graves was an angry person by nature. Always had been. Her best friend Chris never liked how worked up she got when she ranted about anything and turned it into cascading and unstoppable tirades.
Today was different. She had never felt as angry as she did this day.
She did something uncharacteristically different and apologized. Standing beside herself and watching it happen as if she was in a dream, she wondered who in all hell’s name this Emily was—sounding meek and remorseful. But there she was, the other Emily, making sure she’d get through this day far enough to speak with Kathryn Shaw.
The guard left her alone to waiting, and Emily slumped into the hard plastic chair. The light glared too brightly in here for her to decipher anything on the now-cracked display of her phone, so she put it away.
Focus. Breathe.
Focus.
Forcing herself to clear her mind of all thoughts, Emily cycled through the things she had learned in Berkeley. She reverted into the green journalist, melting into the background and observing. Watching.
The waiting area had it all. The facial expressions on the people here, the invisible clouds of air surrounding them, carrying the entire gamut of emotions: joy, sadness, regret, anger, and everything in between. One of the other visitors waiting there emanated with an aura of rage to rival Emily’s own. It somehow helped her cool down herself, seeing this other lady completely self-absorbed in a blinding haze of wrath.
This kind of place could probably do that to anybody.
She took a deep breath and went to the bathroom. Carlos told her that going to the bathroom during the visit itself is a pain of its own, so it was best to get it out of the way immediately.
No mirrors in the restrooms.
Emily splashed her face with cold water. She wanted to smoke really badly. Even though she couldn’t inhale that sweet, sweet poison any time soon, she nervously produced the pack from her pocket book and checked it. Two smokes left; not even halfway through the day.
“One hell of a drive here,” she muttered. Another woman in the restrooms just gave her a funny look, and Emily returned to the waiting area.
Eventually, she was buzzed in.
They stamped her wrist with invisible ink. Allowed her to put all her possessions in a locker. Asked redundant questions. Sent her through the metal detectors, searched her, jammed a plastic pass into her hand. Half of the hurdles made sense to Emily, leaving her to wonder about the other half.
She sat in a small windowless room and waited. The thick doors and walls muffled the repeated buzzing for other visits elsewhere. Emily had expected them to be meeting with a wall of bulletproof glass separating her and Kathryn Shaw, but it looked like the visiting room was just an open space with two entrances—two ominous metal doors.
Table in the center surrounded by rigid plastic chairs, all bolted down.
A guard waited behind her, hands folded in front of her and probably staving off boredom whenever she wasn’t ready to pounce and intervene.
Little to stop Emily from exploding into a fireball and clawing Kathryn’s eyes out.
She wondered how often the guards here had to deal with drama like that. Emily found herself wondering what it would be like to be tased.
The other door opened, interrupting such thoughts, and two people entered. Kathryn, dressed in the orange jumpsuit of the inmates here, hands shackled with cuffs, was directed to the chair on the opposite side of the table. The guard accompanying her took her place behind her next to the other door.
Kathryn’s long blonde hair was frazzled, messy. Her bleary eyes darted around, barely registering Emily. She looked crazy, but not scared or threatening in any way. To the reporter, she looked far more pathetic than she had expected—not that that helped defuse the rage.
So Emily decided to start off simple. Ease Kathryn into things, and hell, herself as well. Maybe she’d keep her anger under control by conducting herself in a professional fashion.
“Hello Kathryn,” she said. Emily pressed her lips together so hard that they turned into thin white strips. “I’m Emily Graves.”
Kathryn nodded and emitted a feeble, “Hi.”
She looked her visitor up and down but evidently did not recognize her.
“I’m a freelance reporter who has worked for a few major outlets in California.”
Kathryn’s eyes went wide. Emily expected her to shrink from that, but triggered something else entirely. Kathryn nodded emphatically—excitedly. She was thrilled.
D-list celebrity alright. Probably thought she was going to get “justice” or exposure to use in her memoirs, or God only knew what.
“Now, just to be clear, I’m not here in a professional capacity,” Emily said, trying to suss out if Kathryn still had enough marbles left in her noggin for her to speak with her regular vocabulary, or if she had to dial down her language to the level she’d use for someone certifiable.
Kathryn’s face, disfigured from years and an excess of plastic surgery, scrunched up in confusion. She nodded some more, signaling Emily to continue.
“I came here because—”
Emily choked on the words. She choked on the thoughts. Instead of rage welling up, her mind flashed back to the moment when the coroner pulled out the metal slab. The slab on which a dead body lay.
She swallowed, hard.
She remembered the day she identified Julian’s body in the morgue, in the company of Detective Tanner.
Pale, lifeless, hopeless. Dead. Shattered skull. Shattered dreams.
Shattered heart.
Was her heart racing with terror, or slowing to a halt?
Kathryn just looked at her through wide eyes, expecting something. Something more. Something that immediately disgusted Emily.
Attention.
It brought the anger back. The simmering turned back up, like stepping on the gas pedal and revving the engine. The roar of the motor. The pressure of gravity, of speed, of powerful motion. Pouring gasoline into the fire.
“I came because you murdered my fiancé, Julian. I—I just need to know. I need to know why.”
Kathryn nodded some more, like a deranged toddler trapped in a horrific grown woman’s body. Then her nodding transformed into her shaking her head quickly. She squinted as she continued to shake her head in disbelief.
“No, Doctor Stone is fine. I didn’t murder anybody!”
Emily blinked, letting that sink in. She disbelieved the disbelief. The world slowed down to a halt. The imaginary car she was driving in crashed into a solid brick wall in slow motion. Scrap parts exploded into a dazzling rain of metallic fireworks.
The flames flared up. The stream of gasoline being poured into it caught fire. It traveled upwards, in slow motion, just like the car crashing into the wall.
The rage boiled. The lid shuddered, clattered. Emily’s heart was racing indeed, pounding like thunder. Like those Japanese drums.
“Listen, honey, I’ll be out soon and with my lawyers, we’ll clear this all up, just you wait and see. I’m so sorry about what I did. I lost it and—well, things worked out in the end, yeah? I’m sure Doctor Stone will do what I asked him for then, and we’ll find a way to—”
The rushing of blood in Emily’s ears drowned out this crazy bitch’s words. The world narrowed, with darkness encroaching from the edges of her field of vision until everything had turned into a tunnel, with the only light at the end of it consisting of this monster’s artificial-looking face.
The tunnel collapsed. Complete darkness. Just the pounding of those drums, the beating of her heart.
The sound that the human hand makes when hitting flesh is strange. Like a wet bag filled with raw meat slapping onto a hard kitchen counter. That association only registered with Emily with delay.
She must have slapped or punched Kathryn multiple times before the guards pried her away. Signing papers and getting reprimanded were things that came back to her later. Emily walked out of that hellhole, putting on her sunglasses again as broad daylight from the merciless sun instantly gave her a headache. Or maybe it was the dehydration coupled with the rage. Her mouth felt as dry as Death Valley looked.
She had lost time. Her wrists hurt, she had been detained temporarily. Someone told her this was not uncommon. Warned her, told her not to show her face there again. Said she was lucky Shaw’s lawyers wouldn’t end up pressing charges, because she’d probably forget what happened by dinner time.
Emily sat on the hood of the Charger, smoking. Only one cigarette left and four hours of driving back to Los Angeles ahead of her. A veritable tower of ash formed at the end of the glimmering little death-stick between her fingers. Her ears still rang with the aftereffects of adrenaline and rage.
In her mind, she went to and fro, like liquid sloshing back and forth in a bucket. Like the gasoline, always threatening to spill over the edge and fall into the flames; threatening to feed that all-devouring fire. She struggled to piece together what had happened but a burning darkness blotted out parts of those memories.
It couldn’t have been too bad or she might have gotten arrested on the spot. Or maybe the guards took pity on her, having a hunch about what was going on there. Or maybe this entire world was so callous and cruel that nobody truly gave a damn.
Whatever had truly happened in that cold claustrophobic room with the uncomfortably cool air conditioning, it had not helped Emily. Not at all.
She had walked out of Starkford with answers less satisfying than the meager ones she had entered with. She hated the concept of America’s prison system, but a more sadistic part of her hoped that Kathryn would suffer and rot in there for the rest of her miserable life.
Emily stamped out the cigarette, grinding it with her heel with extreme prejudice, and got behind the wheel again.
Speeding might help. Her addiction made her mentally check at which gas station she’d stop next to buy more smokes. Getting back to work, perhaps following up on the Mancini “murder house” next—maybe these things would get her mind off of the hell that was living on this God-forsaken planet, hurtling through space until the sun died and the heat death of the universe ended everything.
Or maybe just drowning everything in a bottle of whiskey.
But everything Emily enjoyed at this point was self-destructive.
Nothing would truly help. None of it would quench the fires of her rage.
Just pour more gasoline into the flames.
She revved the engine. The tires screeched and the Charger sped away.
—Submitted by Wratts
#spoospasu#spookyspaghettisundae#horror#short story#writing#my writing#literature#spooky#fiction#submission#rage#anger#fury#control#out of control#emily#graves#murder#killer#madness#insanity#loss of control#violence#plastic surgery#addiction#smoking#car#speeding#gasoline#fuel
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Voo Doo Part 3
“This shit hole?” I asked while both Nik and I stared at the battered Victorian. The house would have been beautiful with the right care. A coat of paint. A nice sanding and stain of all the treasured wood that held up the wrap around porch. Yet … it was left to nature’s wrath. The same brutal Louisiana sun that beat down on my skin without remorse. Nik shrugged a nod. He had little to say from the Quarter to this stretch of nothing where he had dropped Madden off all those years ago. We discussed the terms for the exchange once more. I would turn over the house on Royal to Louis Parker in name and title and he would bring me way out toward the bayou. It was cut and dry. Nik was someone who minded his business. Normally I’d find that an admirable quality but now it annoyed me to no end.
“Have at it, Boss.” Nik leaned back against the hood of his car with a smile that held secrets. Festering secrets that were also currency.
He wanted me to react. Instead I ground my teeth and headed inside. It was unlocked. The floorboards below my feet cracked as if to announce me. A mouse scurried back to it’s hole. The air was stagnant and held the scent of smoke. A reminder of what happened here. The kitchen was empty. The fridge held things that should be in a science lab to cure cancer.
The cabinets held only four glasses, three plates and mismatched bowls. Plastic cups from local restaurants. The sink was bone dry. When I pushed the faucet handle the water skipped a beat before spurting out. Unused.
I passed a dining room and found myself at a crossroads. Up the stairs to what the second level held or the basement door which was flecked with soot all around the casing. My chest grew tight and I knew that upstairs held more for me than touring a burned out shell.
There was a single window at the top of the stairs. Stained glass with an angel and a demon etched out. The wicked chasing the virtuous. The colors seemed to shift with each move I made past it, colliding on the aging wallpaper until they spilled into the first room. His room. I knew the moment I stepped inside. The bed was made. The closet with little to nothing inside. A faded KISS t-shirt barely clinging to a hanger. One tattered shoe. A few trinkets on the desk. Nothing of importance. Nothing to remind him of me.
“Where did you go, hmm?” I asked while I traced my fingers along the edge of the footboard. “And why …” The silence that echoed back sat heavy in my throat. Or perhaps that was the tears that would never be shed. “But we know why, don’t we.” A smile of sorts lifted my lips. “You weren’t meant for always. Accidentally mine. Purposefully yours.” I took in a deep breath in hopes of finding his scent. Just a speck of dust that was once part of him. Anything would have kept the canyon carved out in the very center of my chest from forming but there was nothing. Even the shirt haphazardly left behind only smelled of stale smoke.
He burned it all away.
The realization hit like a summer storm.
All of my focus was downstairs now. Imagining all the dark things hidden behind the basement door. I passed the two celestial friends who were still playing cat and mouse on the colorful glass and stopped just short of the staircase. Another room. Another chance to find a speck of him. But this one held nothing but femininity. Lace and light purple colors everywhere.
“And what is this?” I mused.
Another closet standing open with empty hangers and it seemed obscene to leave it gaping like that. Closets were meant for hiding. To keep skeletons where they belong before they turned into armies hell bent on destroying the world.
I used my foot to shut the old wooden door and took a step back to enjoy the slam that I knew was coming. But instead the latch clicked with a softness that only a heavy, solid door could allow. My brow shot up when a red lace dress made itself known. A surprise to both I and the delicate fabric that had been forgotten somehow. It begged to be touched. It was much too perfect to be left alone in this dungeon of hurt feelings and mixed up souls.
Familiarity struck when I was brought back to a chilly morning over a year ago. I was to meet Cain for the first time, my prized fighter, when his lovely partner showed up wearing this very dress. “How did you find your way here, hmm? A dress for a wedding, perhaps?” I asked no one and everyone. I filed the alarming discovery somewhere I could find it at another time. A time when this version of me no longer existed and I could make sense of the twist fate had thrown me.
By the time I left the house, without the tour below the creaky wooden floors, there was a finality settled in my bones.
Nik was still there as if the thick summer sun hadn’t fucked him up the way it had me. Gracefully inhaling a sweet roll of tobacco. For a second I wondered how it would taste on his lips. On mine.
No, Jax.
“What did he do to the basement?” I asked.
“Hmm?” Nik drawled. “Burned it is my guess.”
A cruel smile met my gaze when I looked over at him. He knew. He knew exactly what went down here.
“There is a dress upstairs. Fetch it and then burn the rest to the ground.” I nodded. “The signed paperwork is on its way via email.”
By the time Nik was done staring at me over the dark pair of Ray-Bans his phone chirped. A notification of the email, I assumed. I scheduled one to be sent exactly three minutes ago. Goddamn swamp. It was an even exchange. To me at least.
“Jax.”
“Yes, Nik.” I smiled when a black SUV pulled up behind his own car.
“Why is there an amendment for an infinite lease between you and Louis at the end of this? Did you put that little shit up to this? Goddamn it.”
He was mad.
Perfect.
“The house in Louis Parker’s name. Which in turn gives it back to your family, Nik. Isn’t that what you wanted?” I waved a hand when the driver of the SUV stepped out to open the back door for me. “I kept up my end of the bargain. But you see, this city of yours? It’s calling to me. And I will see you again.”
“Bastard.” Nik snarled with a smile that let me know it was also meant as an endearment. “I’ll keep my word on my family name.” He one-finger-saluted. “Don’t come back soon.”
It seemed neat. Tidy. I watched as Nik ran inside and with the speed that I’d never witnessed returned with the red dress. He handed it off to the driver and I climbed into the comfort of the AC filled SUV. Part of me wanted to watch. Part of me wanted to stop him and leave the memories and the ghost to linger.
Burn it all. Madden had. It was my turn. Fire cleanses the soul or so those with one would say.
Louis was waiting for me as he was told to be. There was another reason for me hiring the boy. Among his various talents, taking one hell of a lashing being my favorite so far, he could also wield a pair of shears and a trimmer that would put Vidal to shame.
He was set up in the back garden of his home. The one I now leased from him. What an odd feeling. The smug grin on his lips told me he knew that feeling well.
“I’ll beat it out of you.” I teased. It only made his smile grow as well as the front of his loose linen shorts. Such filth.
I made myself comfortable in the iron chair that would have to do. My return to Vegas would not include the inches of hair that had grown over the years. Louis ran his long finger into the golden strands for a few lingering minutes. Or maybe more. Cajun time seemed to do that. Go on for much longer than the standard sixty seconds. And I allowed it.
“Are you sure Mr. Kingston?” Louis asked but didn’t really ask. And I didn’t answer. A sigh came from his pouty lips and he began. Snip. Cut. Snip. Cut. Over and over again until I let my mind wander to the impossible. The sun filtered over my closed lids and for a moment, albeit a brief one, I was on the balcony overlooking the Ionian sea. The deep blues and light turquoise that blended seamlessly. The pebbled coastline. The olive trees that stood guard just outside the front gate.
Places, things, heartbreaks, lovers, enemies. They all come and go and not one is meant to hold onto for the rest of our days.
“Sir.” I heard his voice. I smiled and a brighter smile reflected back at me. “Sir …” The sea dripped off his skin and trickled from his hair that had grown too long. “Sir, sir, sir …” It was me whispering the words back. The sea was gone and the smell of saltwater was replaced by that of lavender and mint. The air grew thick and hot, stuffing itself up my nose.
“Sir.”
“Yes, Louis?” I answered with a sigh.
“I’m sorry, I, um, we’re done.”
I shook my head and then placed a hand over the one Louis had put on my shoulder. He had roused me from whatever daydream I had succumbed to. I squeezed his long fingers and then let go. “Thank you, Louis.”
When I looked at the ground I saw the last of the blonde strands Louis had cut, a few almost silver, dance away in a rare New Orleans breeze and felt the heavy weight that had saddled my shoulders for the last three years go along with it. There were questions still to be answered. Answers I would find back home in Vegas. In my beloved dry desert. In the blinding lights. In the sin and debauchery that seemed to feed the very life that flowed through my veins.
It was time.
#VooDoo
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Nothing Gold Can Stay (Peter Parker)
Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem! Reader
Word Count: 3.1k (I snapped)
Warnings: please have tissues ready, death and teen pregnancy.
Summary: You find out you’re pregnant and everything seems to be playing against you.
~~~~~~
To say you were scared would be an understatement, you were plain terrified. You felt your hands shaking from the terror running through your veins. You were screwed, your life was over. How were you going to be able to tell him? He was going to hate you, he was going to leave you. He already has so much stress on his plate, why would he accept this?
You looked down at the plastic stick one more time before crawling off of the floor with a large exhale. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you saw the fear in your own eye and were appalled. Why were you so scared? You knew what you were getting yourself into when you made that decision. Your eye drifted over your tense shoulders, down your caved in chest and to your stomach.
Underneath everything, there was a little being growing there, a little Peter and you, waiting to meet you both.
The thought brought the happiest of smiles to your face, but it was immediately washed away as soon as there was a knock on the bathroom door.
“Y/N, you ok babe?” You heard the love of your life say from across the wooden door. You felt your heart speed up and your breath start to slip away from you. you realized that he was saying more than just that, but your mind wasn’t registering the words.
The door was pushed open and Peter had his hands on your face, turning you to look at him. The fog that seemed to be clogging your ears from your brain cleared and your eye focused on his. You wanted to scream the news at the top of your lungs to him, but your mouth wouldn’t cooperate. You wanted Peter to tell you that he was happy that you were pregnant, but you had a gut feeling that things weren’t going to work out in your favor.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” He said gently, with no anger or sadness in his voice. You felt the hope slip into the back of your mind again. Lazily, you flung your head to where the test stick was sitting on the counter. When Peter let go of your face to garb the plastic, life changing stick, you felt the butterflies in your stomach start to erupt with anticipation.
“Does this mean…?” His back was turned toward you so you couldn’t see the expression his face was holding but you could just imagine the look of pure horror. You wanted to cry and for the first time that day, your body let you. A single tear fell from you right eye. It was kinda soothing, being able to cry, it felt like a sweet release to be able to finally do it. “I’m gonna be a dad?”
Peter turned around and you saw the happiest smile on his face. You felt the weight of the anxiety you had lift off of your chest. You took a step toward him and nodded your head. You felt his hands wrap around your waist and pull you into his chest. You began to laugh when he started jumping in a small circle with you in his arms.
“I’M GONNA BE A DAD!” he screamed loud enough for the other occupants of the apartment to hear. You started to push yourself away from Peter because you wanted to look at his face. His eyes were almost unable to be seen because his cheeks were being pushed up that high. His smile was large and genuine, your heart ached for the teen in front of you.
“I CALL BEING THE GODFATHER!” Ned said as he quickly peeked his head into the bathroom.
Both you and Peter decided to get an apartment to prepare for the baby to come. It wasn’t easy scraping up the money to afford the small two-bedroom apartment, but you had done it with the help of Mr. Stark
“I’ve told you how many times Peter, it’s gonna be a boy. I can feel it.” you said as Peter was on his laptop looking at pink clothes online for babies.
“Babe, you have to let me dream. I want a little you running around! Think about it! She’ll have your face shape and smile, maybe my hair and nose! Literally would be the cutest baby in existence!” He flung his head back and had a dreamy look in his eyes. You were distracted by his beauty and his happiness but you had to put in your opinion on this ‘dream’ baby.
“No matter what, I just hope our baby has your eyes, I love them so much.” You turned around to go close the blinds in the living room because of the sun starting to give you a headache. You heard the patter of Peter’s feet across the living room and thought nothing of it. You quickly twisted the shutters closed and turned around.
When you went to speak with Peter about dinner, you saw that he was kneeling right in front of you. Your breath was stuck in your chest and you stared at him in awe, was he really doing this now?
“Y/F/N, I have loved you since the moment I set my eyes on you. You were confident, talented and kind. I loved that much about you the first time I met you. But as I got to know you, I fell in love with the little things about you, like how your nose crinkles up when you lie, or how your eyebrows are always raised when you’re happy. I fell in love with your heart, I loved the way you simply handed a man two dollars so he could get a bus ride home on a cold night with no questions asked. I fell in love with everything about you. Then you got pregnant, sure it was earlier than I would have liked but I am so happy that I get to raise a child with you. SO as I’m sitting here, shaking like a mad man. Will you marry me?” He asked, popping the small leather box open and showing a small diamond ring on a silver band.
“Yes” you could barely get the single word out over the tears that streaming off of your face. He shakily slipped the ring onto your finger and pulled you into a kiss. This kiss was something unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, it was passionate but pure, hungry but wholesome. You were so happy to be able to say you were going to be able to be with the love of your life for the rest of your life. You felt the butterflies start again in your barely showing stomach.
“Peter Benjamin Parker, you have been putting your yearly checkup off for three months. If you don’t go, I’m calling May!” You said as you were making breakfast one morning. Granted, being six months pregnant made it hard for you to move around without hitting anything but you managed.
“I’m not scared of my aunt babe, I’m a grown adult.” He said nonchalantly as he continued to scroll through his phone, “and it’s not like I’m gonna die if I don’t go.” You rolled your eyes and pulled out your phone and pretended to make a call. You waited a little while, continuing to stir the eggs before speaking.
“Hey May! It’s Y/N, and I was calling to let you know that Peter isn’t planning on going to his chec-” was all you got out before your phone was out of your hands and on the counter.
“Fine, I’ll go! What time is my appointment?” He said in defeat. You couldn’t help the smirk that was on your face, he always had a weak spot for his aunt.
“It’s at two, but I have to meet with Hero then. I’m asking her to be the Godmother to our son.” You both had recently gone to the sonogram, finding out that you were having a baby boy. “Speaking of which, I think I figured out a good name!”
“Yeah what is it? “ he said looking up from the glass of water he had made himself.
“Benjamin Richard?” You said looking at his face in anticipation. You knew his family was special to him, so you wanted your baby’s name to reflect that. His piercing eyes stared into yours before you saw the tears start to weld up, threatening to overflow from his eyes.
Suddenly you were wrapped into a hug and squished up against your loves chest. He really was happy that you wanted to put his family into thought when you picked out his first born’s name.
“I was gonna suggest George Lucas for his name, but I love your idea so much more.” You laughed at his obvious Star Wars reference and began to tear up. The more days that went by, the more real this entire process seemed to be. Peter, the love of your life, was going to be the father of your child, the father of Benjamin Richard Parker. And you wouldn’t want it any other way.
Later that night, you had started to make grilled cheese for dinner, knowing that was one of Peter’s favorite meals on week nights. It was quick and easy for you, so the convenience was great.
You were almost done with the last of Peter’s four grilled cheeses, he liked to eat, when you got a text from him.
Spidey boy <3
Hey Love, We have to talk about something when I get home, I love you.
You sent him back a quick reply declaring your love for him, you were surprised when he said that the appointment was going to be taking longer than expected. You thought that at the latest, he would be home at 3:30 but he ended up calling you, saying that the doctor was taking longer than he should have.
It was nearly five o'clock and he still hadn’t come home, all you wanted was to see his face and to kiss him. You couldn’t help but worry when you had started to clean up the little mess you had made while making dinner. After you had put all the loose and dishes into the kitchen sink, you sat down at the dining table.
Your apartment had a small circular wooden table in the small dining room, it was on of the things that you loved about it. You loved the small details that were placed everywhere, from the mantel pieces to the frames with family pictures on the hallway walls. You fell in love with this place just like you fell in love with Peter, completely and all at once. Sure, you had been worrying about him every night that he was on patrol, but he was still here with you and you loved him for that.
You were knocked out of your thoughts by the living room door opening and shutting. You looked up to see Peter, a sad smile on his face, but a smile none the less. You quickly got up as he walked over to you and hugged him, pulling him closer than you would have ever before.
“I have cancer.” those were the first words to leave his mouth.
You were shocked to say the least, but you could tell that Peter was breaking, so you had to put on a strong face and walk him over to the living room, gently sitting down on the couch then pulling him down with you. Once he was all the way seated, you both sat in silence for a good thirty seconds before he collapsed onto your lap and started crying.
You whispered sweet nothings into his ear, carefully running your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep, tear staining his face and your torn heart. You couldn’t help but let the tears fall from your face as you realized that he wasn’t going to see your moment of weakness.
What happens if he dies? You’ll have to raise this child on your own, not only that but you’ll lose the one person who made you happy, the one person who took all the pain away.
That was the first night you dreamed of being a single parent.
The next morning you were awoken to a soft whispering from the person you loved with your whole being. You didn’t open your eyes, but you listened to what he was saying, and what you heard broke your heart.
“I promise you little man, I’m gonna try to stay with you and your mommy for as long as I can, Great Grandpa Parker had the same thing, he didn’t make it, but I will. I’m gonna do this, for you because you deserve a dad. You deserve to be happy and I wanna be there to make sure you get it. Lung cancer isn’t gonna beat this Parker man, not if he has a little one to take care of.” He whispered to your stomach, making your heart eat at unusual rates.
You had to fight the tears back, but they couldn’t stop. He was talking to your swollen belly, trying to promise the baby he was going to be there for him.
“Y/N, are you up baby?” he said brushing the hair out of your face. you softly opened your tear-filled eyes and started to take in the man that was hovering over you. His piercing brown eyes, soft smile, brown curly hair and his cute nose. You wanted to hold this memory forever, the moment he made the promise to live, that he wouldn’t leave. The first promise he made to your unborn child. “I hate to kill the awesome morning vibe, but I start chemo on Monday.”
The month that followed was harsh, Peter was getting chemo treatments every day for the first week then every other day after that. It was a grueling task to ask of an eighteen-year-old boy but he was strong and was making it through. He stopped patrolling Queens because of how weak he felt.
You were now seven months along and trying to figure out how the hell you were going to raise this child and take care of your sick fiancé. He was trying to make it seem like he wasn’t hurting, but you knew better. You knew that he was getting worse, that it was only a matter of time before he passed on. You didn’t want to think about it, because every time you did, tear wielded up in your eyes and the stinging sensation returned to your stomach.
“Hey baby, could you help me really quick?” You hear your nerd’s voice say from across the apartment, he sounded like he was in the bedroom, but you waddled your way back there and didn’t see him anywhere.
“Peter?” you called out from him, but you were met with an awkward sound from across the hallway. The sound was coming from the nursery. As you tip toed that way, you realized that the door was propped open. you cautiously pushed the it open and saw a happy scene.
Peter was standing in from of a crib that he somehow put together without any assistance from you. He was holding a little lamb stuffed animal in his arms, you started to feel the tears in your eyes. This curly haired boy was doing everything you could have ever asked him to do, he was being caring, he was being sweet, and he was putting himself aside for your baby.
“You did this by yourself? When did you have time? I’ve literally been with you since you got home from the hospital.”
“Well Ned and MJ came over and did it for me, but I found this lamb from some of the stuff May gave me. It was my favorite toy until I was in kindergarten and I wanted my son to have it”
And for a moment everything was okay, but as you’ve probably heard before, nothing gold can stay.
A few days later, you woke easily for the first time, you felt happy. I mean this wasn’t even something you’d have thought you could feel after all the horrible things that seemed to be happening to you left and right.
Your bed was warm, but the warmest thing was your heart. You opened your eyes to see Peter laying there with a smile on his face. His eyes were peacefully closed, so you knew he was asleep. You watched him closely, trying to take in every part of him that looked happy, because he did, look happy that was. His face was showing his true youth, not the stressed-out teen that was becoming a dad and had to act like an adult. You watched his chest raise and fall.
But it wasn’t, it wasn’t raising and falling. It was still, unmoving, lifeless even. You waited for seconds, minutes for his chest to move before you started to feel a nauseating feeling, you wanted to cry but for some reason you couldn’t. You felt numb to the entire world, but then again, your entire world was just taken from you. Your heart feel to your toes as it was smooched and cracked, trying to spare itself from the pain. But it was inevitable,
Peter Parker, the love of your life, was taken from you. He had died.
~
The funeral had come and gone, all of your friends were there. So many people said so many nice things, they talked about how much they loved Peter, how much he effected their lives. They even mentioned how much they loved and wanted to be there for you.
Within the following weeks, your baby was born. The best part was, it wasn’t a boy, it was a beautiful baby girl. She had brunette hair and beautiful brown eyes she also had Peter’s nose, everything he wanted in his daughter. She was a happy baby, constantly laughing and making you happy, but she reminded you of Peter with each growing day. But to be honest, you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
You kept your promise to Peter, that you would name your child after his family to you did. You even asked his brother Ned to be the godfather of the beautiful baby girl.
Benny May Parker
You used his uncle’s name as well as his aunt’s name, hoping that as he watched over them, he would be proud of your choice in naming your daughter.
As time went on, you were happy, but you were never happy with anyone that wasn’t Benny or Peter, but you had your family, Aunt May and the guys. But it still wasn’t the same.
why you may be asking?
Because nothing good, pure, happy and sweet, can stay.
~~~~~
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Autumn - A short story
Summer wakes her with a kiss. The kiss is cold like morning dew but Summer’s heart is warm. She knows this. She knows because they have danced this same dance together. Year after year after year. Longer than either of them can remember. Summer wakes her with a kiss and she opens her eyes to Summer’s face. Her red lips. Her sun-bleached hair. The wrinkles at her eyes when she laughs and takes her hand.
Summer wakes her with a kiss as the late morning sun shines through dirty windows. Coffee is brewing somewhere. The cat is still asleep. Rolled up in a ball of black fur. Soon, he will open his orange eyes and they will walk together.
Summer’s cat is ancient by now. A fat old tomcat stretching in the morning sun. She cannot tell if Summer has the same cat every year, or if she picks up a new ginger stray at every maypole. But here he is, year after year. Stretching his body and trotting after them as they walk down the street. Her own, young black cat is full of energy still. He disappears for hours catching mice and birds in the long afternoons. But he is always there, always close, following her steps wherever she goes.
Summer wakes her with a kiss and takes her hand. And for a while they walk through the city together. Summer, always barefoot, getting goosebumps in her sundress when they embrace on train platforms and while sipping coffee on park benches watching the ducks. The late summer breeze turning colder day by day.
Summer wears her hair loose and her smile bright and her kisses taste like strawberries. In her youth she is roses and sunshine and the soft, blue waves. She is the long grass swaying in the wind and the tips of the willow’s branches playing with the river. Even when she is old and tired and fading away she shines still golden with her laughter. She lounges on long afternoons rocking slowly back and forth in her yellow rocking chair as clouds move over the blue skies. Even when her face is tanned and weathered and worn and her smiles make crinkles in her skin. Even then, she still sings softly under her breath. Her voice carrying like a stream through mountains as she picks flowers for her hair. And everywhere Summer goes, so does her cat. He is slow and warm and steady. He will lick your finger and roll on his back so you can scratch his fluffy tummy. But just like Summer he will change his mind within a heartbeat and hiss at you.
Summer has a temper. She will love you and she will smile but she will shout and cry and scream. She is the thunder in the night and the clouds bursting rain upon the fields. She is the forest roaring in an August storm. She will drown you if you let her but she will always dry you again.
Summer is easy to love and she likes i that way. She is a giver and a carer and she wants to be adored, but she is not one to laugh at.
Summer wakes her with a kiss, cold as morning dew. She wakes her with a kiss and takes her hand, and for a while they dance together as the apples ripen and the wheat is harvested. As the sea caresses the beach and coats begin to colour the streets.
For a while they dance together but Summer is weary and old. Her bones are growing cold and her fingers growing stiff. She watches the sun set earlier and earlier as the days pass and one day she smiles a sad, tired smile and she lays herself down to sleep.
Summer wakes her with a kiss but soon she is alone again.
She doesn’t need a name. When people ask her she will make something up, but they seldom do. She could have called herself Autumn, Autumno, Anonna or even Phthinoporon. Here they call her Herbst but that does not matter. In other places they know her as Sügis or Fómhar or Höst. It does not matter because she has been here longer than them and she knows who she is. She does not need a name. She has many names and none and their words are only fleeting.
She prefers to go unnoticed. She dresses in browns and reds and yellows, she wears her boots with flat soles and her lips with no colour. She lets her hair grow wild, catching autumn leaves in her thick, black curls as they hug the shoulders of her coat.
Summer likes to be adored and Winter wants to be admired. Spring wants to be awaited and longed for and praised at her arrival. But her. She prefers a quiet existence.
She is books in cafes and warm drinks enjoyed outside. She is the autumn breeze running through the streets. In her youth she is fast and fierce and fearless. She is the storms ripping up ancient trees and the rain hammering on windows. But she is also the warm, golden autumn sun. Dancing across the city squares and reflecting in the painted windows of churches. She is a soft breeze in the trees and the drizzle of a quiet rain.
When she begins her work the city is a contrast of grey concrete and green trees. By the time she is done it will be dark trees and grey concrete. It will be cold winds and warm boots but that is for the one who comes after her. In her time, she is golden and she paints the city to match. She is the golden light of the sun reflecting on shop windows. She is long, warm afternoons and the people drinking coffee on street cafés saying that perhaps summer hasn’t quite left them yet. She is early nights and dark ones and she is the flowers wilting. She crowns every tree with a halo of gold and she turns the parks into a rainbow of green, gold and red. Hers is the golden hour and she stretches it to last for a month.
She wakes up young in September. Her skin is smooth and her steps are light. Her eyes are bright and her laughter is in the wings of geese flying south high above the city. In her youth she is distracted. Wandering here and there. Leaning close to Summer in the passing breeze and kissing her cheek with soft lips.
In the beginning she is slow and inconsistent. She brings a bit of cold and she brings an early night. She touches leaves when she fancies and watches them turn gold at her touch. She lets the sunflowers wither and the winds pick up. She breathes in the salt sea air and blows it out of her mouth like a storm. They watch her wind flow down the streets picking up leaves and making them dance. It makes Summer laugh and that is why she does it.
Then, Summer leaves her and she is alone. She is older and stronger and larger somehow. Her skin is thick and her hands are rough. She seizes the clouds with her fists and she turns them dark and broody. She spreads out her arms and spins around her self again and again and again whirling up a wind and sends it down the city streets. She laughs to herself when the people close their coats and huddle from the rain. She sings strong and fast and loud as her breath blows the rain against the windows and turns their umbrellas inside out. By the end, she is tired. Her hands are wrinkled and rough and her skin is thin like paper. When she sees her face in the puddles she create, she hardly knows who she is. The cat too, is growing older, greyer. He is slower somehow. Walking in her footsteps on his soft, soundless paws. She knows it is like this every year and it does not matter. Next year she will wake up again. Fresh as the morning dew with Summer by her side.
This is the way it has been for years and years without end. She does not remember the first time nor will there ever be a last. This is the way it has always been, but these days something is different.
These days Summer is briefer and angrier and dryer. She sets forests on fire and she whips up storms against the coasts. These days Winter is longer and fiercer and clings on to the land like a plague. The two are always fighting and screaming and crying. These days Spring can hardly carve out of month for herself. Spring who was always shy and timid and kind who now wakes up too early and only for her flower buds to freeze and die. These days. These past years.
Something is different.
She can taste it in the air and see it in the skies. She sees the scars of smoke the planes leave on her clear October skies. She sees the smog from cars obscuring the warm autumn sun. She sees the plastic among the leaves and the oil slushing in the waves against the cliffs. She stands on a street corner and watches the cars drive buy. The smoke from their exhaust pipes puffing out and upwards in clouds. She watches the humans with their eyes down and their headphones in. She watches them not seeing anything.
In her youth, years ago, these streets were fields. She would sweep in golden and bountiful. The skies were wide and blue and she would bless the crops with her fingertips as she passed. The people would dance and sing and drink in her honour and she would join them. She remembers dancing in barns with flowers in her hair. Her long black curls falling soft around her shoulders. Back then, things were different.
Now the people do not see. They do not care. They move in flocks and they keep their eyes down. They fight and shout and kill and cry while their planet crumbles around them. While their planet burns and drowns and freezes over, they walk on. She stands there. Silently watching as night falls and sun rises. She stands. Clenched fists and tired eyes and she feels the anger growing inside her. It whirls around her like a hurricane. At first, it is only on the inside. Then, it starts picking up leaves. She forgets herself and let’s it spread. Wind howling around her. Clouds gathering over her head dark and thick and angry. Rain falling hard on her shoulders and her hair. The cat hisses and hides under her coat, his fur already wet with rain. Her anger so hot and busy she does not care that people are turning to look. Ripping their gazes from their phones to watch at she gathers a storm around her.
“Let them watch” she thinks. “Let them see my anger”. “Let them feel my rage” she mutters under her breath as she sends a whirlwind down the street, letting the clouds grow and rise until they embrace the whole city. Perhaps this will wake them up.
Her rage is swift and sudden. It sweeps over the city and she has no mercy left in her now. The trains stop running and the busses stand still on the roads. The people hurry from their offices and into their homes. She rips up trees in the parks and hurls them on the ground. She pushes over fences and signs and she sends them flying down the street. She darkens the skies and turns the roads into rivers.
She watches an umbrella being torn from the hands of a man in a suit. He puts his briefcase over his head and runs. Hiding from the rain and the storm. Hiding from her rage. She hears herself laughing as his umbrella tumbles down the street.
Perhaps this will remind him of how it used to be. Perhaps tonight he will tell his children how autumn used to be different. How she used to be kind and warm and generous. Perhaps. Perhaps he will remember she thinks. But humans forget things so easily.
The rain is hammering on the windows of shops and on the roofs of cars. She is standing there soaked to the bone in her anger and she feels the energy seeping out of her. She wakes up young in September and her skin is smooth and her laughter is warm. Now, she has no laughter left in her. Now she is tired and old and she feels the first frost biting at her bones.
She sighs and the rain is but a drizzle, running down the street. The storm is clinging to the air but it is quieter now. Perhaps the people will see. Perhaps they will remember. She does not know and by now she is too tired to care. Perhaps there is nothing she can do to make them see.
Afterwards the rumours will talk of how the storm started. Of how some people say they saw an old lady with an angry cat. Standing at a crossroads with her arms raised and anger written in her face. With wild eyes and fire in her veins. Some will say she summoned a storm and some will say she calmed it down. Some will have watched her stand there for days and know that she did both. But they will not understand. Some will say they watched her grow older as the storm passed over her heard. That they watched her eyes grow tired and her back bend. That they watch the energy flow out of her as the rain flowed down the streets.
Afterwards, people will say that this was the night winter arrived and they are not wrong.
When she wakes from her rage the sun is creeping over the horizon in a frozen mist. The world is bleak in this morning. Covered in frost. Pale and timid and hushed. Shivering under the cars and the hurried boot prints of dawn as she walks through the streets. She can smell the first snow in the air and she knows that she is close.
She walks slowly down the streets, as the last leaves let go of their branches. Her knees ache and her feet are cold. Her skin wrinkles and her fingers are stiff when she pulls on her gloves. She knows it is time.
She is close.
And then, she turns around a corner and she sees her standing there. Leaning against the wall of an alleyway. With her long, white coat and her black army boots, smoking a cigarette with her eyes to the sky. Her white Persian cat lounging over her shoulder like a collar. The first snow flakes melting in its fur. She is all youth and defiance now and she is happy to see her.
Winter embraces her, bends down and kisses her forehead, then her lips. They lock eyes and she knows she did her turn.
She can rest now.
Thank you for reading. If you want more. You can find more of my stories here.
This story was part of my 12 stories project and for this one I wanted to try something a little different. I tried to give this more of a feel of mythology or legend than my usual stories. Which is also why this doesn’t have any dialogue or a plot like I’d usually do. Hope it worked ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
You can read more about my 12 stories project here. Again. Thanks for reading. Feel free to share, comment, whatever floats your boat - it’s all appreciated.
Also. Fun Fact. This story was more or less entirely inspired by this picture of a cat.
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Car Paint Repair – Why Paint Goes Bad And How To fix It
Even when it’s sitting on the new car lot, your vehicle’s paint is under duress. Unless the car is hidden indoors a car paint repair is inevitable. Everything from the sun beating down to manmade stresses threatens a car’s shine in Madison WI.
The No. 1 cause of automotive paint going bad is UV radiation from the sun. I does more harm in a short period than you think possible. Whenever your vehicle is parked in the sun the paint is undergoing a chemical reaction. Add dirt, grit and environmental pollutants and the problems multiply in hurry.
The quality of the original paint – or new paint applied sometime in the past – influences how it protects, too. As it ages, paint oxidizes – it fades, peels and disintegrates.
5 Causes Leading To Car Paint Repair
There are five major conditions that lead to a visit to an auto body paint shop:
Delamination
Peeling
Fading
Scratches
Rust
Beneath this road salt and grime your vehicle’s paint is being damaged every day.
When layers of clear coat start peel off is called delamination. It starts small and spreads like a rash. It is the result of poor paint during a repair or from extended exposure to the sun. The best way to avoid it is parking indoors or at least in the shade whenever possible.
It takes considerable wear or damage for paint to actually peel. Dings and damage to clear coat opens the surface. Repairing and repainting dings and sheet metal damage as soon as possible it the best prevention.
Exposure to the sun and Wisconsin weather causes your car’s finish to look dull. The shine is lost. UV rays in addition to pollution fades the paint. Regular washing and routine waxing are the best steps to reduce fading.
Storms, flying debris and folks not paying attention in parking lots all contribute to the collection of scratches on your vehicle. Your driving and parking habits help to reduce the threat of scratches. Unfortunately you cannot control the action of others or Mother Nature.
The biggest attacker of car paint is rust. Dings and scratches open wounds in the clear coat and paint. Moisture works in and rust follows. A good wash and wax and keeping your vehicle out of the weather as often as possible is the best protection.
Keep Car Paint In Top Condition
What’s the most popular paint job on new cars? These are the basics – add black, of course.
A sharp-looking ride makes a great first impression. It makes you feel good to get into a clean, shining car, truck or SUV. Paying attention to details and keeping the paint in prime shape is worth it to protect your investment, right?
Neglect the car’s paint and it grows duller and duller. Even if your car’s paint job has begun to fade it isn’t too late to get the shine back. Paint selection and paint restoration is an art form backed by science. It takes a skilled professional to get it right.
If you’re enjoying a classic car it may have been coated with a single-stage paint job. Early automotive paints were thin and easily damaged. About 40 years ago manufacturers switched to two-stage systems – using a basecoat and a clear coat. Two-stage painting is more durable and environmentally-friendly.
Old-style or modern paint, no car’s surface lasts without proper care:
Regular car washes and detailing – get the outside of the vehicle clean. Remove all dirt, debris and corrosives. Road salt in winter is a huge problem. Oil, bugs and drippings from trees – sap and pollen – add to the chemical threats.
Remove contaminants – even a good wash may not remove oil, road grime, tar, splattered bugs and other chemicals. If left untreated these elements get baked onto the clear coat. Bonded the surface they’re hard to remove. Detailing clay is an option as are several commercially available cleaning products. If the contaminants are thick or baked on, the best choice is a skilled, trained professional technician.
Polish and protect – buff over tiny scratches and swirl marks with high-quality car polish. If you are serious about keeping your car – or several vehicles – polished, invest in a rotary polisher.
Car Paint Isn’t All Alike
If it is too late to buff and polish your car’s paint to a factory shine car paint repair is the next step. A professional painter is an artist when it comes to making old car’s look new and blending new paint with old. The process of repainting a car, truck or SUV is complicated. And there are several steps and several options. The process includes:
Preparation – custom car painting begins with primers, usually a flat gray color. Primer helps fresh paint stick to the surface. Professional painters’ primers keep moisture away from metal, too. An added level of protection from rust and oxidation.
Basic paints – the base coat paint is the source of color. It doesn’t have specialized hardeners and does not go on with a glossy shine.
Clear coats – just as it sounds, clear coat adds no color but it does protect the base paint and adds shine. Most are chemical preparations that are flexible enough to work on plastic parts. Clear coats are also UV inhibitors to help prevent fading from the sun.
Those are the basics of auto body painting. But there are more custom options that include:
Custom metallic finishes – metal-flake looks for extra sparkle
Chameleon paints – blends that allow the car to “change color” in different light
Acrylics – available as enamel and lacquers they are not factory-applied these days. They’re one-stage paints that go on without basecoat or clear coat. Enamel is rare. Lacquers are more popular for antique and classic cars. They are really high gloss but don’t protect the finish like modern paints.
Car Paint Repair Or All-new Color?
Some colors are everywhere you look. Some are rare. The International Carwash Association asked which paint colors are easiest to keep looking like new. No surprise, black is the most difficult to keep clean. The new high-gloss whites are a close second. Gray and silver get higher grades for keeping clean and not showing dirt. If you’re planning to repaint with the same color you have made your choice. If not, consider these paint color options:
Classic black – literally the hottest color for any vehicle because it heats the interior when parked in the sun. It shows every paint flaw and even the slightest coating of dust or dirt. On the other hand, nothing looks sharper than a freshly washed and waxed black vehicle.
Modern white – while each manufacturer has a different name for its white paint, they all fall into the same ranking. White is forgiving when it comes to dust and takes less effort to keep it clean – at least keep it looking clean. That’s probably why white is one of the top 3 colors for new cars.
Silver– here is the No. 1 color for new vehicles. Light enough that it doesn’t show dust but darker than white so it doesn’t show road grime as quickly. A good choice to avoid extreme heating from the sun, too.
Metallic gray– about halfway between light colors like silver and the dark hues. Easy care and considered elegant.
Champaign, taupe and tan – more mid-tones that don’t show dirt and grime. Basically the color of dust, they go a long time before people noticing dirt.
Light Blue – Not a “hot” color, light blue not too dark or not too light.
Bold Automotive Paint Color Choices
There’s a trend toward bold, bright colors – harking back to the muscle cars of the 1970s—1980s. Darker colors other than black include:
Dark blue – Not as difficult to maintain as black but similar with all the same concerns – including the same emotional response when it’s detailed and shining.
Dark green – needs the same loving care as any other dark color.
Maroon and burgundy – a rich metallic burgundy reflects a classic look. Burgundy and maroon paint jobs absorb UV rays and show flaws in paint surfaces.
Red and orange – bright red and orange are the colors of speed and sport. Is it true red cars get pulled over more than any other color – no, but it generates strong emotion. Red is much easier to maintain than most other dark colors and provides less heat transfer. Professionals advise that red paint may have more different pigments in it so matching paint can be difficult.
When You’re Ready For Car Paint Repair
With each new model year car-makers come out with new colors – some have three or four names for white and black! Each has its pros and cons. What’s new in paints is less important to car owners dealing with dings, dents and aging paint. Matching existing paint jobs, taking into account fading and weathering is more important. You don’t want your car to have two fenders with different shades of paint, right?
AutoColor painting professionals are experienced and keep up with the latest technology. When your car, truck or SUV needs paint touch up or you want an all-new look, visit our Madison area locations – West on Parmenter Road in Middleton and East on Stoughton Road. Or call AutoColor and take advantage of our facilities and technicians to protect or restore your ride with the best car paint repair in the Madison WI area.
Paint Repair Services
https://autocolorwi.com/car-paint-repair-why-paint-goes-bad-and-how-to-fix-it/
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Menocore is the New Normcore, and It’s a Lot More Comfortable
http://fashion-trendin.com/menocore-is-the-new-normcore-and-its-a-lot-more-comfortable/
Menocore is the New Normcore, and It’s a Lot More Comfortable
The other day I found myself fantasizing about moving into a lighthouse. In this not uncommon fantasy of mine, I am rocking a breezy yet put-together white outfit, the perfect menocore ensemble. Early summer is the perfect time to get into your 2000-present day Diane Keaton inspired looks, so I figured this post deserved to fill your feeds once again. Originally published in July of 2017 it is a timeless beauty, much like a good pair of linen pants. – Nora
All I want is to dress like Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give right now.
The realization dawned on me as I surveyed my closet at the beginning of summer. After a few weeks of mulling it over, I decided to pitch it as a style story.
“I want to style three looks inspired by the aesthetic of a middle-aged woman on a low-key beach vacation,” I said. “You know: lots of linen, tiny spectacle sunglasses, maybe a bucket hat, cozy knits, everything super flowy…” My voice trailed off as I searched my coworkers’ faces for a flicker of recognition.
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“So many people are getting into that Eileen Fisher aesthetic lately,” said Amelia.
“Yes!” I said. “Exactly! It’s kind of a thing right now, right?”
“Maybe that’s why I keep dressing like a retired masseuse,” said Leandra. “Drawstring linen pants, open button-downs…”
“Yeah, very relaxed,” I said. “Unselfconscious-cool. Picture a 50-something-year-old woman who doesn’t care what other people think and just wants to be supremely comfortable.”
“Is this the new normcore?” Haley asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m trying to think of how to describe it in that same vein. Middle-aged…menopausal…Menocore??”
The name stuck. Every time one of us walked into the office wearing an outfit resembling that of a mom in a Nancy Meyers movie or an eccentric ceramicist exiting her beach house studio or Blythe Danner on a solo bird-watching expedition in 1997, someone would inevitably say, “Well, well, well. Aren’t you looking menocore today?”
Sup
A post shared by Anna Z Gray (@annazgray) on May 2, 2017 at 9:38am PDT
I started seeing menocore everywhere. I became obsessed with documenting it. My bookmarks folder on Instagram overflowed with evidence: billowy pants sporting elasticized waist bands, head-to-toe ecru, well-loved market bags, loose tops with bold prints, exposed bras, clunky sandals or sneakers, loose ponytails secured with scrunchies, a porcelain bowl of freshly-cut pineapple sitting on rumpled white bedsheets, jewelry that looked like something a kid might make in art class, unapologetic sun protection for unapologetic sun protection’s sake, tarnished gold barrettes and sequins just for the fun of it.
Like normcore, menocore isn’t tied to a particular designer or brand, but unlike normore, it doesn’t have an obvious uniform — no boxy jeans + turtleneck + clogs formula. Yet under the umbrella of menocore exists two archetypes: On one side of the spectrum, there’s the very neutral, head-to-toe white linen, rolled-up khaki pant cuffs, life-on-the-beach vibe propagated by middle-aged style icons like Diane Keaton, Whoopi Goldberg and Lauren Hutton. On the other side of the spectrum, there’s the tropical print, silk cargo pocket, plastic bead jewelry, clashing print, cerulean satin jogger pant, waistless kaftan-wearing vibe espoused by the likes of Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele, Miuccia Prada and Lucinda Chambers. Current pre-menopausal aficionados of the first look include Lucia Zolea, Nella Beljan, Subrina Heyink and Virginia Calderón; of the second: Frewa Wewer and Laurel Pantin.
“For me, the look is a sort of shapeless dress that shows my décolletage (I will always love a little cleavage), my massive jumble of gold and sentimental necklaces, flat strappy sandals and semi-frizzy hair,” said Pantin, Editorial & Fashion Director at The Coveteur. “I like the term menocore. When I’m shopping, I definitely have a mental image of an older Italian woman who wears a lot of Marni, Dries, classic shirts unbuttoned low, LOTS of old, gold jewelry and a big, overgrown garden.”
Menocore is by no means limited to these stylistic personas, though. I see plenty of outfits that combine them, and that’s what I tried to do while styling the shoot inside this feature. I think of them more as the minimalist and maximalist points on either end of menocore’s all-encompassing rainbow, with lots of variation and individual interpretation happening in between.
What I love most about the movement is how it pays long-overdue homage to an age bracket that is often ignored by the fashion industry. Our attention to youth has always been very much intact, and the octogenarian subset joined the zeitgeist awhile ago thanks to icons like Iris Apfel and blogs like Advanced Style, leaving women in the middle relatively invisible. Menocore is finally giving them the spotlight they deserve.
“Growing up, my mom was always my barometer of taste, always focusing on great pieces rather than trends,” said stylist Danielle Nachmani, who frequently incorporates what I would call signature menocore items into her shoots — bucket hats, thick gold hoops, khaki pants, linen blazers, etc. If the normcore-fueled proliferation of mom jeans was an ode to the clothes our mothers wore in their 20s, menocore is a tribute to the clothes they wear now. And it’s not just a fashion statement — it’s a mood. Or, at the very least, a projection of one.
“Menocore is such a great term for this,” designer Lucy Akin said when I reached out to her over email. Akin is the creator of Ciao Lucia, a brand new, California-based label I flagged during my research. “Fashion is reflecting our need for an escape from our current reality,” she said. “When the state of the world, or the political climate, feels uncertain, it’s only logical that we would want our clothing reflect ease, maturity and confidence. I turn 30 next year, and with Ciao Lucia, I was channeling an older version of myself who has life a little more figured out. My goal was to make a collection that felt happy and calm, with classic silhouettes and flowy fabrics. The overall look is timeless, comforting and comfortable.”
I agree that this movement goes beyond clothing, which is why I mentioned that photo of freshly-cut pineapple sitting on rumpled white bedsheets in my aforementioned list of examples — not because of what it was (chopped pineapple is not particularly remarkable), but rather, because of what is was not. It was not some trendy frozen cauliflower smoothie, or chia parfait dusted with ashwaganda powder. It wasn’t something that took hours to make, or something that ascribes to “shoulds.” It was something a mom might prepare as a snack for her kid or for herself, and therein lies the sweetness – literal and figurative.
Like the bowl of pineapple, the style element of menocore is also defined by what it is not: trendy, prescribed, price-dependent, impersonal. It started off the runway, propagated by regular people just living their lives and dressing in clothes that made them feel like the best versions of themselves (regardless of trend or designer name). Now that its begun to proliferate across industry darlings, indie designers and social media “inspo” accounts, I wouldn’t be surprised to find traces of menocore finding its way onto the runway, ever-so-subtly, come September fashion week.
“People are gravitating toward a simpler way of life in general,” Marie Dewet told me. She and her mother are the co-founders of Maison Cleo, one of the small, fledgling labels that, like Ciao Lucia, I consider representative of the menocore movement (and also a product of it, to some extent). “Not just with the clothes we wear, but also with the food we eat, the way we decorate our homes, the way we live our lives. “The thing about simplicity is that it doesn’t have to be boring, or even minimalist. It’s more about stripping away the noise.”
New York Magazine called normcore, “The aesthetic return to styles [we] would’ve worn as kids reads like a reset button—going back to a time before adolescence, before we learned to differentiate identity through dress.” In fascinating contrast, menocore is the aesthetic leap to styles we would embrace as middle-aged women, taking us forward in time to a more marinated version of our selves, our mothers and our world.
Or, I don’t know…maybe we all just wanted to start wearing comfier pants.
Photos by Edith Young. Modeled by Hema Barbosa of MSA Models; follow Hema and MSA Models on Instagram @gemzb_ and @msamodels.
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Why Old Fashioned Record Player Vinyl Is Back
We know that old-fashioned record player vinyl discs have become ever more popular and product sales have leaped dramatically. They have boosted in quantity through the years, but what makes vinyl records so well received for years following the CD player to become the convention intended for music experiencing? Indeed, disc jockeys have existed for some time; however, entry to vinyl is now more accessible.
Appealing To Flourishing DJ's More prominent labels are bringing in low-cost turntables which have been successful in attracting to flourishing DJ's to an environment where the entrance cost had not too long ago been excessive. Records are being used by DJ's because of the convenience of (scratch) and outstanding audio track quality. With newbie jockeys searching for vinyl, their particular revenue has improved.
Treasured By Collectors And Artists In a place where the sole portrayal of a music compilation filed on a hard disk drive or perhaps an Mp3 music player, individuals are getting back to records because of their compilation status. Compact disks in their inexpensive clear plastic cases are just no comparison to vinyl disc in their gorgeous sizeable sleeves. The colored vinyl has enjoyed an element in the surge in interest in vinyl.
Vinyl Record Aura With Music Lovers Additionally, there is the component of obtaining rare vinyl records and having the ability to create a collection which usually will increase in worth as it matures. There has been that atmosphere with vinyl player discs that is challenging to concentrate on the reasons why nevertheless vinyl records are just amazing and well-liked by music fans just about everywhere.
Audiophiles Choice For Audio Competence
Ease Of Mobility And Delicate Aspect Of Vinyl
Innovating From Vinyl To New Music CD's
Just How To Thoroughly Clean Your Vinyl
Manage Your Vinyl Discs With Self-Respect
Masterpiece Of Structure Vinyl Records
Scratches, Finger-Prints And Jumping
Sensitive Treatment Of Your Needle Stylus
Stir-Up Reminiscence Of A Bygone Period
The More Mature Record Player Turntables
Vinyl Discs Dedicated To Their Acoustics
Vinyl Susceptible To Twist And Degeneration
Audiophiles Choice For Sound Caliber For audiophiles, there is no question that vinyl is the least expensive, but most straightforward way to gain access to top quality music. Superior quality songs in digital file format are difficult to find. However, vinyl records happen to be relatively numerous. Mp3 format utilizes a significant amount of compression, which usually decreases the standard of the audio - frequencies are 'complete' with vinyl discs.
Mp3 Format Download Keys Offered People young and old take pleasure in the ease of Mp3 music, nonetheless frequently require a 'hard-copy' on their tracks on top of that. Track record businesses have handled this by integrating a download key within the record to ensure that individuals can purchase the album, after that use the internet to download it to iPod devices.
Blues And Soul Character of Sound There's probably no more excellent way to take pleasure in the ambiance of blues and soul LP's when on a top quality record turntable. Enthusiasts of vinyl declare the method incorporates a character to which usually digital tracks fall way short.
Ignite Reminiscence Of A Bygone Era The era collecting vinyl in the seventies and eighties are actually at a minimum into their 50's now. A number of these individuals have kept on to their vinyl disc LP's across the years, and after participating in their old records recognized the miracles of analog recording. It's simple to purchase into the buzz of digital multi-media, but since increasing numbers of people return to the album, they picked up as children, desire for a vinyl disc is being reignited in the elderly as well.
Vinyl Discs Committed To Their Sound A bizarre factor to draw people is seeing that participating in tracks nowadays is as convenient as pressing some control on an Mp3 music player and getting songs as simple as clicking on the switch. The relative complexity of the vinyl disc is getting persons more committed to their sounds. The additional care associated with taking good care of vinyl is making persons bother about their audio tracks.
Masterpiece Of Design Vinyl Records The music market has moved continuously toward singles becoming the main cash producers. Mp3 format has made it possible for this by merely showing nibble proportioned very easily digestible bits of tracks that position to playlists with any mp3 music player. Individuals are getting back to vinyl records as they present an entire masterpiece of design, instead of a 'created for the wider public' money maker.
Scrapes Finger-Prints And Jumping In the event you are of sufficient age to remember vinyl, you understand there were a few vinyl record quality conditions that you handled, which included scrapes, fingerprints, and jumping. In the present day, you are unable to discover vinyl records until you enter into a few more mature music shops, and they almost all utilized them.
Evolving From Vinyl To Compact Discs Together with the evolving compact discs and digital video disks, this was high quality compared to the old vinyl, nevertheless, is it? The concept evolving from disc to CD and the audio speaker devices also progressed. Consequently, nobody that utilized the music records whenever they were well-known had the very best stereo system speakers.
Beautiful Waveform Of The Acoustics Vinyl had the tones grooved directly onto them, which in turn permitted for it to reflect the initial waveform of the acoustics. The track records allowed one to listen to the music when recorded, with little or nothing dropped when provided with audio speakers, and they will not require transforming because it is analog styled.
Vinyl Caliber Better Since Its Raw Analog Compact discs alternatively require a digital recording which usually changes the record to the analog platform, which is observed developing from your audio speaker. Precisely the same procedure occurs with digital video disks; nevertheless, the vinyl level of quality is considerably better since it is raw analog and will not drop the sound quality which the (DVD and CD) accomplish.
DVD Sound Discs Enhancing Quality If there have been only pieces of vinyl combined with the excellent speaker products, the audio would be much nearer to the initial recording. The music sector understands the situation and has a brand new way of enhancing the level of quality on equally the compact and digital video disks. The primary objective nevertheless is within the DVD superior class, however, are known as DVD sound discs.
Portability And Sensitive Nature Of Vinyl Vinyl disc superior quality is preferable to CD's once analog is likened side-by-side; nevertheless, it is not returning to vinyl just because there happen to be a few main drawbacks to music vinyl. The associated proportions, non-portability, as well as the sensitive nature of the records. Additionally, the market will make improvements to the method by which is alters recordings towards the CD or perhaps DVD.
The Older Record Player Turntables In case you still possess some of your vinyl, not to mention an older record turntable, you should turn it on and hear the sound quality compared to compact discs. It almost certainly has been such a long time since you listened to the music you may have overlooked. The vinyl quality will become familiar again with the digital recordings we hear in the present day.
Caring For Your Precious Vinyl Whenever keeping your vinyl secure, it is best to store discs top to bottom. By merely following head to bottom, there is undoubtedly much less stress on the record, making sure they do not flex as time passes. Vinyl must not be held flat, specifically under a stack of additional vinyl. The excess weight triggers harm to the grooves, deteriorating the audio level of quality.
Vinyl Vulnerable To Twist And Deterioration Vinyl discs indeed should not be permitted to lean as well. Tilting could force it to twist, and you may think about the problems this triggers. Avoid storing records excessively snugly, even top to bottom because this likewise places force on the grooves, deforming all of them in time. Discs must also be kept in a much colder part of your home. Warmth causes the records to get much softer, vulnerable to twisting and deterioration. You must never place your vinyl in proximity to a window or heating unit.
Handle Your Vinyl Discs With Dignity Be careful to keep vinyl far from moisture as dampness ultimately triggers mold to increase, which could lead to problems for your record and cover sleeves. Handle your vinyl disc with dignity. Avoid throwing it inside your cellar for years and hope for them to turn out looking fine.
Record Dirt Fluff And Grime Issues The vinyl disc must not be stored beyond its lining or sleeve, as this will contribute to the record becoming dirty with fluff and a whole lot more vulnerable to scrapes. Dirt and grime are among the most critical issues that scrape vinyl. Furthermore on dirt and grime creating deterioration, uncovered the sun's ultraviolet rays could destroy plastic.
Delicate Handling Of Your Needle Stylus Whenever managing your vinyl, precisely the same guidelines follow just like compact disks. Make sure you control the record only by its sides. Avoid getting reckless with the album at your fingertips because if this drops, you might result in a severe scrape, leading to the disc record to jump.
In the event, you don't have an automated record player turntable, be delicate with the needle stylus and don't place it down excessively heavily. Be aware while the record plays and do not move the record turntable. Whenever you're finished playing the album, you must bring it back it to the sleeve.
How You Can Fully Clean Your Vinyl Disc Continuing to keep your vinyl disc sparkling is one of the best ways to make sure your record collection will sound lovely for several years. When finished hearing a record, clean with a carbon fiber soft brush engineered for disc records. These types of brushes are ideal for eliminating small contaminants of dust particles and fluff. Additionally, they possess an inclination to de-static a vinyl record, minimizing jumps and hissing, etc.
Purified Water And Alcohol Solution More often than not, cleaning is all you will need to perform to maintain records extra healthy. Whenever your vinyl records get filthy, it's wise to wash them. Cleaning records do not need to be overdone if you take care of your discs; nevertheless, it's not an awful idea annually if you focus on a disc more than a couple of instances in that 12 months.
As you clean a disc record, the objective is to clear away dirt, particles and also other debris. You need to apply a particular kind of cleanser. Presently, there is numerous merchandise out there that are suitable for washing records, but quite a few are costly and rare to find. If you have some purified water and isopropyl alcohol, you can perform an excellent job cleaning vinyl.
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Zombification of Innovation?
by Glen Hendrix
We are clever. I'll grant us that. If you don't' think so, look at this coverage of technical exploits from 2012.
Yet some people complain about the pace of innovation, saying we've reached a plateau and there's not much new under the sun. They are wrong, but it's not their fault. They just can't help themselves. Don't blame lead in the water or genetically modified food or too much television.
True, it's not a target-rich environment for innovation anymore. The days of Marconi, Edison and Tesla are gone. We know about the electromagnetic spectrum and we've seen the light on nuclear forces. We get telephony morphed into cellular communications. We're nano knowledgeable now. We can turn explosions into torque, grow babies from scratch and see the far reaches of the universe.
One could argue that now it is simply a matter of finesse. Cell phones were a done deal. It took someone like Steve Jobs to do it with such verve and panache that it transformed society. Rockets? Hahahaha! So old school. So why did it take Elon Musk to teach NASA how to get into space for less than $500 per pound.
Electric cars were the future until Ford came along. Once again, kudos to Mr. Musk for taking a mundane form of transportation that's been around over a century and turning it into Motor Trend's 2013 Car of the Year. He's just biding his time with steam cars.
We've mastered the production and distribution of electricity. We posses the miracle of antibiotics, have indoor plumbing, enjoy the magic carpets of airplanes and cars, can talk to anyone on the planet or instantly access the knowledge of the world: What is there left to do? Our productivity per person over the past 200 years has climbed from nearly zero to peak at 3% in the middle of the last century. It has now fallen to 1.33% despite now having a car that drives itself and computers that we can have conversations with. Why can't we invent something to get things going again instead of just tweaking what we've got? It's an illusion.
The reason it seems innovation has stagnated is because the torrid pace of innovation for the last 150 years has set a standard that will never be seen again. It is simply by comparison that we think innovation has flatlined. Mankind has come from animal-fat torches to electric lights in the blink of an eye, historically speaking. We are immersed in it. We can't step outside and look back in objectively at the timeline and say, "My that WAS quick." We have been inoculated against perceiving innovation. That's why when I tell you there is a now a company that can do 3D printing of solid stainless steel, you go "meh."
We are only being less innovative compared to a blistering pace that can never be matched again unless there occurs some sort of singularity moment. Yes, there are exciting advances being made in 3D printing, driverless vehicles, and gesture-based computing; but we are losing sight of what is really important. Despite the fact that innovation is alive and well, there is a void that has left us lacking. There are three critical technology goals that need to be addressed to get past this period of "stagnation" and provide mankind a comfortable, safe, productive future: vast amounts of cheap energy, inexpensive access to space, and lengthening the human lifespan. One of these three turns out to be yet another reason we think our collective cogency has been compromised.
ENERGY:
It's energy. Energy is the choke point, the stricture, the bottle ne...you get the idea. Except for steampunk, energy technology and its implementation has been woefully inadequate to keep up with current and future demands. Quoting from the bigthink article Bits Versus Stuff: Peter Thiel Asks Why Has Innovation Stalled "'we're no longer moving faster,' literally. And part of the reason we don't have things like supersonic commercial jet planes, he says, 'is due to the failure of energy innovation.'" He made this remark at a festival of ideas, The Nantucket Project held in October of 2012, after stating that pessimism has "started to seep into our system." Peter hasn't snapped to the "pessimism" actually being a society-wide perceptual problem but, hopefully, people will listen to him because energy is a problem that needs to be addressed. Remember the Concorde!
Courtesy: Udvar-Hazy Center National Air & Space Museum
All of our technologies depend on energy. Transportation, data processing, manufacturing, heating and cooling; you would be hard-pressed to come up with something that doesn't use energy. Even pressing the button on that remote takes energy. Our lifestyles are a reflection of that energy availability and cost. We can look at the gas pump and see that things aren't like they used to be. Three dollar gas in the U.S. is a symptom of the beginning of, dare I say it, peak oil. Calm down. It's here. Gotta deal with it. Even with less driving and more efficient cars, we will soon max out on what can be economically extracted. This will become a serious buzzkill for the global economy.
Convenience and low cost of fossil fuels have driven our economy up to now. They are so part and parcel that talk of cutting back or replacing them is an invitation for rabid and irrational response. This is despite the increasing awareness that they are intrinsically connected to climate change. We don't just need research here. We need the fossil fuel industry to get on board with going renewable.
The first solar cell was made in 1883. There's enough U-238 for breeder reactors to last 5 billion years. Solar energy hitting the Earth is 20,000 times what humanity currently uses. But we are still building coal plants and still don't have nuclear fusion! The largest solar energy projects in the world are being built in Saudi Arabia. What does that tell you, Exxon? We need cheap, pollution-free energy and lots of it. I hear thinking caps being drug out of cardboard boxes in the attic and dusted off…aaaahchooo. It's a good thing. I'll take some Benadryl. Another recent miracle? 1943.
SPACE:
Yes, there may be 20,000 times the energy currently needed hitting the Earth in the form of sunshine but, believe it or not, we'll outgrow that, as well we should. Are you going to put some limit on our future growth? I thought not. It's all out there. A whole star's worth of sunshine for energy, hydrocarbons for plastic, and water for…well, it's pretty handy. Space = future.
But there is a darker reason we need to get into space.
The first human broadcasts that made it into space were Hitler's broadcast of the 1936 Olympics 77 years ago. We are at the center of a 144 light year diameter bubble filled with our electromagnetic babble. There are less than 500 "G" type stars, those similar to our sun, within this sphere. Chances are slim for E.T. to be on one of them. But as time goes on, that boundary expands. The reason we should be concerned about "others" is what we are capable of doing ourselves, and most of us have never thought of it.
We now have the capability, with off-the-shelf technology, to destroy a planet in another planetary system light years away with relativistic missiles. No, I am not writing this from a padded cell. Combine several NASA HiPEP ion thrusters with a TOPAZ style nuclear reactor, a computer, and a few tons of xenon (all properly armored against cosmic radiation); and you have a weapon that travels for light years and arrives at an appreciable fraction of the speed of light. The Death Star would be envious of this weapon's kinetic punch. What it doesn't destroy, it buries in meters of ash. I've done the math. Hint: force = acceleration x mass; velocity = acceleration x time.
Image of Defense Department employee's id. Image courtesy of DannoGerbil @ deviantArt.com
What does that have to do with humans in space? Well, let me ask another question. How paranoid do you think our defense department really is? Yeah, me too. Maybe I'm projecting, but it wouldn't be a stretch to think some Romulan/Borg type race might come up with this type of weapon as well. The question of whether or not we push into space permanently is like the climate change question. Maybe it is a coincidence that carbon dioxide levels started to spike with the advent of the industrial age and maybe not. If we ignore it and it was a coincidence, we continue our merry existence. If we ignore it and it wasn't a coincidence, we've made a grave error - perhaps fatal. Hopefully, you won't have to make excuses to your grandchildren about your F-650 pickup truck.
The human race, as we physically look now, has been around about 100,000 years. In another 100,000 years "I Love Lucy" will be galaxy-wide. The cat's out of the bag. The can of worm's has been opened. There's cat fur covered worms crawling everywhere and we cannot clean that mess up. If we are going to last another 100,000 years, I suggest we get into space. We will develop new technologies and will not have all our eggs in one basket. Am I preaching to the choir? Sheesh, I'm all out of cliches. Alien kinetic bomb sound far-fetched? Then substitute your favorite disaster: asteroid strike, super volcano, antibiotic-resistant plague, resource wars, kudzu, irradiation by cosmic rays, or settling philosophical differences with nuclear weapons.
Obviously, I'm not talking about a trip to Mars and back. I'm talking about permanent digs. That means an even cheaper means of space travel than what Elon has in mind. Something on the order of a space elevator. Not only would that make space inexpensive, it would provide a stable focus point (the counterbalance in geostationary orbit) and conduit to move power from collectors in orbit down to Earth. Mass goes up, power comes down. More how-to about living in space in a later post.
HUMAN LIFESPAN:
Come on, admit it. If you thought you'd be around for another few hundred years, you'd pay a little more focused attention to what's happening to the environment and your 401k, wouldn't you? Not to mention take a little better care of yourself. That is exactly why research into extending human life is so important. This quarter by quarter planning has to change. Three months does not a future make. If it's not abstract, if we have a physical stake in the future, we will make sure the future is a better place. If you live to 300, who are you shortchanging if you harm the environment or waste precious resources? Uh huh.
Average life expectancy in the U.S. has gone from 47 in 1900 to 78 today. Dramatic, but it is not enough. Science needs to find out why Methuselah could live 969 years and most of us now barely make it to 80. Of course it could be just a Biblical accounting error, but it is still a worthy goal. Long-term planning would become a necessity, a living art form. Profligation would be an aberration rather than a norm. People could have true multiple careers, becoming masters of many areas of expertise - Da Vincis by design rather than accident. Our descendants will ignore prescribed boundaries of erudition, cross-pollinating knowledge bases and multiplying our wisdom in ways we've never dreamed of.
They will do it after they are retired from their 9th career at 637 while jetting around the Solar System planning an "intervention" of the aliens that tried to exterminate us in the year 2432 A.D. with a relativistic kinetic missile.
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Surviving 2016: Year of the Extremes
Nineteen years of existence and I must say, 2016 really was (so far) the most challenging of them all. I’d rather not bore anyone at all with a detailed story of how 2016 made me experience the best of both worlds so here is a glimpse of the highlights of my year in photographs and a short description:
January
Angels Walk for Autism - The ASP annually organizes an event wherein its main goal is to spread both awareness and happiness. It was fun seeing people with autism happily dancing with a big smile on their faces. The sweaty atmosphere sure did give off that euphoric vibe.
Intramuros - It’s been a long time since I last visited Intra. I’ve always wanted to come back now that I’m a bit older and more curious with our history. Luckily, my lola, who worked as a tour guide in her younger years, invited me to go there. It’s nice because as we walk, she always has an interesting fact to tell.
February
DLSUST Psych Swap - If you’re unaware, I had a struggle before in choosing what college to attend to. I ended up going to UST. So when the opportunity to become a lassalian for a day knocked, I didn’t hesitate.
Photo credit: Tina Ocampo
Shiela’s birthday bash @ SUN - During this time while all my friends were getting wasted, I was taking photos using my polaroid. Surprise, surprise, hindi pa ako umiinom nung mga time na ‘to. When my friends and I bought alcohol, she had to buy an ice cream and pizza just for me. Ah, the simple joys in life
Project SAWI - I was the mastermind behind this event and it was my first time. This event gave me the opportunity to talk to Ramon Bautista, Joyce Pring, etc. I was so stressed trying to look for speakers. Unfortunately, they all had a jampacked schedule. It’s Valentine’s, duh. Ate Pat Yulo even assigned me to lead the prayer before the event. I was so nervous that time. Good thing I listened intently, little did I know I was about to face the pitfall of my relationship a few days later.
March
Goodbye, walwal virginity - March 02, 2016 was the very first time I let alcohol in my system. It tasted good but it made my head throb. I felt so dizzy as if my whole world was spinning. There were a lot of crying and laughing. I ended up puking on my friend’s bedsheet. I remember waking up from a sleep, asking Jem for a plastic. And while they were all panicking, voila, I already vomited. Bea ended up giving me a bath and Jem ended up washing his bedsheet. I’m not proud of it, but that was a great first walwal story.
Les Misérables - I LOVED IT SO MUCH AND I TRIED TO KEEP MYSELF CALM BUT I COULDN’T CONTAIN IT
Cavite Crew - My friends and I went to my friend’s place at Cavite to walwal (March 18-19). Another memorable one for me. I was crying in the bathroom while staring at my reflection, I puked a lot of times, I played beer pong for the first time, and just like any other walwal session with me, there were a lot of crying and laughing. Thankful for my friends.
April
Serendipity - I got the chance to be someone’s prom date! It felt like highschool all over again. I also made a new friend, Yana.
Jumpyard - The inner child in me was jubilant. Although tiring, jumping everywhere was such a fun and thrilling experiencing.
Kat’s birthday bash - I was shookt. I guess I’ll keep the reason to myself. I’m just gonna leave this here: I never thought I’d survive but I did.
May
Comm Dev at Rizal - I really love attending community development activities. It makes me feel like I’m slowly contributing to the betterment of the country. And kasama ko isa sa mga crush ko dito I can’t.
Spontaneous hangout - “2AM in your car. You pass my street, the memories start.” First time to get out of the house at midnight just to have a mini roadtrip and have deep conversations with someone. We went home at 8AM haha the struggle was real.
Bea’s birthday bash - Another hotel night with my friends. It was fun, I guess. I didn’t drink at all just so I could take embarrassing photos of my friends and use them as a blackmail in the future. I’m kidding. I did drink, though. Ian went to Pasig all the way from Fairview, idk why, but he did. The rest is history.
Baccalaureate Mass - Yay I was a staffer here, lol. The fireworks were the bomb. And after everything, I went to Jollibee to eat late dinner with Yana and Miel. So cute kasi Miel went to QPav to give me food just because. Huhu my heart.
The Big Reveal - I’ve always wanted to go to Barkin Blends. Thanks to Miel for accompanying me. HAHAH after this we went to eat at Buffalo’s then we spent the rest of the afternoon (to night) talking at Sunken Garden. We were both vulnerable, exchanging life stories. That was our first hug (May 30). The next day we went to UPTC for a PsychSoc thingy. We ate at S&R and again, shared life stories. That night he kissed me on the cheek NAKAKALOKA.
June
Double Date - I have no picture of the four of us. Miel, Franclem, Nikki and I went to Gateway to watch Now You See Me 2. While waiting we killed time at Timezone
Girls, girls, girls! - Finally had the long overdue hohol with my bffs.
July
Zoobic Safari - A different kind of family date
sleepHOEver - Fun sleepover with my LOML
Sleeping with the fishies - Had an overnight stay at Hotel H2O + a visit to Manila Ocean Park. I LOVE ADVENTURES LIKE THIS
August
Dorm Buds + BFF4L - First time to live away from home. Best thing is that I’m with my best friend!
Singapore - It’s good to be back.
September
My birthday bash - Along with Kat, Jade, and Abby, Miel surprised me on my birthday too. I actually thought that it was my friends’ plan. I didn’t expect anything from him lol. And he asked me to be his girlfriend.
October
Class Pic - I’ll always be home.
CommDev - Another exciting comm dev activity thanks to Psych Soc!
Photo Credit: KC Dilla
Photo Credit: Angel Dizon
Photo Credit: Angel Dizon
November
PsychSoc team building - SUPER FUN EXPERIENCE!! Sleepover at Rizal. Plus, I made new friends. Amazing bonding experience for everyone.
Photo Credit: Irish Uy
Photo Credit: Angel Dizon
Photo Credit: Irish Uy
Photo Credit: Dave Vergara
Photo Credit: Irish Uy
Au’tis the Season - Fun experience with the bae. It’s so fun to see the smles on everyone’s faces.
Power dressing - We’re required to wear a corporate attire for the whole day. V nice
December
Mea’s Birthday Bash - Sleepover at Diamond Hotel and walwal sesh at BGC
BatanGang at Tali Beach - V fun semender getaway
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Nothing Gold Can Stay~ Corbyn Besson
Tags: @5sos-wdw @dannyboyseavey @jonahgarl @itrytobesocial @boomboomboomwayhoo @lost-in-wonderland-x @whydontwecry @jetaimejack @thatssoherron @noodleswdw don’t ask why they wanted to be tagged, I don’t even know)
Request- Yes sorta, kind, not really
Word count- 3,021 (This was alot of work, don’t judge me)
Warning- Teen pregnancy, death and cancer.
~
~
To say you were scared would be an understatement, you were plain terrified. You felt your hands shaking from the terror running through your vein. You were screwed, your life was over. How were you going to be able to tell him? He as going to hate you, he was going to leave you.
You looked down at the plastic stick one more time before crawling off of the floor with a large exhale. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you saw the fear in your own eye and were appalled. Why were you so scared? You knew what you were getting yourself into when you made that decision. Your eye drifted over your tense shoulders, down your caved in chest and to your stomach.
Underneath everything, there was a little being growing there, a little Corbyn and you, waiting to meet you both.
The thought brought the happiest of smiles to your face but it was immediately washed away as soon as there was a knock on the bathroom door.
“Y/N, you ok babe?” You heard the love of your life say from across the wooden door. You felt your heart speed up and your breath start to slip away from you. you realized that he was saying more than just that but your mind wasn’t registering that.
The door was pushed open and Corbyn had his hands on your face, turning you to look at him. The fog that seemed to be clogging your ears from your brain cleared and our eye focused on his. You wanted to scream the news at the top of your lungs to him but your mouth wouldn’t cooperate. You wanted Corbyn to tell you that he was happy that you were pregnant but you had a gut feeling that things weren’t going to work out in your favor.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” He said gently, with no anger or sadness in his voice. You felt the hope slip into the back of your mind again. Lazily, you flung your head to where the test stick was sitting on the counter. When Corbyn let go of your face to garb the plastic, life changing stick, you felt the butterflies in your stomach start to erupt with anticipation.
“Does this mean…?” His back was turned toward you so you couldn’t see the expression his face was holding but you could just imagine the look of pure horror. You wanted to cry and for the first time that day, your body let you. A single tear fell from you right eye. It was kinda soothing, being able to cry, it felt like a sweet release to be able to finally do it. “I’m gonna be a dad?”
Corbyn turned around and you saw the happiest smile on his face. You felt the weight of the anxiety you had lift off of your chest. You took a step toward him and nodded your head. You felt his hands wrap around your waist and pull you into his chest. You began to laugh when he started jumping in a small circle with you in his arms.
“I’M GONNA BE A DAD!” he screamed loud enough for the other boys to hear. You Started to push yourself away from Corbyn because you wanted to look at his face. His eyes were almost unable to be seen because his cheeks were being pushed up that high.
“I CALL BEING THE GODFATHER!” Daniel said as he quickly peeked his head into the bathroom.
~
Both you and Corbyn decided to get an apartment to prepare for the baby to come.
“I’ve told you how many times Corbyn, it’s gonna be a boy. I can feel it.” you said as Corbyn was on his laptop looking at pink clothes online for babies.
“Babe, you have to let me dream. I want a little you running around! think about it! she’s have your face shape and smile, maybe my hair and nose! Literally would be the cutest baby in existence!” He flung his head back and had a dreamy look in his eyes. You were distracted by his beauty and his happiness that you had to put in your input.
“No matter what, I just hope our baby has your eyes, I love them so much.” You turned around to go close the blinds in the living room because of the sun starting to give you a headache. You heard the patter of Corbyn feet across the living room and thought nothing of it. You quickly twisted the shutters closed and turned around.
When you went to speak with Corbyn about dinner, you saw that he was kneeling right in front of you. Your breath was stuck in your chest and you stared at him in awe, was he really doing this now?
“Y/F/n, I have loved you since the moment I set my eyes on you. You were confident, talented and kind. I loved that much about you the first time I met you. But as I got to know you, I feel in love with the little things about you, like how your nose crinkles up when you lie, or how your eyebrows are always raised when you’re happy. I fell in love with your heart, I loved the way you simply handed a man two dollars so he could get a bus ride home on a cold night with no questions asked. I feel in love with everything about you. Then you got pregnant, sure it was earlier than I would have liked but I am so happy that I get to raise a child with you. SO as I’m sitting here, shaking like a mad man. Will you marry me?” He asked, popping the small leather box open and showing a small diamond ring on a silver band.
“Yes” you could barely get the single word out over the tears that streaming off of your face. He shakily slipped the ring onto your finger and pulled you into a kiss. This kiss was something unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, it was passionate but pure, hungry but wholesome. You were So happy to be able to say you were going to be able to be with the love of your life for the rest of your life. You felt the butterflies start again in your barely showing stomach.
~
“Corbyn Besson, you have been putting your yearly check up off for three months. If you don’t go, I’m calling your mom!” You said as you were making breakfast one morning. Granted, being six months pregnant made it hard for you to move around without hitting anything but you managed.
“I’m not scared of my mother babe, I’m a grown adult.” He said nonchalantly as he continued to scroll through his phone, “ and it’s not like I’m gonna die if I don’t go.” You rolled your eyes and pulled out your phone and pretended to make a call. You waited a little while, continuing to stir the eggs before speaking.
“Hey Saskia! It’s Y/N, and I was calling to let you know that Corbyn isn’t planning on going to his chec-” was all you got out before your phone was out of your hands and on the counter.
“Fine, I’ll go! What time is my appointment?” He said in defeat. You couldn’t help the smirk that was on your face, he always had a weak spot for his mom.
“It’s at two, but I have to meet with Mary then. I’m asking her to be the Godmother to our son.” You both had recently gone to the sonogram, finding out that you were having a baby boy. “Speaking of which, I think I figured out a good name!”
“Yeah what is it?"he said looking up from the glass of water he had made himself.
"Ray Jordan?” You said looking at his face in anticipation. You knew his family was special to him, so you wanted your babies name to reflect that. His piercing eyes stared into yours before you saw the tears start to weld up, threathening to overflow from his eyes.
Suddenly you were wrapped into a hug and squished up against your loves chest. He really was happy that you wanted to put his family into thought when you picked out his first born’s name.
“I was gonna suggest George Lucas for his name but I love your idea so much more.” You laughed at his obvious Star Wars reference and began to tear up. The more days that went by, the more real this entire process seemed to be. Corbyn, the love of your life, was going to be the father of your child, the father of Ray Jordan Besson. And you wouldn’t want it any other way.
~
Later that night, you had started to make grilled cheese for dinner, knowing that was one of Corbyn’s favorite meals on week nights. It was quick and easy for you so the convenience was great.
You were almost done with the last of Corbyn’s four grilled cheeses, he liked to eat, when you got a text from him.
Corbyn <3
Hey Love, We have to talk about something when I get home, I love you.
You sent him back a quick reply declaring your love for him, you were surprised when he said that he appointment was going to be taking longer than expected. You thought that at the latest, he would be home at 3:30 but he ended up calling you, saying that the doctor was taking longer than he should have.
It was nearly five o'clock and he still hadn’t come home, all you wanted was to see his face and to kiss him. You couldn’t help but worry when you had started to clean up the little mess you had made while making dinner. After you had put all the loose and dishes into the kitchen sink, you sat down at the dining table.
Your apartment had a small circular wooden table in the small dining room, it was on of the things that you loved about it. You loved the small details that were placed everywhere, from the mantel pieces to the frames with family pictures on the hallway walls. You fell in love with this place just like you fell in love with Corbyn, completely and all at once.
You were knocked out of you thoughts by the living room door opening and shutting. You looked up to see Corbyn, a sad smile on his face, but a smile none the less. You quickly got up as he walked over to you and hugged him, pulling him closer than you would have ever before.
“I have cancer.” those were the first words to leave his mouth.
You were shocked to say the least but you could tell that Corbyn was breaking, so you had to put on a strong face and walk him over to the living room, gently sitting down on the couch then pulling him down with you. Once he was all the way seated, you both sat in silence for a good thirty seconds before he collapsed onto your lap and started crying.
You whispered sweet nothings into his ear, carefully running your fingers through his hair until he fell asleep, tear staining his face and your torn heart. You couldn’t help but let the tears fall from your face as you realized that he wasn’t going to see your moment of weakness.
What happens if he dies? You’ll have to raise this child on your own, not only that but you’ll lose the one person who made you happy, the one person who took all the pain away.
That was the first night you dreamed of being a single parent.
~
The next morning you were awoken to a soft whispering from the person you loved with your whole being. You didn’t open your eyes, but you listened to what he was saying, and what you heard broke your heart.
“I promise you little man, I’m gonna try to stay with you and your mommy for as long as I can, Great Grandpa Besson had the same thing, he didn’t make it, but I will. I’m gonna do this, for you because you deserve a dad. You deserve to be happy and I wanna be there to make sure you get it. Lung cancer isn’t gonna beat this Besson man, not if he has a little one to take care of.” He whispered to your stomach, making your heart eat at unusual rates.
You had to fight the tears back, but they couldn’t stop.
“Y/N, are you up baby?” he said brushing the hair out of your face. you softly opened your tear filled eyes and started to take in the man that was hovering over you. His piercing blue eye, soft smile, dyed blonde hair and his cute nose. You wanted to hold this memory forever, the moment he made the promise to live, that he wouldn’t leave. The first promise he made to your unborn child. “I hate to kill the awesome morning vibe, but I start Chemo on Monday.”
~
The month that followed was harsh, Corbyn was getting Chemo treatments every day for the first week then every other day after that. It was a grueling task to ask of a eighteen year old boy but he was strong and was making it through.
You were now seven months and trying to figure out how the hell you were going to raise this child and take care of your sick fiance. He was trying to make it seem like he wasn’t hurting, but you knew better. You knew that he was getting worse, that it was only a matter of time before he passed on. You didn’t want to think about it, because every time you did, tear wielded up in your eyes and the stinging sensation returned to your stomach.
“Hey baby, could you help me really quick?” You hear your nerd’s voice say from across the apartment, he sounded like he was in the bedroom, but you waddled your way back there and didn’t see him anywhere.
“Corbyn?” you called out from him but you were met with an awkward sound from across the hallway. The sound was coming from the nursery. As you tip toed that way, you realized that the door was propped open. you cautiously pushed the door open and saw a happy scene.
Corbyn was standing in from of a crib that he somehow put together without any assistance from you. He was holding a little lamb stuffed animal in his arms, you started to feel the tears in your eyes. This platinum haired boy was doing everything you could have ever asked him to do, he was being caring, he was being sweet, and he was putting himself aside for your baby.
“You did this by yourself? When did you have time? I’ve literally been with you since you got home from the hospital.”
“Well the guys came over and did it from me, but I found this lamb from some of the stuff my mom gave me. It was my favorite toy until I was in kindergarten and I wanted my son to have it”
And for a moment every thing was okay, but as You’ve probably heard before, nothing gold can stay.
~
A few days later, you woke easily for the first time, you felt happy. I mean this wasn’t even something you’d have thought you could feel after all the horrible things that seemed to be happening to you left and right.
Your bed was warm, but the warmest thing was your heart. You opened your eyes to see Corbyn laying there with a smile on his face. His eyes were peacefully closed, so you knew he was asleep. You watched him closely, trying to take in every part of him that looked happy, because he did, look happy that was. His face was showing his true youth, not the stressed out teen that was becoming a dad and had to act like an adult. You watched his chest raise and fall.
But it wasn’t, it wasn’t raising and falling. It was still, unmoving, lifeless even. YOu waited for seconds, minutes for his chest to move before you started to feel an nausiating feeling, you wanted to cry but for some reason you couldn’t. You felt numb to the entire world, but then again your entire world was just taken from you. Your heart feel to your toes as it was smooched and cracked, trying to spare itself from the pain. But it was inevitable,
Corbyn Besson, the love of your life, was taken from you. He had died.
~
The funeral had come and gone, all of your friends were there, Nicki, Stephanie, Steph, Rhea, Hayley, Samie and Maia. So many people said so many nice things, they talked about how much they loved Corbyn, how much he effected their lives. They even mentioned how much they loved and wanted to be there for you.
Within the following weeks, your baby was born. The best part was, it wasn’t a boy, it was a beautiful baby girl. She had brunette hair and beautiful blue eyes she aslo had Corbyn’s nose, everything he wanted in his daughter. She was a happy baby, constantly laughing and making you happy, but she reminded you of Corbyn with each growing day. But to be honest, you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
You kept your promise to Corbyn, that you would name your child after his family to you did. You even asked his brother Jordan to be the godfather of the beautiful baby girl.
Rae Caroline Besson
You used his dad’s name as well as his mothers middle name, hoping that as he watched over them, he would be proud of your choice in naming your daughter.
As time went on, you were happy but you were never happy with anyone that wasn’t Rae or Corbyn, but you had your family, Corbyn’s family and the guys. But it still wasn’t the same.
why you maybe asking?
Because nothing good, pure, happy and sweet, can stay.
#corbyn besson#corbynbesson#corbyn besson imagine#corbynbessonimagine#why don't we#why dont we imagine#whydontwe#jack avery#jonah marais#daniel seavey#zach herron#angst
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