#What lives in big alien fields big alien cows of course

[heartfullofleeches]

please elaborare on alien yan and them thembo cow reader

(Just a not so little dairy farmer and the extraterrestrial who's got the hots for them and not totally isn't trying to lure them onto their ship)

Fresh mountain air, wide open fields for you and your herd. It wasn't always easy, but this was certainly the life for you.

Early on, you did everything thing to conform to human society. Taken in by a family in a place where people like you were the norm life was pretty easy - say for strangers tugging your horns when you were too small to defend yourself and mooing at you on the street, but that problem took care of itself once you towered over your bullies later on with the strength to match.

The only challenge you faced afterwards was a thirst for a life that never was. Living in a bustling city, you never experienced the outdoor life yourself, but you grew up on the romanticized portrayals - and fell more in love with the real thing when you finally got a taste visiting a close friend's family farm. It was then and there you decided to pack up and move out to the country once you had the funds. As luck would have it, that friend called you up with an offer you couldn't refuse when they heard about your future plans. Overnight, you were the new owner of a farm and on your way to living the life of your dreams. Wished they'd told you more about the surveillance cameras you found hidden around during a deeper inspection of the place, but you'd manage.

You adored the change of scenery. There was a town a couple miles out so you weren't completely alone, but you had your animals to keep you company. Majority of your business comes from that town, but you've been taking a little break recently to take care of your herd and the bizarre events happening around your barn. You normally let your cows go free range, but two of them have gone missing without a trace. You've found strange symbols carved into the wood of your home and fields, the stocks from the harvest bundled neatly at your doorstep. Day by day, you started to regret not asking more about those odd cameras - especially since your friend hasn't answered any of your calls recently, but now's not the time to focus on that.

You've got a visitor.

Tires crunching atop the gravel road, an old beat up truck pulls up to the side of your house. No deliveries were scheduled for today, so you guessed they might've needed some assistance or looking to by something for the road. As the driver steps out of the vehicle, you're fairly surprised. They were big as you if not bigger; a slight hunch in their back obscured their full height. You've never met a human around your size and you couldn't see any features so far that would mark them as a hybrid. It was hard to see most of them really. A baseball cap was pulled over their eyes and the lower portion of their face was covered by a cloth mask. The only reason you knew was because they were staring right at you, all the way over at the open barn. The bovine at your side nudges your shoulder as you look back.

"I'll be back back soon. Okay?" You stroke her head and lead her back to the rise of the ground, picking up the filled bottles of milk and your bucket on your way out. The driver is inspecting your front door by the time you make it down the small hill to your humble home, picking at the flaking wood with their black nails. One foot on the porch and they're back focused on you. You still can't see their eyes or face, but their cheeks crinkle like they're smiling.

"Afternoon."

Their voice is...off. It's scratchy and hoarse like they haven't had a drink of water in days, but it reminds more you of static. Must be rough for truckers this time of year. "Afternoon! What can I do for you?"

The driver looks their feet, brows scrunched as they mutter to themselves. "H...ha.. Happen to have something to drink on you? I'm quite parched from my... travels."

"Course, kind of our main business here." You joke, reaching ingo your bottle for a glass. "On the house. Not to sound rude or anything, but you sound like you need it."

You hand the fresh bottle of milk to the stranger who graciously it off your hands - popping the top and taking a curious sip of the sweet cream. Their jaw shifts as they swish it around on their tongue, stiff shoulders relaxing some.

You fix the bill of your hat, horns making the task the toughest of your load. "Hope it's to your liking. Comes fresh from barn!"

The stranger studies your face and horns; eyes slowly falling to your chest and the cow print pattern of your tee. In a flash they're throwing their head back and down the entire bottle, lapping at its rim and snaking their slender tongue down its hole. It hits the bottom of the glass, pulsing against its floor. Maybe they were a hybrid -longest tongue you've ever seen. They stop only when their hat starts to slide back to fix it. You've never seen anyone so excited for your milk before - you hope the girls will be happy to hear this when you feed the herd later on.

"So, what are you doing in this parts? Haven't seen a delivery truck come by that wasn't one of mine in months."

A hairline crack runs the wall of the bottle. "I.... "ve just been on the road with no destination in mind. Searching for my place in the universe, but the country air is nice too. Think my trucks finally giving up on me, and I saw a sign for your farm down the road. Do you have a room I can stay in till I get it working? Food won't be an issue for me.. I can repay you with my services for now and send some money late on. Please..."

The poor thing. You rest your hand on their shoulder. "Slow down, it's alright. You don't have to pay me back or anything. Just focus on getting back on your feet, okay. The guest soon is a little junky right now since I haven't unpacked all my things, but you can wait in the living room while I'm moving things around. Welcome aboard."

Patting their arm, you swing the screen door open and step inside, inviting the in. Walking closer, their attention is taken by the wind chimes handing above your door, moreso the stains they reveal. The stranger takes off their coat and throws it on the chair outside your home. Your tail swings behind you with each step you take - so close yet so far. No - patience. They already had one slip up earlier with their lines. They'd rehearsed so many times, but not once did they conquer the hypothetical where you asked about them. It was the most logical option, so of course they skipped it. Their sweet cow would do nothing but offer a hand to the unfortunate. That's why they loved you so.

In their searches they found nothing to save this planet from its fate, but in the end one member of it's superior class would live on - in the stars.

[ghost-mantis]

Hunter and Hunted: Historical Horror Reading For Your Halloween

Burned out on masked stabbers? Yawning at the movie monster of the week? Alien abductions falling as flat as a cow dropped from a tractor beam?

Try reading some historical accounts of people hunting man-eating Tigers in India and never walk willingly into the dark again!

Towards the end of the colonial era in India, growing populations and deforestation were causing the same issues with wildlife that we see today. The difference being, there were thousands and thousands of tigers and leopards, far bigger populations than today, prowling the land.

And while still rare, a lot more animals means a lot more potential murder cats. In an era just before and during the advent of cars and phones, most people still lived in small communities surrounded by fields and forest. People that were easy prey for big cats that were too elderly or injured to hunt other prey, or just decided they liked to eat humans.

So imagine you and your friends are out in the fields or at the well doing your normal thing…

And a Giant Goddamn Tiger leaps out of the grass, grabs your friend, and drags them screaming into the woods to eat them. Right in front of you.

Oh Shit!The Economy!

Or when you walk home, the last person in line silently disappears and the only trace left behind is a piece of clothing.

This was the reality across many places in India.

Imagine this happening to SEVERAL HUNDRED PEOPLE in your community over the course of a few years. From ONE Tiger. And everyday you leave the house praying you aren’t next, while you can do fuckall about it.

Fuck…

This thing is a goddamn ghost, and while volunteer hunters go after the thing, they’re always one step behind. News of sightings and kills travels only as fast as people can walk, and the Tiger is hitting multiple villages in the region.

So along comes this guy from out of nowhere, he tells you he works on the railway or something? Then he tells you he’s going to try and kill this tiger. Just another trophy hunting jackass right?

But this guy never asks for anything other than a place to sleep and maybe a cup of tea if you can spare it.

And he’s running himself ragged walking 20+ miles a day between villages to where the tiger was last seen. For weeks or months on end.

And every night he sits alone, in the dark, in the woods, by a tethered farm animal he bought off you. Or the corpse of a half-eaten victim. Sometimes in a low tree branch or just sitting on the fucking ground.

The crazy bastard is hunting something that very much wants to kill and eat him. A thing that can see in the dark where he can not. By moonlight.

Or if seen during the day, the guy walks in after the Tiger, tracking the paw prints and knowing it is actively hunting him.

What could possibly go wrong?

But somehow, using the finest old-timey gun technology, he kills these nightmare monsters again and again. Some while they’re charging him!

He never asks for a dime, never cashed in a government reward, and takes the dead tiger back to the locals to prove its dead and provide closure and peace of mind. He genuinely cared about the locals and did everything he could to help at great personal risk. For decades.

Jim Corbett slayed man eating monsters under terrible odds like he was the goddamn final girl of every horror movie. And while it sounds far-fetched, his accounts were backed by many people, and his own photographs.

In his later days he became a staunch conservationist and recorded his tales for all to read in a number of books that read like the greatest horror fiction.

He was so beloved that he has a national park and a species of Tiger named after him!

All his works are available free on the Internet Archive. There’s also a YouTube channel with narrated versions of all his stories and context. The narrator grew up reading these accounts and does a fantastic job making audiobook recordings of his stories!

His accounts and this history have largely faded from public memory, but make for some of the finest horror reading ever penned.

And he wasn’t the only one doing this! Another hunter in the same era, Kenneth Anderson, was dedicated to hunting man-eating Tigers and Leopards across India.

Anderson, a madman who would sit in a blind made of two beds and a chair, and armed with a dying flashlight and a rifle, peered out into the dark and went face to face with one such monster. Point blank in pitch dark.

Just look at these creepy-ass covers and tell me this isn’t horror.

There are also written accounts of man-eating sloth bears, serial killer wild elephants, and general animal related nightmare fuel.

I’ll be writing about African man-eater books in a subsequent post. Many accounts are just as terrifying, all the more because it’s not fiction.

Happy Reading and Sleep Tight!

[impartialbias]

Sci-Fibruary Day 3: Field

[ka-writes]

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Notes: I had already started on the second chapter before I posted the first one, so don’t expect updates every day... I also had to do a lot of googling for this chapter.

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Chapter 1 in case you missed it:

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Inspired by:

Humans are Space Velociraptors

By:FreshRoses_InMyGarden_NeedTheRain

Some kids come from storks, others come from crashed spaceships

By: mmmajora

Home Again, Home Again

By: teeth_eater

All works can be found on Ao3

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Warnings: Cussing, needles, character conflicts, intentional poisoning, poisoning, Jaws reference

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“Humans are [and text here]”

Chapter 2: What is this, an interview?

Tommy was now restrained to a chair six feet away from the weird scientist alien. He had a dark brown lab coat with a fuzzy yellow sweater underneath, matched with black pants and black leather boots. His gold rimmed Harry Potter glasses slipped down his nose bridge a bit before he pushed it up and shuffled through papers. He wore a red beanie with a big whiff of his curly chocolate hair. His skin was a weird translucent grayish color with blue speckles decorating it. He had deep brown eyes with an odd electric blue circle outlining the pupil.

His tongue licked his finger as he turned the page. This was a habit that most of the weird teachers and counselors did. It always annoyed Tommy. This time fear was also mixed into that annoyance. His saliva was tinted blue and he had sharp teeth which immediately reminded him of a shark.

“You have shark teeth.” Tommy stated absentmindedly. Clearly, this caught the scientist alien off guard.

“I have what?” The alien asked, confused.

“Shark teeth.. ya know like the weird fish creatures that eat people.” Tommy started rambling causing the shark-alien to become even more confused and slightly alarmed. “I mean I think they eat people. That’s what the shark movie showed… what was its name, Jaws I think? I dunno, my foster mom freaked out in the middle of it and we went home. That lady was weird.. She made us wear itchy clothes and take weird photos before she sent me back to the group home.”

“What?..” The shark-alien asked. Tommy jumped a bit. He forgot he was rambling to a stranger. Alien stranger at that.

“Doesn’t matter.. What's the first question bitch-boy?” Tommy liked the way the alien jumped at the randomly timed insults.

“Er- right.. First off, what’s your name?” The shark-alien asked after collecting himself.

“Tommy Innit. Yours bitch-boy?” Tommy replied.

“Wilbur Soot. Stop calling me bitch-boy!” Wilbur huffed.

“Next question, bitch-boy!” Tommy emphasized the name, getting an even angrier expression in return. Wilbur’s weird blue circle flashed red for a second which caught Tommy off guard.

Wilbur took a shaky breath before asking the next question. “How old are you?”

“Old enough! I am a big man!” Tommy stated. Yet another thing that pissed him off.

“Age?” Wilbur asked, clearly irritated.

“18.” Wilbur raised a brow, “14.” Tommy huffed. His age should only be his business not some alien-bitch who didn’t even have his file.

“If you keep lying, I may have to get the truth serum from the back.” Wilbur half-heartedly threatened. Tommy, the big man that he is, did not get scared at that statement, only slightly unsettled which clearly showed on his face.

“Now, do you have a family?” Tommy tensed at the question. It was a touchy question and was not one that was asked often especially with his reputation.

“I am a big man. I don’t need a family to be great.” Tommy stated, happy with the answer. The alien-bitch shifted awkwardly.

“Right… What is your diet?”

“Umm.. I dunno, whatever I can find. I am allergic to nuts though..” Wilbur nodded in understanding and wrote things down in his notepad.

“What plants are poisonous to you?” Wilbur asked without looking up from his notes.

“Ermm, poison Ivy, poison oak… uh I think parts of rhubarb, and most wild berries. I am not sure other than that.” Wilbur nodded while adding bits to his notes.

“What was the place you lived like?” This time Wilbur glanced up to look at Tommy. This was again another touchy subject… How many times would this alien bitch get into the sad background?

“Shitty.” Tommy snapped. That was the only response the bitch was gonna get.

“Right.. Do you have music on Earth?”

Tommy scoffed, “Of course we have music, dumbass!”

“Can you tell me about the animals there?” Wilbur asked, almost hopeful.. which was weird. What was he hoping for?

“Erm I guess..” Tommy mumbled, trying to figure out where to start, “There’s a bunch of animals. Mainly on land. My favorite would be the cow.”

“What’s that?” Curiosity stained Wilbur’s face. This got Tommy excited; he was practically beaming as he started talking.

“Well they are these big ruminants that make milk and have horns. There are a bunch of types too like the highland cow, which obviously is the most poggers one. They are a Scottish breed with really long hair. I met one once, on a field trip his name was Henry.” Tommy rambled on for the next two and a half hours, jumping from topic to topic and explaining anything that wasn’t personal. He usually ended those paths with short insults.

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Wilbur hated to stop the kids' detailed story, but two and a half celestial hours had already passed, and Dream would be coming to check soon. Luckily, he had a couple new poisons that could pass off as a research development. He had even managed to send the distressed signal and no doubt Phil would already be there with the SBI craft ready to fly at any given moment.

“Alright Tommy.” His voice dropped to a serious tone causing the kid to stop his story of how he got poisoned by mushrooms on a camping trip. “You’re gonna have to trust me just for a bit. I am going to get you off the ship at the next stop but in the meantime I need you to tell me how allergic you’re to nuts.” The kid immediately tensed at the question.

“I am mainly allergic to tree nuts.. almonds being the worst. After a few minutes I can’t breathe properly and I usually pass out. The doctor said if I don’t get it treated within 15 minutes, death is most likely.” He took a moment to go through the information. The kid most likely has an anaphylaxis reaction to tree nuts. Meaning either he would have to know the exact time of landing and exactly where Phil was or he needed another poison that was less severe.

“Alright, here is what we’re gonna do. I have a chemical mixture that is similar to that of rattlesnake venom. I also have a chemical substance that numbs any pain you may feel. Side effects would include being very very tired and delirious over the next few days. Along with being knocked out for a good ten hours. To put it simply I am gonna fake poison you, in order to get you off the ship. It’s your choice if you’re willing to do it.” Wilbur paused to study the kid still restrained in front of him. It was odd how relaxed the kid seemed to be in a situation like this. He had no urge as far as Wilbur was aware, to fight against anything that happened. His complaints only being those that touched on personal matters. It was unsettling to say the least, and intrigued Wilbur. He really wanted to unravel the life the kid had lived before this and how he was actually dealing with the situation.

There was a long pause before the kid spoke, “I wouldn’t mind getting away from the weird smiley bitch.. plus you seem nice and to know what you’re doing so sure. Poison me bitch.” He said the last sentence with an enthusiasm Wilbur wasn’t expecting. He took a moment to rethink his plan, which was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Dream says you better have advanced in your stupid testing. Otherwise he’s gonna kick you off the ship at the next stop.” Stated the rather rude blazeling, Sapnap. The blazeling never liked Wilbur and made a point to argue against any advancements at meals. That led to Dream installing a new system of emails and Wilbur eating meals alone.

“Yea yea, it’s going!” He yelled through the metal door.

“Better be.” The blazeling snapped before making a non quiet track back to his quarters.

“Stupid blazeling.” Wilbur grumbled as he sorted through vials and picked up new needles and measured out the substances. “We are going to start with the anesthetic then move onto the poison.” He softly addressed Tommy.

Wilbur swiftly disinfected Tommy’s shoulder and gave the needle. He then gave the second needle. Immediately Tommy slumped over. Wilbur swiftly took off Tommy’s restraints and moved him on to the patient bed in the back corner of the room. After the transfer was done he clipped the body restraints around Tommy and waited for the alert signaling landing.

After about five minutes the light next to the door turned blue. He moved over to his seat and clipped on the safety belts. The light turned green and the ship shook momentarily before a thud could be felt. Quickly as Wilbur could, he emptied the needles into the waste bin and waited for his soon-to-be-ex-boss to arrive.

Dream stepped through the door and glanced around the room before heading to Wilbur for his report.

“Report.” The dreamon commanded.

“The subject's body would have gone through a painfully slow death and have multiple organ failures if I did not intervene. The chemical mixes used created a conflict in the patient’s body which resulted in the patient falling into exhaustion as they recovered.” He responded in a monotone tone. Dream looked over Tommy. He flinched back in disgust as Tommy grunted in his sleep.

“Is that all?” The dreamon questioned.

“No.” Wilbur swallowed down his panic, “This is the last testing I will be doing with this crew.” The dreamon scoffed.

“I am assuming you’re getting off at this planet?” Dream spit. Wilbur knew he absolutely hated when people left his crew as he saw it as a direct violation of his loyalty.

“Yes.” The phantom stated, keeping his even tone apparent. With that Dream stormed out cursing in Siestian. Somewhere in the mess of words he told Wilbur to get his things.

Without hesitation he grabbed his bag from his quarters, which was held in a small room that branches off the lab. He half sprinted down the short hallway and straight to the bed Tommy was on. He swiftly unrestrained the human and sat him up. He slipped on boots and gloves then tied a cloak around the kid. He pulled the hood up and carried him off of the closest exit. There were faint yells from Dream down the hallway and reassurances from the only two beings that put up with him. And with that Wilbur was off to find the only craft he had ever called home. The SBI ship.

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Chapter 2- End

Words~ 1774

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End Notes: ‘‘twas to lazy to reread... sorry for minor mistakes. Also suggestions are always appreciated!! Please reblog...

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Chapter 3:

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Wilbur:

[static-and-screams]

anyways, so here’s me describing my gender but like,,the different genders i feel (i don’t know how to describe it but it makes sense in my head so boooo)

1. little girl in pretty pink puffy princess dress at her disney princess themed 7th birthday party with a big bouncy castle, disney princess actors there, so much pink and frilliness and just so much joy because today is her big day because she just turned 7 and is such a wonderful little girl

2. 12 year old boy at Funtown eating greasy pizza with his friends, playing on the blow up obstacle course, running in the laser tag arena from his friend on the opposite team despite the rules saying “no running,” having such a fun time, roller skating in the rink but falling a bunch of times so by the time all the kids leave and they go home his mom has to clean the scrapes on his knees with that one spray that hurts a bit but after she puts on marvel bandaids and gives a little kiss to his knees and calls him her “brave little superhero” and he smiles a big smile knowing he’s a brave little superhero

3. mothman. no i will not elaborate

4. okay maybe i will elaborate; the shadows moving in your peripheral vision, the things you think are there but when you rub your eyes with bunched up fists they’ve disappeared, the urban legends we all grow up hearing about but not knowing if they’re real, ufo’s and aliens, bigfoot and all those cryptids we dream of catching as little kids

5. greek mythology as a whole, no i don’t know why this is what i want my gender to be perceived as but it is

6. those funky patterns you see on bus seats or like the floor of a laser tag arena

7. biblically accurate angels

8. fluffy cows, fresh strawberries, fields of tall grass and daisies, a small cottage overgrown with vines but in a charming way, freshly baked bread, morning dew still fresh when you walk outside, butterflies landing on a kittens nose

9. mud and rocks and bugs

10. pop rocks

11. cat girls, cat boys, nyan binarys

12. hot pink and black combo and showing those little misogynistic middle school boys that you’re so much better than them at skateboarding, pissing their little 13 year old “yOu WoUlD nEvEr SuRvIvE a CoD lObBy” asses off

13. enchanted forest full of dark secrets and adventure

14. a medieval tavern in a DND campaign, full of lively music, a nice bartender who makes a great homemade hot chocolate, fairies absolutely vibing, elves enjoying themselves, orcs and druids and warriors and sorcerers and every kinda mythical being just having fun, singing along

15. pirates. that’s it. that’s the gender.

16. ghosts but like make it a ghost from the 80’s using words like “radical”

17. percy jackson

18. irish rebel songs

[fandumb-thoughts]

I’m actually working on trying to finish chapters on things, look at me. (Now I just need to actually write follow up chapters…drat.) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Martha Kent had created quite a name for herself in the vigilante community. Not really the ones that were around in the present. She and her husband liked their little farm and sleepy town just fine without superheroes crashing in every few days or so–not including, of course, their son, their grandchildren, and their occasional guests. No, Martha Kent’s real name came from the time travellers. It became a mantra of sorts. “If you get sent anywhere in time, seek out Smallville. If it isn’t there yet, go to 38.19 N 100.13 W. You’ll know what you’re looking for when you see it.” Vigilantes murmured it to one another when it seemed magic could be involved, and yelled the coordinates across battlefields as sci-fi lasers began to fly, and mentioned it to every newbie that made an appearance. No one but those who actually needed them actually sought out the location for themselves, not after it had been vetted by some of the oldest and most experienced heroes. No one who needed them spoke of what they had seen there, because there was very little reason to other than to repeat the information everyone had heard a hundred times before. “38.19 N 100.13 W.” ~~~~~ When Martha and Jonathan Kent began to look into buying an old farmhouse and maybe a couple fields if they could afford it in the tail end of the seventies, they weren’t expecting to settle where they did. For one, the house was not nearly as derelict as Martha had expected it to be, nor were the chicken coop and garden shed. For another, there was a fully functional barn that only needed a few new boards and a fresh coat of paint before a couple of cows could be moved in. And the fields that it came with! Not that she didn’t want a large farm, but the three fields, the pasture, and the half-acre of yard space around the house seemed a bit much for their budget. “What’s the catch?” Jonathan had joked with the land owner, who had inherited it after his father passed. “I haven’t the faintest,” admitted the man. “My father had a might bit of trouble renting this place out after he bought it on auction back in ‘38. Lots of loonies come through here, and Dad was never quite able to find a buyer, and could only keep renters for a few years on average, if that.” Jonathan sent an appraising eye over the full view of the property. “Well, we might be just the people to get it off your hands. What’a’ya think, Martha?” “Hm,” she hummed, non committedly. The property was strange, and the last thing they needed after the debacle in Los Angeles was strange. One demon-infested apartment building was all the excitement she needed in the next few decades, if she had anything to say about it. Of course her husband, having only been her fiance at the time and living with a couple roommates a few blocks over, was none-the-wiser of the situation. She had thought it would have startled him too much, or that he wouldn’t have fully believed her. “Well, feel free to stop by the property a few more times this weekend to get a feel for the land. The house and barn will be locked up, of course, but you two are welcome everywhere else for the time being,” offered the owner. “That’s a great idea. What do you think of a walk and a picnic by that creek tomorrow, Martha?” “That sounds great,” she said, only partially lying. A nice day out in the countryside would be nice, after staying in Jonathan’s busted-up old junker’s backseat in search of properties for sale, or camping in the middle of nowhere in a ramshackle tent. Ever since the highs of her youth had passed, camping under the stars down an unfamiliar high road or sleeping in the car had really lost their appeal. “I’ll be in my office on Monday morning,” said the man. “Give me a call about how you’re feeling then.” ~~~~~ Saturday morning started alright enough. It had been a beautiful night, which meant a sky full of stars and no cramped backseat as rain forced them in, and they were both well rested. Jonathan had found a proper deli and made sandwiches, while Martha scrounged the corner store for some fresh-made donuts. The fields were a bit overgrown but promising. In their walk they saw a fawn nestled in a small grove of trees, and while darling, they quickly moved on as not to distress the mother who undoubtedly was nearby. There were wildflowers, and fresh air, and a nice breeze. The day was warm enough for the creek to be refreshing when they decided to go wading. And then the future-man appeared. Well, future-boy would be more accurate. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen. He came from the direction of the farmhouse, with an insane outfit that consisted of a red body-suit; black boots and gloves; a heavy-duty yellow belt and detailing at the front; a black domino-mask with white lenses over the eyes, like a horror-movie version of a masquerade costume; a black cape with a yellow underbelly; and, most bizarrely, what looked like black briefs over the pants. “Who are you,” Martha demanded. Despite being knee-deep in a creek and at a decline compared to the boy, she held herself confidently. The small handgun she always had tucked in her waistband finding its way to her hands certainly helped with that. Jonathan fell with a squawk into the water as he saw a) her gun and b) the boy she was aiming at. “I’m Robin,” the boy answered, hands held up in surrender. “I’m here for what’s under the shed.” Martha’s eyes narrowed. “And what on Earth would that be?” “Uh-fuck, am I really the first one to catch them unaware?” he muttered. “Stop with that mumbling, boy, and tell me what you’re here for.” The boy seemed to be having an internal struggle before he sighed. “Fuck it.” She shifted the gun to indicate her impatience. “I’m from the future. This farm has been an exit point back to the future for as long as we have documented history of it. Course, all these records only exist in my time, everything aside from a few weird things have been erased from the here-and-past. For as long as I’ve been in the hero-ing business this is the place the heroes have been told to go if they’re ever lost in time. It’s not the only way to get back, but it’s the easiest.” Jonathan, drenched and now standing slightly behind Martha, scoffed. “Likely story, kid. Look, take off the mask and we’ll drive you into town to sober up a-” “Prove it,” Martha said. Jonathan gaped. “Martha!” The boy–”Robin”–grinned. “Of course.” Jonathan fretted the entire way to the house, but Martha and Robin ignored him. She was intently listen to him ramble on, gun held much more loosely and with the safety on in her hand. “It’s always been here, and I once got sent back to 1843 and managed to get back, so it’s not like I really need your help with any of this. I just heard voices from down by the creek and thought I’d check in with you so I wouldn’t have to break and enter. I like you, well, future-you, so I didn’t mean no disrespect and I honestly expected you to have already known about this so it’s not fully my fault for being a bit messed up and letting the time-traveler business slip…” “How old are you?” Martha suddenly interrupted, midst a scattered recollection of the “alien robots” he had encountered that got him sent from the future. “Oh-I’m…probably not supposed to say. My…mentor will probably be upset…” “Just answer the question, kiddo.” “Fourteen.” “There’s a lot of kid’s fighting from when you’re from?” “Kind of? Look, usually us younger heroes are in teams, under the supervision of a couple of adults or with our own mentors, it’s not like-” “You say getting sent back isn’t all too uncommon?” Robin hesitated. “Well…no, not really.” Martha nodded, making up her mind just as they arrived back at the house, with the shed pushed far back at the edge of the yard. The shed was nondescript, hardly big enough for a wheelbarrow and a lawnmower to fit inside comfortably. The padlock on the door was attached to rotting wood, so it wasn’t hard in the slightest to pull it away. Jonathan held back while Martha followed Robin in. Nothing seemed wrong inside, per say, but the temperature was slightly too cool and the dirt floor was disturbed at the back. “How does this work?” she asked. “Here-” Robin knelt down without fear of the gun she still held at his back, brushing aside dirt to reveal an old blanket. He pulled it aside dislodging a solid layer of dirt. A metal sheet was lifted at it’s hinge, revealing something that was definitely from the future with the amount of blinking lights, lack of actual buttons, and glowy-ness. “I just gotta press a hand there-” he indicated a smooth glow-y bit, “and it’ll read my molecules and alert the people who can pull me back to when I belong, to tell them I’m in a position for an extraction.” “Go ahead, then.” ~~~~~ “Gone? Just like that?” Jonathan demanded. Martha shrugged. “Just like he said. However that machine in their works I don’t know, but it did whatever he expected him to and he vanished right before my eyes.” “How are you so calm!?” His voice rose shrilly at the end. Martha sighed. “Calm down, John. This is…actually, no, sorry, I was going to say this isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve seen but it definitly is.” He opened his mouth, undoubtedly to argue, but she put up her hand to cut him off. “But not by much. Remember that vampire in Oregon?” “I-he-he wasn’t a real vampire,” Jonathan insisted. Martha had to disagree. Supernatural things seemed to be drawn to her. Jonathan and her had been married for going on two years now, and dating for three before that, but he hadn’t seen nearly as much as she had. Things that couldn’t be anything but vampires, and werewolves, and ghosts, and demons. She wasn’t lying when she said that time travelling boys weren’t that far of a stretch. “We can’t buy this property.” “I thought you liked it?” Martha asked innocently, acting baffled by his declaration. “Martha,” he admonished. “Jonathan,” she challenged. He (slightly hysterically) attempted to stare her down. Attempted is the key word, as he had never managed to win a staring contest even when retaining all his sense. With an agitated exhale he threw up his hands, turning to pace a few feet. “Martha,” he pleaded. “It comes with three fields, a pasture, a barn–and it’s surrounded by a state-protected forest on three sides, with the closest neighbors owning so much property across the way that their buildings are all more than a mile away. It’s exactly the type of place we’ve been looking for. For really, really cheap.” “We weren’t looking for-for-for time travelers!” Martha gave him a look that never failed to convince men to give into her. It worked on her brother, her father, professors, cops, boyfriends and anyone in-between. “But-but-” “Jonathan, I’ll handle it if it ever does come up again. Trust me.” He struggled to protest, though he had seemingly suddenly lost his tongue. After a few minutes of floundering he buried his face in his hands and mumbled, “You’re crazy.” “I know, dear,” Martha positively beamed. She hoped that the distance from other people would at least allow her the leeway she needed if any sort of occult thing showed up. It wasn’t so bad that the list of occult things just had “time travelers” added to it.

[drrove]

The Last Joke on Earth

"So there's a donkey, a cow, and a sheep and they're all standing in a field just eating grass and crapping and such when they see the farmer coming. The donkey says-"

"Sorry what is this all about?" The voice in Sala's ear asks.

"It's a joke. I'm telling a joke," she responds.

"Oh." The voice seems exhausted and slightly confused. "I never really understand your jokes."

"You'll love this one. So they see the farmer coming and the donkey says 'He's out early today'."

"Can donkeys talk? I thought only humans exhibited coherent speech. Am I thinking of the right thing?"

"It's a joke," Sala grumbles, "things are different in jokes. Animals talk. Just let me finish and you'll be laughing your ass off."

"I should probably not laugh," the voice admits, "my bowels are loose today and I have been vomiting rather regularly. I suspect I will die quite soon. Perhaps we should focus on this mission of yours?"

"Maybe you're dying 'cause you've never really lived, Oleb." Her sage advice comes courtesy of a mis-quoted poster - the kind with beautiful people admiring glorious vistas from mountain tops. "Get out and explore a little."

"Just - BLARRGUH!" Sala grimaces as Oleb takes a moment to expel some disagreeable fluids in his unseen lair. "Just focus for once. If you don't get the job - urk - done in the next... 15 minutes then this whole 'living' discussion is rather moot." He ends the censure with a wet belch.

"Fine. Just stop making those noises," Sala sighs, "it's disgusting."

"I'll do my best," her ear promises with a long slurp. "Try to get here before - urk - before The Auditor."

The name sends chills down Sala's spine. She quickens her pace and crosses a busy street against the warning of the orange hand. A taxi honks, but she pays no attention, except to present her favorite finger in reserved reply. She pushes through the throng of people waiting on the curb and brushes off the indignant grumblings. If they only knew, she thinks, they would carry me to my destination upon their shoulders like a glorious hero. She trips over a small dog and hustles away before the owner can bemoan the assault. Idiots.

"Hey! Stop those kids!" A voice shrieks from somewhere ahead. The sea of humans packing the mid-morning sidewalk fluctuates slightly as a pair of teen boys in jerseys and cargo shorts shove their way through, both their arms fully stocked with snack-foods. An angry store clerk shouts frantically at them, his wide bulk preventing an effective pursuit. The lead boy, in all his excitement, slams headlong into Sala.

While the young thief crashes to the ground and spills his loot on the sidewalk, his notably smaller accomplice darts onward, muttering an unexpectedly polite "Excuse me," before abandoning his friend and rounding a corner. The fallen boy growls at Sala. "Watch your fu-" He stops mid-sentence as his eyes turn up to her, widening in terror. "Oh, shit."

Sala, having only herself just recovered her composure, raises an eyebrow. What does this little bastard know? Before she can learn more, he jumps to his feet and sprints away at full speed, leaving his misbegotten loot where it lay. Sala pauses, then grabs a candy bar. “12 minutes,” the voice reminds her.

"Ya had him!" The shop owner cries. "Why the hell'd ya let him go?" Sala ignores him and begins to walk away, certain the sweaty man must be shrieking at someone else, but he imposes himself. "I pay my taxes you know!"

The non-sequitur sheds new light on the boy’s fearful reaction at the sight of her, and Sala suddenly remembers the blue uniform, the standard-issue side arm, and the small, silver shield above her left breast. She had found some time ago that people tended to give her a wider berth and greater discretion when she wore this costume. She had somehow avoided the inconvenience of the implied civic duty in all her previous sojourns, and has since been lulled into a sense of social invulnerability. This time, circumstance and an angry shopkeeper seem intent to spoil the illusion.

Just my luck. Sala glowers at the man. "Get out of my way." She takes a defiant bite of the candy bar and pushes past the obstacle.

The clerk follows for a few strides, blathering about honest work and civil responsibility. Now less than a block from her destination, Sala taps her sidearm and considers the pros and cons of just shooting him. Eventually, a middle-aged woman chimes in, stealing the clerk's attention and the two pause to have a lengthy discussion about the decline of society and their shared, sober observations of humanity's failings. Sala walks into the coffee shop on the corner, oblivious to the two self-appointed watchers of mankind.

"Damn. There's, like, ten of these jerks in line here." Sala grimaces as she steps in to see the overlong queue.

"Will you - uuuggh - be able to get it in time?" Oleb asks over the earpiece.

"Yeah, I got this," Sala strides confidently to the front of the line and shoves her way to the counter, glancing for a moment at the furious patrons. "Official police business!” The fraudulent police woman places a firm hand on the counter and looks sternly at the girl in a brown apron. “Coffee person, give me a cup of coffee! Stat!"

“Uh…” The girl looks apologetically at the other patrons in line, then back at her companion manning the espresso machine. His blank expression offers no help. “Um. Yeah, sure. What size?”

“Make it big.” Sala nods assuredly.

“That’s a…” the barista seems ready to educate her on the correct naming conventions of serving sizes, but thinks better of it. “That will be a large black roast?”

“I dunno,” Sala’s confidence begins to crack, “that’s how coffee usually works, right?”

“Of course. I just want to make sure you want a brewed coffee and not an espresso.” The young lady smiles helpfully and points to the sign above her head.

Sala squints at it. “Wait, which one has that foamy stuff on top?”

“A macchiato?” The barista suggests. “Or… maybe a latté?”

“Whichever one Damien usually gets.”

The barista smiles glassily and glances around, wondering if she’s the only one hearing this conversation. “Who? Does he work here?” She looks back at the man on the espresso machine, and he does his best to appear deaf so as to avoid being drawn into this farce.

“Can we hurry this along?” A small, balding man in a charcoal suit lays a thick, sweaty hand on the counter.

Sala ignores him and twists her mouth thoughtfully. “Maybe if I see what it looks like. How long will it take to make everything?”

Oleb whines into her earpiece again. “Sala! We don’t have time for this!”

The suit chimes in as well. “You shoved to the front of the line and you don’t even know your order??” He becomes red in the face. “Police business my ass! I should report you to the-”

Sala silences him with a wave. “Obstruction of justice.” Before he can object further, she turns to the confused girl with a smile. “Big Mackayoto. Stat!” Sala slams a wad of crumpled, slightly moist bills on the counter. “Keep the change.”

The girl gapes at what must be over 100 dollars. “Um…” she smiles politely, “big macchiato right away.” She looks back at the man on the espresso machine, who is now eyeing the wad of cash. The girl slyly stashes the bills and glares smugly at him. “You heard the officer.”

Sala leans casually against the counter while the pions on the other side fill her order. The angry suit saddles up to the register and curtly rattles off his order which, judging by the number of items, must be for his entire office and then some. Sala tries to glare a hole in the side of his head. And this asshole was getting on my case, was he?

She quickly tires of murdering the suit with concentrated hatred and tries instead to catch the eye of a young man with curly black hair and an eyebrow piercing. Sala waves awkwardly and he glances up from his phone. “You like jokes?” The man’s eyes dart back and forth and he responds with a shrug.

“Sala. Focus.” Oleb pleads. She turns off the receiver and smiles widely at her new beau.

“Alright, so there’s a donkey, a cow, and a sheep and they’re just chilling out in a field eating and crapping like they do. So they see the farmer coming and the donkey says ‘He looks like he’s seen a ghost. What do you suppose happened to him?’ The cow says ‘I was in the north fields last night and I saw a strange light over his house. Maybe aliens got him.’” Sala pauses to chuckle. The young man looks back at his phone. “Meanwhile, the farmer is stumbling around like a drunk. The sheep’s like-”

“Ma’am? Officer?” The girl behind the counter holds out a cup.

“Ah!” Sala grabs the beverage and shrugs at the curly-haired man. “To be continued.” He deftly ignores her as she trots triumphantly out the door.

“Oleb, I have the item. How are we doing on time? ...Oleb? You dead? Oh!” Sala realizes she never re-enabled the earpiece and switches it back on. “I’m en-route. How we doin’, boss?”

“He’s here.” The voice hisses. “The Auditor is here. Get to the headquarters now.”

“Stall him!” Sala commands, trying her best to sprint without disturbing the delicate foam atop the beverage. “I’m five minutes away!” She knows it’s a lie.

Sala’s sprint quickly morphs into a trot, then gradually into a brisk walk. She stretches her free arm over her head and tries to ease a traitorous side-stitch. She silently curses the sacrifices she makes for all mankind. Or at least coffee.

Sala stops at a plain door set into a wall of particle board. The shop front is sealed off with a banner promising the imminent arrival of a store that appears to deal exclusively in pottery and throw-pillows. Sala glances at her watch and nods in self-satisfaction at the fact that her five-minute marathon has only taken a little over nine minutes to complete. She opens the door.

Her eyes take a few moments to adjust to the darkened interior. A foul stench fills her nostrils and a pair of hushed voices fall entirely silent upon her arrival. Two hunched figures fade into focus huddled around a small table in the back of the sparsely furnished room. A sad fern wilts in the corner.

“Agent Sala.” A familiar voice greets her. A thin figure rises from the table and approaches. Oleb is a lanky old black man with a sharply trimmed beard, his features withered and strained. His rumpled button-up shirt is stained a pinkish hue and his brown slacks leak something onto his loafers. Sala suspects he hasn’t bothered to change his clothes since acquiring this body. He extends a sweaty hand and Sala recoils in disgust.

“Did you shit yourself?” She plugs her nose and tries to enforce a minimum distance from the reeking cadaver.

“Yes,” Oleb replies without a hint of embarrassment, “I suspect I have but a few hours remaining in this one. Please, The Auditor-”

“-Is quite losing his patience.” The shadowy bulk still sitting at the table growls. “Could we get this over with?”

Sala’s eyes adjust enough to the darkness to finally make out this fearsome bureaucrat. What she finds is quite unexpected. The morbidly obese man is hairless except for a heart-shaped carpet of black fur on his chest. He appears at first to be entirely naked, but Sala spots the promise of a fuzzy pink thong somewhere beneath the voluminous folds of skin. His beady black eyes glare at her from beneath an obscene tattoo inscribed in the middle of his forehead.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Sala’s mouth blurts out before her brain gets the chance to advise otherwise.

“I would expect you could answer that.” The Auditor spits through two lipstick-smeared lips. “This form was among the default selections you provided, was it not?”

Sala opens and closes her mouth a few times as, among hazy memories of bourbon and ecstasy, the image of a bloated, hideous clown dances in her mind and into the “Physical Form Database” directory marked “default.” It had seemed funnier at the time. She smiles. “I must have mislabelled that. It’s… a regal form? Like a king.” She tries to smile more convincingly and silently begs for some weed to take the edge off.

The Auditor glances at his baby-oiled body. “Odd,” he grunts, then looks back at her with his eyes that seem too close together for his face. “No matter, I won’t be keeping it long. Why have you requested this special review?”

Oleb steps forward. “Thank you for your time, Honorable Chief Auditor- URP.” Something splashes on the floor and Oleb collapses face-first onto the edge of the table, falls to the floor, then becomes very still. Sala and The Auditor stare in silence, either considering how they might help, or more likely, considering the etiquette of continuing their meeting over his corpse. A grunt and a shudder from the body reveals he has not yet expired. “Pardon.” Oleb’s weak voice is slurred as he tries to lift himself to his feet. He repeats the apology. “Pardon. I… we thank you…”

The Auditor puts up a pudgy hand. “Prime Agent Oleb, perhaps you could use some fresh air?”

“No, urk, I’ll see this through. I don’t - hurk - want to waste any more of your time.” His face drips with sweat and other fluids as he forces himself to stand on shaky legs.

The Auditor grits his teeth. “I’m sure your protégé can handle this review. Please-”

“Get the hell out!” Sala bellows at the shivering mess of a man. “You stink like hell, man!”

Oleb looks to the Auditor, who confirms the sentiment with a nod, then sheepishly limps towards the door. Sala and The Auditor watch in silence as the pathetic, shambling creature, with some difficulty, turns the knob and finds his way out into the late-morning air.

As soon as the door closes behind him, The Auditor grunts in disgust. “Please tell me that’s abnormal for these things.”

“Yeah,” Sala shrugs, “I think he’s allergic to their bodies. He has to get a new one every week or so and I guess central never quite figured out what’s wrong. They called it ‘auto-immune failure’ or something. He’s pretty much been constantly dying over-and-over since we got here.”

“When we’re done here, I intend to identify how many bodies he’s requisitioned. That seems like a simply inexcusable waste of resources.” The Auditor’s beady eyes train on Sala, who has taken a seat and is sipping casually on her coffee. “Speaking of an inexcusable waste of resources, what exactly do you have that you believe can salvage this fiasco?”

Sala straightens up suddenly. “Yeah! Mr. Auditor, thank you for your time, much appreciated, yadda-yadda-yadda.” She rushes through the pleasantries, oblivious to the mounting rage on The Auditor’s round face, and pushes the coffee cup across the table to him. “I give you: coffee! Go ahead, give it a try!”

The rage on The Auditor’s face abates only enough to make room for confusion. “A beverage?”

“This, my good man,” Sala does her best impression of an infomercial power-seller, “is the pinnacle of craft. It is an art unknown throughout the universe.” She lifts the lid, prepared to wow him with the lovely patterns in the foam, only to find the foam itself has long-since flattened and mixed into the coffee. Her shoulders slump a fraction. “Just give it a taste.”

The Auditor sighs, lifts the cup to his lips, and violently expels the mouthful of brown liquid in a fine spray. “Ugh! It tastes terrible!”

Sala’s shrugs. “I guess it’s an acquired taste.” She takes the cup and sips at it in disappointment.

The Auditor taps a small orb on the table and it begins to glow. He glares intently at it for a moment, then grunts. “I was sure I had misread your message, but here it is, a request for Executive Review. ‘Item of second order progression’ it says.” He snatches the cup before Sala can take another sip and glares furiously. “Do you know what ‘second order progression’ means? Do you know how substantially you have failed to meet that mark with this putrescent water??”

“Oleb wrote that. He might have gotten a bit overzealous.” Sala fishes through her pockets for a joint, and pulls out a black pamphlet advertising a stripper named “Mike Hardon.” She crumples it up and tosses it absentmindedly. “Listen, it’s a cultural achievement. It at least makes eighth order progression, which means further analysis, right? Just give us an extension and I think you’ll see this planet’s population has reached well beyond the minimum requirement for retention.”

“If it’s so advanced, perhaps you should have mentioned that in your report.”

“We did!” Sala objects, then struggles to remember what she actually reported. There was certainly something about cars, she assures herself.

The Auditor once again studies the glowing orb. “I see you turned in a single page on which is simply written: ‘Golden Girls’-”

“That’s a classic. You're definitely a Dorothy.” Sala points out. He seems unimpressed, so she quickly fills in the details. “Also, it’s part of a complex cultural and technological achievement called television.”

“-‘The Yellow Monster’-”

“Yeah, that’s what we call my friend John’s car. It’s a piece of crap, really, but it’s great for doing donuts on the beach.” Sala confesses to herself that perhaps that was not made entirely clear in the report. “But it’s a machine that produces motion via repetitive chemical combustion, which I’m pretty sure is a technical milestone.”

“-And ‘all the porn’.” The Auditor holds in his seething rage and awaits her hasty clarification.

“Oh,” Sala considers, “yeah, that’s probably the internet. It’s a world-wide communications platform. It’s mostly porn, but there’s other stuff too.”

“And how was Central expected to glean this information from three cryptic phrases?”

“I dunno!” The young agent throws her hands up in frustration. “Honestly, I sent it to Oleb, and he never gave me any feedback. I figured he would have filled in the gaps before sending it. He’s the senior agent on this, after all, so he should have known better.”

The Auditor buries his face in his pudgy hands and groans for a rather impressively long time. His rage seems to melt into despair, then apathy. The fat man sits upright and speaks evenly in his bureaucratic monotone. “Agent Sala, do you have anything further to provide for this Executive Review?”

Sala looks at her coffee cup and frowns. She had been quite insistent with Oleb that it was sure to change Central’s decision on the matter, but now her brilliant plan seems to have fallen apart. She wonders where things went awry. Then she gets an idea. “Actually, they have this great joke. I think you’ll like it. So there’s a donkey, a cow, and a sheep-”

“If you have nothing further to provide, I now declare this Executive Review complete. Please decouple with this physical form and report to System HQ. Reclamation will commence in eight minutes.” He taps the small glowing orb and it vanishes.

“Wait, come on!” Sala cries. “Give me some time to beef up the review! These creatures have clearly surpassed the retention benchmark, and I think there’s a lot here for them to offer. Give us another week-”

“Denied!” The Auditor bellows, pushing the small table and knocking Sala from her chair. She dives and expertly catches the coffee cup before it spills its contents on the floor. “This is the most egregious failure I have ever witnessed! What the hell have you been doing here??” He puts a hand up to stop her answering. “I don’t care. Decouple your form and report to System HQ.”

Sala stands, cradling the coffee cup, and grimaces. “So you’re just going to slate a complex societal ecosystem for reclamation just because you don’t like our report? That’s cold, man.”

“I loved your report.” The Auditor’s face suddenly twists into a sinister smile. With a flick, the small sphere once again brightens. “It was very conclusive. ‘No coherent language… basic improvised tools… makeshift shelters are the epitome of technology.... so on.’ That sounds pretty conclusive to me.” He sees the shock and confusion on Sala’s face and sits back smugly. “You can read the rest when you get to System. It may be worth knowing the details of your own findings.”

“I never wrote this.” Sala stares, mouth agape.

“No, your predecessor did. Last review cycle.” The Auditor once again darkens the sphere. “I just made a few creative edits to throw off suspicion.”

“Why? Why would you do this?”

The Auditor strokes his naked chest absentmindedly. “You keep up much with Central’s course decisions? I suspect not. You don’t seem like the type to read… anything, really. Well, as it happens, the newest generation genesis-seed process is rolling out, and they need some test locations. A lot of the higher-ups are very excited to make way for the future, and it’s our job to make that happen.”

Sala’ mulls this over for a moment. “Prick.”

The Auditor frowns. “We all stand to make a nice bonus for this find. I recommend you stay quiet if you don’t want to ruin that for yourself.”

“And what if I talk?”

“I suspect it wouldn’t be too difficult to get Prime Agent Oleb to sign off on this. It would be your word against ours.” The Auditor shrugs and stands. “Besides, I think you’ll find any further appeal will come too late. Enjoy the rest of your brown beverage. You have… six minutes until reclamation. Decouple or be decoupled forcefully. Your choice, I don’t care.”

Sala wags a finger indignantly, but before she can object any further, The Auditor suddenly collapses to the floor into a lifeless heap. “Hey!” Sala stands and pokes the corpse with her foot, then delivers a few forceful kicks. “What a dick,” she grumbles. She reaches into her pockets for a joint and comes back empty.

Sala grabs her coffee and brings it to her lips to take a sip. Something in her pocket vibrates and she pulls out her dented flip-phone. It’s Damien. “You got Sala.”

“Hey Trouble, you still up to no good?” Damien’s cheerful voice annoys her.

“Just finished,” she replies, “I kinda’ fucked up and now the world’s gonna’ end.”

“That sucks. You still going to John’s thing tonight?”

No point in getting into things now. “Yeah, see you there,” Sala shrugs. She stares down into her coffee cup. “Hey, you want to hear a joke?”

“Sorry, I gotta’ run. See you tonight.”

Sala frowns at her phone, then tosses it lazily over her shoulder. She shuffles sullenly out the plywood door and onto the sidewalk. Sala blinks in the morning light, then glances down at the rumpled mass that is Oleb’s body. “You still in there, O?”

“Yesh…” Oleb whispers. “How’d it go?”

“Reclamation.” Sala replies flatly, then leans against the wall and stares absently up at the towering buildings above.

“Thank the stars,” Oleb moans. “Oh, sorry. I know how much…” He trails off, seemingly ready to pass out.

“Forget about it. Go ahead and decouple.”

“What about you?”

Sala shrugs. “Figure I’ll just…” she raises her cup. “Can’t let this go to waste.”

Suddenly, a breathless woman in her mid-fifties rounds the street corner on stubby legs, waving her purse. “Señor, I found a phone! I called an ambulance!” She spots Sala and slows her stride. “Ah, gracias! Officer, this man is very ill!” She signals the motionless Oleb.

Sala takes a sip from her cup and nudges the recumbent figure with her foot. He’s already decoupled. “Yeah, he’s dead.”

“Dios Mío!” Purse Lady brings a hand to her face and sinks slowly onto the edge of a bus stop bench. “Dios mío. I… He was so ill. How could such a thing…?”

“Eh,” Sala moseys over and lounges beside the distraught woman, “everybody’s gonna die.”

The woman is taken aback. “How can you speak so heartlessly?”

Sala glances up at the sky. “You know what’ll help you feel better? A joke.” She smiles and waits for the older woman to jump with enthusiasm, but powers forward when she remains silent.

“Alright. So, there’s a donkey, a cow, and a sheep, and they’re all on a hill just munching on grass when they see the farmer stumbling up the hill. The donkey says ‘He looks like he’s seen a ghost. What do you suppose happened to him?’ The cow says ‘I was out in the fields last night and saw lights over his house. Maybe the aliens got him.’ The farmer’s walking around like he’s drunk, and the sheep says ‘What would aliens want with an old bastard like that?’ and the cow says ‘I’ve been taken by aliens before. They did experiments and gave me an anal probe.’ The sheep’s eyes get wide and it says ‘What’s an anal probe?’ The donkey’s like-”

“Is this a vulgar joke?” Sala freezes in the excited half-standing posture of an impending crescendo, and stares at the sour face of the Purse Lady. “I don’t like vulgar jokes.”

“It’s… I…” Sala purses her lips, then slumps back down onto the bench. “Fine.” She absently reaches for the cup of coffee beside her, misjudges the distance, and knocks it over, spilling the contents all over the sidewalk. She curses under her breath and stuffs her hands in her pockets. “You know, I’ve had the worst day.”

It’s at just about this time when the gamma rays hit the upper atmosphere. Anybody looking up at the sky might notice a stark color shift from blue to a deep indigo. By the time the optical messages reach their brain, they have little time to process the unusual phenomenon before being incinerated in a bath of supercharged photons. When the beams reach the surface of the Earth, despite a valiant effort from the planet’s atmosphere and magnetic field, they pack approximately 4.5 gigawatts of incinerating power per square meter, sufficient to vaporize most organic materials in less than a second, not to mention a few inches of dirt and stone beneath them.

Sala’s consciousness quickly decouples from its temporary physical form, which has become a rapidly expanding cloud of free atomic particles, and beams reluctantly to System Command. She delays for just a moment, though, deciding that she represents the last mind on this planet, and tries to come up with something poetic to think about in the off chance that final thoughts may linger on a planet’s soul. In the end, all she can come up with is: At least it was worth a good laugh.

The End.

[howtohero]

#206 Rural Superheroes

When most of picture superheroes they picture brooding men and women with capes draped around their shoulders and standing on buildings doing their best gargoyle impressions. Or you see them swinging and slinging around crowded streets using buildings as anchors. Or you see them hunched in a sewer eating pizza with their sewer-gator sidekicks after a long day of fighting crime. You definitely don’t imagine them standing next to a big pile of hay and holding a pitchfork and wearing overalls. (Guys I’m talking a huge pile of hay. Like the kind that looks like it’d be amazing to be dropped out of an airplane onto.) If you’ve never imagined a superhero stopping some disgraced middle school guidance counselor from rewriting reality and then going back home to milk the cows and tend to the corn then you’re just part of the problem. You need to reevaluate your personal biases. That’s right people, you heard it hear first! Superheroes can be countryfolk! And that’s a fact!

For some reason, lots of people think that the only reason any superhero would be in a rural area was if they were like, I don’t know, hiding their secret family on a secret farm. But that’s simply not true! In fact, that’s a terrible idea! Rural areas are not a safer place for your family to be, you know what kind of crimes go down in rural areas? Really weird ones. I’m talking like cow-related crimes. (Once the evil Cowcatcher built a giant cow robot to roam about rural Kansas just mooing really really loudly and scaring the stuffing out of everyone! That was a heck of a Thursday!) That’s just not normal! Don’t set up a secret farm to keep your family safe, just have a normal secret identity like everyone else and your family will be fine. 

So if you live in a rural area and have been looking around at all the insane cow-crimes that happen in your neighborhood and felt that you had no choice except to throw your hands up, shake your head, and exclaim “Aw shucks, if only there could be superheroes in rural areas!” Then you’re in luck! There can be superheroes in rural areas! I’m serious, we had our interns check the laws and there’s nothing saying that it can’t be done! (Except for the laws about vigilantism and stuff but they’ve got those laws in the cities too and nobody seems to care!). 

If you’re going to be a rural superhero though, you need to know that you’re going to have to operate a little bit differently than an urban crime fighter, but that doesn’t make you any less super! (What makes rural heroes less super is the fact that their are just less toxic-waste corporations in Middleofnowheresville, USA than there are in Heartoftheactionsville, USA.) For starters, you’re going to have an entirely different wardrobe in the country. Instead of grays and blacks you’re going to want to go with beautiful verdant greens and some mud-like gritty browns. If you’re going to be prowling around vast empty fields patrolling for cow-tippers and and goat-suckers, you’re going to want to look like a field. Glue bits of grass onto your costume, tape a live pig to your back, roll around in some manure. If you’re going to protect the farm you need to become the farm. 

Living in a rural area also drastically changes the options for both superhero hideouts and supervillain lairs. While urban heroes might find their superhero adventures taking place in corporate offices with mysterious secret floors or abandoned subway tunnels that have become home to an evil rat hive mind, for rural heroes it’s gonna be all barns all the time. Barns make for rather spacious superhero hideouts, there’s plenty of room for any gear or computers you might need for crime stopping and conducting illegal investigations, you can convert any stables into holding cells or trophy cases, and if any civilians wander on by all you need to do is cover everything with a layer of hay and no one will be the wiser! Rural supervillains are also very likely to use barns as their lairs, their’s will just be littered with disemboweled animals and fake cobwebs from the halloween popup store because they have a taste for the creepier things in life. While a barn might not be as glamorous as a time-displaced spaceship or a high-tech cave, they are competent and cost-effective hideouts and are good enough for any countryside-crusader. The only think you have to look out for is Jhonny McBarnburner whose entire thing is burning barns and would probably be more than happy to set a superhero’s barn on fire. That’s like a double-whammy, and such opportunities are rare in Jhonny McBarnburner’s life. Honestly, you should’ve been there when he first discovered that some barns were actually secret superhero hideouts. It was actually kind of adorable. His whole entire face lit up, it was as though he’d finally be validated for his extremely niche modus operandi after all these years. So honestly, I say you capitalize on his newfound enthusiasm for barn burning and frame uninhabited barns for being superhero hideouts. This can be as simple as just putting a sign in the ground that says “superhero hideout” in front of random abandoned barns. That should throw him off your scent for a while.

Getting around rural areas is very different from getting around crowded cities. There’s not a lot of people around so you’re not likely to run into a lot of traffic, but at the same time, populated areas are very far from each other. Even the distance between individual houses is much larger than the distance between any manmade structures in a big city. There are also a lot less superheroes per capita. All of this means you’re going to be responsible for protecting a very large open area. Which means you’re going to need a very specific kind of super-vehicle. You need something that’s fast, something bright so people will see it on poorly lit country roads, something that’s doused in cow-repellant or whatever to keep animals out of your way. It needs to have off-road capabilities, because if there’s a crime being committed in the middle of a farm or on top of a mountain, you don’t want to have to ditch your vehicle and jog to the crime. That’s a great way for crimes to happen. You really should not put so much faith in your jogging abilities. You can’t jog up a mountain, but you can drive an obscene vehicle up one. That’s what makes it obscene. You also might as well drive something fuel efficient, something that runs off of vegetable oil or something, there’s plenty of it around. 

Rural superheroes are also often, believe it or not, the first heroes on Earth to encounter alien invaders. Aliens just love alerting mankind to their presence through carving crop-circles and stealing cows. Depending on the species this can be anything from a harmless prank to a signed declaration of war. (Often the cow thing is because to most alien species, cows appear to be the most intelligent species on Earth. I mean, they live in their food, that’s just smart.) So you need to be prepared to single-handedly fight off an invading force at a moment’s notice. So I hope you’ve got some corn-powered laser blasters at your disposal, because you’re gonna need them sooner rather than later.

When it comes to crime fighting partners, you may find yourself in short supply. Heroes like Old MacDonald-Man or Crop-Top describe the loneliness as the most difficult part of rural crime fighting. In big cities you can’t walk more than five feet before bumping into someone who spends their nights wearing spandex and laying the smackdown on evil puzzle enthusiasts or finger-puppeteers. But in the country you’re likely to never run into another superhero in your neighborhood. That’s why you need to take on an animal sidekick. Fortunately, rural communities are a great place to find some domesticated animals that would be down to come fight crimes with you. In order to determine which farm animals would be the best crime fighting partners we actually took a husbandry course. (Ok, you got us, Dr. Brainwave got engaged and we all chipped in and paid for him to go to a husbandry course so he could learn how to be a good husband and the rest of us went for emotional support but it turns out none of knew what husbandry was and we were not in the right place but we learned a lot and had fun and it turned out that Dr. Brainwave’s engagement was fake and part of some villainous scheme to poison the concept of weddings or something so it didn’t matter anyway.) During this course we learned a lot about the breeding of crops and animals and we have scientifically determined that the best possible animal sidekick for a rural superhero is a goat on roller blades. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Are you idiots joking? You guys go on and on and on and on about how roosters are the best animal sidekicks and now you’re going to come at me and say that goats are the best animal sidekick for a rural superhero? Are you kidding me? Is this a joke?” First of all, yeah, everything we say is a joke. This is a comedy blog. And second of all, hey tone back the attitude why don’t you? Gosh you’re being real hostile about this. Roosters are the ideal superhero sidekick for urban or space-faring superheroes. But they’re useless for rural superheroes. Roosters are great for waking you up? Rural-superheroes already wake up with the sun to tend to their crops, don’t need a rooster. Roosters can fly? No crimes are committed in the skyline of a rural community. There is no skyline. Anybody can scramble to the roof of the local post office or pitchfork wholesaler, don’t need a rooster. Roosters can attack your enemies with their sharp beaks and talons? Uh, hello, pitchfork wholesaler? There’s no shortage of sharp farming tools that rural superheroes can use in lieu of a beak or talons, don’t need a rooster. A goat on roller blades on the other hand, can thoroughly mess a criminal up. Imagine all the rage and power of a common goat, but with the speed of roller blades? You rural criminals may as well just pack it in, you’re not getting away with anything with Thunderbolt Cannonberg, goat superhero, on the scene. 

Crime is everywhere, even in the idyllic countryside. So don’t be afraid to be the change you’d like to see in your community and start fighting back against the chupacabra or Terrence, the kid who steals pigs. If you follow these tips, and take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the land and sky around you every once in a while, you should have a wonderful and productive career as a sylvan superhero.

[onexxus]

Thats So Us - South Park fic (beta)

Since I don’t have a AO3 account yet, I thought why not post this here. Leave a comment and your thoughts. English is not my first language and this has not been beta read yet. Thank you !  ------------------------------------------------- "Are you sure , you just don't wanna stay at home and help your mom out , son? " Randy said in a pleating voice. Stan stood at the door , suitcase in hand , awaiting his taxi to the Colorado collage campus. It was a bleak Saturday morning, just a full weekend before the start of the semester. He know some of his 'old gang' had already arrived there by now. "Randy, don't be so dramatic. You weren't dramatic when Shelly left either. " Sharon sneered at her husband, who was nearly crying. Okay, scratch that he was bawling his eyes out. Stan simply sighed and rolled his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose. " Dad, please. It's not like I am going off the world map. Come on dude..." He sighed deeply.  He surely had cried the nights before, not only because Wendy decided to break up the night before he would leave, but also because he had so many memories here in South Park.  He hugged his parents one last time and waved his 110 year old grandfather good-bye.  The taxicardriver had already opened up the trunk and the door ,signing him to get in.  Stan got his suitcase in and get in the taxi, who quickly and mercilessly drive off to his destination. For a Saturday before the start of the new semester it was fairly quiete. At least so Stan thought. He had always assumed that it would just like high school. But with more groups and culture. The lad with dark hair and a beanie left the taxi, payed the man and unloaded his suitcase from the trunk. As the taxi drove off again, he came to realise how alone he was right now. Of course he knew he would meet up with some of friends again who were studying here as well. He and Butters would follow the same courses for most of the time . Kyle would probably be with him during calculus classes, seeing he was following some lawyer course or accountant.  He wasn't sure what Kenny would be doing , he did enter college as well. But he was always a tad vague on what he'd wanted to major in. Miraculously Eric had also joined the campus grounds. Stan wasn't too thrilled about it, but it was nice knowing a lot of familiar faces were here. It made him feel less anxious. He stepped onto his dorms porch and walked inside. Some fellow students were chilling and gaming in the living area , others were talking by dorm rooms. It seemed fairly okay and normal.   " FREE THE TIDDIES ,WOOOOHHH!!" A dude steaker ran past Stan.  ' Wait was that... Kenny?' He thought, but shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.  Yes, just a normal and well-behaved dorm. He continued to follow the room numbers until he arrived at his assigned door. He knew he would get a roommate, but was happy he was ,so far, the only one there for the time being . He set up his stuff, unloaded his suitcase but kept his ukulele in it's bag and placed it near his desk. He decided to hang up some posters and place a photo album near his bed.  When he wanted to grab some of his clothes out of his bag, a collar fell out. It was of his dog Sparky who had passed away a few years back. He held it close and wrapped it around his wrist.  One of the reasons he wanted to major as a vetrenarian , was so he could perhaps help out animals , which he always had a deep interested for.   Once he had everything set up he layed down on his bed, resting his eyes.   --- Stan was always one of the popular people in school. No matter where he’d go, either his usual gang or some people he had never met talked so easily to him. It be about small talk, it be deep conversations about aliens or how cows digest their food. It was never boring to talk to the raven haired boy with the red poofball hat. He remembered getting it for his birthday from his grandparents. Back when they both were healthy and had joy in life. It wasn’t until after his grandmother had to move to a nursing home and his grandfather got worse, things slowly started to get more depressing. Funny how some small events, have such big impacts. His folks would fight more often, or perhaps he just noticed it more. His sister never really cared much for him, at least once he had his friends. Not that it really mattered, he had Kyle, Kenny and Cartman and Wendy Testaburger. Beautiful Wendy, they had on and off relationships more frequent that a light switch. He didn’t really get it, but they somehow managed to be together. Though in the later years it was more a facade than anything else. Still it really broke his heart this time. She wanted to have nothing to do anymore with him. Where it go wrong? Well, Stan knew where it went wrong. It was the weekend after the graduation party. And it was going to be a beautiful night, perfect for a date. He wanted to have a special night with Wendy, before he ran off to college. They had been having a great time again, after a mini pause in their relationship. The usual. They would go for dinner, a movie and remorse about memories they had of their little town in Colorado. Of the South Park elementary years and high school years. Stan got Wendy to his place, his room. He had planned it all out, his parents were out of town. His sister already out of the house and on her own. The two ravens would be together and spend the night together. Like they should have. They would have been drenched in each others sweet and waking up in the morning together, that was how it should have gone.  “Stan, what the fuck is this. Are you… Are you – “ Wendy couldn’t get the words out, holding a journal in her hands. A journal, belonging to Stan. “Jesus, Wendy don’t through my stuf-“ Before Stan could even finish Wendy pushed the journal in his hands. “You know what Stan, fuck you, this is over. Forget about anything. Have a great time experimenting at college. Or - right,  never mind, you already did. “ Crying, Wendy Testaburger ran out of the boy his room. Normaly Wendy was very understanding of stuff like this, but this was Stan. The boy she had been going out with since 3rd grade. The boy who changed for her, tried so many times to patch things up and still somehow made her feel special. The boy who had been through some pretty stupid shit, but would tell his girlfriend everything. The were no lies or big secrets in this ‘light switch’ relationship. Stan had promised her so many times , she was the only one he would ever love. And now that she had seen a differnt side of him, it almost seemed like he had cheated on her and made a fool of her. At least , that is how she felt. Continueing to cry, she ran away from the boys room, his house, his street.  The boy, falling into a slum , he grabbed the bottle of jack and Daniels from his drawer and began drinking it away like no tomorrow.  He sat up on his bed, crying and ripping each page from his journal. He looked at his phone. He could have called her, but he knew it wouldn’t solve anything. She now knew, a secret he had carried with him since 6th grade. He looked through his phone numbers, Kyle being on top of the list. His super best friend. Sure they had a major fall out somewhere in 2016, but somehow they managed to patch things up. He pressed ‘call’ and hoped for the best. Kyle had been on holiday in New Jersey for the summer until he’d go to college. The same college Stan would enter in about a small 2 nights.   It remained silent. “Hey, it’s Kyle –“   “Kyle, I-“   “-I’m not hear right now, so leave a mesg. “ Stan sighed and dropped his phone from his hand onto his bed. Tears rolling down his pale face.  “Guess it’s just you and me now…. Heh…” insanely laughing and raising his -already half emptied - second bottle to the photo of him and Sparky.  ---  “ Guess it’s you and me now.” A familiar voice said. Stan heard a door open and close, opening his eyes in front of him stood a man with ginger hair, styled but still a mess. He sat up straight on his bed when he recognised who the figure was. “ Kyle?!” Overly happy to see his friend he sprinted out of bed and glomped him. Stan noticed the boy who he had spent nearly his whole life with, had grown a bit taller since last time they’ve seen each other.   Kyle had arrived about a week earlier, not by own choice but more because Gerald and Sheyla had pushed him to do so. “So you can prepare. “Those words echoed through the ginger-haired boy.   His dad had drove him to campus and although he didn’t exactly like that idea, he had a few nice short convos with him. Though, he slept through most of the ride anyway.   Once there he had said good bye again to his dad before going off onto the campus ground with a way too heavy suitcase his parents packed for him. He would’ve much rather done it himself, but he guessed starting an argument before he left wasn’t a smart idea. His parents did sign him up for this college and funded the majority. Even though it wasn’t anything in his dream job field, he didn’t hate it. And the paycheck wouldn’t be too bad. Kyle quickly found his room and got settled in. He unpacked most of his stuff from his gigaton weighing suitcases. It was mostly just clothes and a few trinkets. He hanged all the clothes in his closet and put some books and a laptop on his desk. Even though it seemed like his folks had packed an entire house for him, the room was pretty much still empty. He didn’t have a roommate yet, but frankly he didn’t want one either. He just wanted to spend some relaxing alone time in his room not to be joined by some assdouche that smoked weed or played loud music. He didn’t mind any parties though, which were bound to happen at some point in dorms like this. He just wasn’t too fond of having chaos in a small confined room, that was meant for studying and sleeping. Plus, he had to share his space with a younger brother, parents and friends that would visit whenever they pleased. So, for once having a place to himself, was such a freedom.   He did imagine that, yes. He however did not imagine a few days later he would step into the room seeing his super best friend Stan again. It was pleasure to share that small piece of freedom with him.   “Hey, dude. “  

[britishchick09]

dnp’s hometown showdown livewatch

dan and phil are back!!! we’re going back to basics with this one... putting thoughts down (with no screenshots!) while we watch it live! it’s just like the ‘yellow submarine’ livewatch that started it all and i know it’ll be just as fun! :D

here’s the only pic of the livewatch...

littly philly watching the show with me! :D

it starts in 10 minutes! the chat is so excited! :D (and so am i!)

it’s 5 minutes now! :D

omg 1 MINUTE UNTIL SHOWTIME!!!!!

the trailer is epic! :D

OMG PREMIERE WILL BEGIN SHORTLY AHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

IT’S 10:00 IT’S TIIIIIME

THE HYPE IS REAL!!!!

omg THERE WAS AN AD BEFORE THE COUNTDOWN YT WHYYYY

the new countdown isn’t as cool as the old one :/

1 MINUTE!!!!

LESS THAN 30 SECONDS!!!!!!!!

someone in the chat just said ‘theres wasps in my brain’ :D

10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1

IT STARTINGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LETS GOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!

ooh house icons!

phil is the narrator! :D

phil: “two best buddies!” lol :D

dan: “WOT!” lol

“some guy called ‘daniel howel’ lol :D

this is local AF

dan’s on the railway!

phil’s on a train! :o

phil: “SUP NERD!” lol :D

“welcome to the north!” the greaat north! :D

“you’re the most extra person in the whole world.” erik anyone? ;)

dan wants ‘the police on hand’ omg! :o

phil already lost because of the town name!

the train car is beautiful! :)

WOT

cake tap! :D

phil: “suns out GUNS OUT” ohhhh!!!! :D

omg there’s a hole in a wood thing! :o

doggies!!! :D

NAMED SUSAN AWWWW :D

aaaand phil just runs off

with more pups! :D

dan to the pups: “hell-o! hell-o!” aww :D

just two lads walking their doggos! :D

phil was a dog walker! :o

the town is so pretty! :)

dan said it’s ‘charming as heck’ head! :D

WHY IS THERE A CRIME SCENE CAR

so many people names!

aww phil wants dan to get a trim!

phil teeth banged a girl! :o

THEY CALL FOOD ‘SCRAN’??? :o

of course phil wants snacks!

the ‘phil’s special’? :o

dan: “it’s working damnit.” lol! :D

dan: “cruising around town with a pack of bishes!’ lol! :D

ooh they’re at a temperance bar! :o

phil: “it’s like a party in my mouth and only my tongue is invited!” ooh nice! :D

dan: “you’re gonna run out of steam.” train: *steams!*

aww dan thinks it’s nice!

he’s reluctantly having a nice day! :)

ooh cows! :o

there’s an alien thing! :o

it’s a halo!

phil: “take me home alien daddy!” omg! :o

aww phil felt like an alien :(

yay treats!!! :D

omg a big cake cookie! :o

ooh spice cake!

p a r k i n

grandma’s house was ‘a little bit of tobacco and a lot of parkin’ lol :D

his town is doing well! :D

OMG ‘DANNY’

pure adrenaline time! :o

OMG 80s LADS

they got dressed for a joke lol!

7 SECOND CHALLENGE!!!!!!!

dan spelled rossondale backwards omg! :o

dan: “GET YEETED!”

phil can’t spell ‘snow’ backwards only screams! :o

dan: “rossondale is really lit, my friend phil IS A TWIT!” OHHHHH

dan: “PUT A CUPPA ON FOR YA WOULD YA???’ so northern!

phil recreated his first yt video! :D

dan sang ‘get wreeecked!’ :D

aww dan never cared about where he was from :/

BUT NOW HE DOES TO BEAT PHILLY

OMG TRAIN

phil’s just waiting :)

train: “BEEEEP!!!!” phil: *waits* train: “BEEEEP!!!!” phil: *waits*

DAN HAS A SMOL TRAIN

dan: “CHOO CHOO BISH.” lol!

dan: “FULL STEAM AHEA- ...well medium steam ahead.” lol! :D

omg dan’s doing everything phil did but slightly better!

winnersh is so nice! :D

very green just like rossondale!

omg doggies in the bin???

LLAMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!

aww they’re so nice! :)

winnersh is ‘field field’ and not a place! :o

it’s just car parks and roads!

time for the true danny boi! :D

...at winnersh transport

...in a car park

omg formative car parks!

PHIL’S IN A SHOPPING CART??

phil: “this car park’s a thicc boi!” lol! :D

dan compared the cart to a bloody llama!

they’re at the hardware store that dan was fired from!

AND DAN SOLD A KID AN AXE

the phans loved that! :D

omg axe throwing????

DANGEROUS YEET

phil called the cart a trolley that’s so british! :D

dan: “it’s all in the wrist. that’s what she said!” lol! :D

dan: “three, two, three!” lol epic countdown! :D

PHIL GOT IT!!!!!!

one last place!

PHIL HAS TWO AXES?

phil: “can i get an ice cream mum?” dan: “for goodness sake!”

ohh the theater! :D

or would it be theatere since it’s a play thing!

aww 2005 dan is in a pic in the theater(e)! :D

aww dan had so friends :(

all the gays are in the theater(e)! :D

dan: “WHAT IF THE BOYS KISSED *SNORT*” lol! :D

he wants phil to warm up his acting!

IMPROV

phil’s the queen filming a youtube vid SEXILY???? :o

ooh shake those hips philly!

phil: “my name is [elizabeth]!” lol! :D

dan is a sad coming out gay goose!

...he’s just a goose lol :D

dan: “GET OFF YER ASS THE FUN ISN’T DONE YET!!!” YAAS!!!!

omg the last thing better be big if they’re in a big white building...

OMG ALL OR NOTHING!!! :o

a virtual reality drone race????? :o

omg IT BE EPIC!!!

this looks really cool! :D

it incorporates all the things they’ve done in one!

dan: “I’M GONNA KILL A COW!!’ OMGGG!!!!!t :o

the hole is the goal!

someone in the chat said this is dnpgames IT TRULY IS! :D

PHILLY WON!!!

phil: “hope you enjoyed ‘hometown showdown’!” i sure did! :D

and they both won!

bye guys! :D

that was such a fun time! both hometowns looked so nice and it was neat to get a glimpse into the lives of dip and pip! :D

*jams out to ‘you’ll always find your way back home’!*

[eddycurrents]

For the week of 19 March 2018

Quick Bits:

30 Days of Night #4 gets into the first assault on Barrow from the vampires. It’s bloody and beautifully illustrated by Piotr Kowalski.

| Published by IDW

Avengers #685 is a whole load of fun and despair as a large portion of the US Avengers team (and Lightning, Vision, and Quicksilver) attempt to stave off the assault of the Immortal Hulk. It really feels like we’re headed towards the endgame now and the braintrust of Mark Waid, Jim Zub, and Al Ewing are just churning out an epic. Also, the art from Paco Medina, Juan Velasco, and Jesus Aburtov is gorgeous.

| Published by Marvel

Avengers: Back to Basics #2 concludes the first arc with Iron Man, Hulk, and Thor attempting to stop Fenris and the Disir from bringing about Ragnarok. It’s a fun and action-oriented story from Peter David, with some great humorous moments, and the art from Brian Level (with colours by Jordan Boyd) is pretty much worth the price of the book alone. Great panel compositions and page layouts that greatly help the issue’s story feel meaty.

| Published by Marvel

Big Trouble in Little China: Old Man Jack #7 gets us close to the end, but of course it’s not as easy as rescuing Egg Shen and defeating Ching Dai, there has to be funny misadventures, in-fighting, and heaps of betrayal.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

Cable #155 is pretty damn great. It begins the “Past Fears” arc from the new creative team of Zac Thompson, Lonnie Nadler, Germán Peralta, and Jesus Aburtov and leaps headlong into Cable’s past mixing it up with some body horror. Thompson and Nadler have a nice grasp on Cable and Hope’s characters, showing off their heart and stubbornness. Peralta’s art puts the book over the top, though. 

| Published by Marvel

Dark Fang #5 brings to an end the first arc of the series, finally giving the lead character a name in-story itself. It’s a bizarre approach to vampires from Miles Gunter, almost like a twisted Disney fairy tale, but it’s entertaining and has some great artwork from Kelsey Shannon.

| Published by Image

Death of Love #2 features more wacky hijinks as Philo tells his friends about seeing the little Cherubs/Cupidae and...naturally they don’t believe him. It just gets more absurd from there as Justin Jordan and Donal DeLay push the series into new and more disturbing territory.

| Published by Image

Dept. H #24 ends what has been a good series with a nice bit of quiet reflection, Mia reminiscing about her father, her first case, and morality as she struggles upward for that last leg of survival.

| Published by Dark Horse

Dissonance #2 dives deeper into the machinations of the Fantasmen as they plot and scheme to control humanity. Singgih Nugoro and Ryan Cady are laying it on pretty thick, while making you wonder what all of it is truly for.

| Published by Image / Top Cow - Glitch

Doctor Strange: Damnation #3 is basically an issue’s long fight between the damned Avengers and the Midnight Sons. There’s some nice character bits and humour thrown in. Plus, a seemingly most ineffective plan.

| Published by Marvel

Evolution #5 sees Joe Infurnari and Jordan Boyd step up their game, and the art on the series was already incredible. It seems as we go on, the designs and presentation of the infected just get more and more impressive.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Harrow County #29 returns with the beginning of the end. Emmy is trying to come to terms with her actions in the last arc, while Hester’s return heralds more nightmares to come. Tyler Crook’s artwork is stellar, horrifying and evocative, elevating the terror with each subsequent panel.

| Published by Dark Horse

Ice Cream Man #3 is weird, trading in the more traditional horror notes of the past couple of issue for absurdist science fantasy, following a washed-up, fading musician who penned a one-hit wonder as he fades into obscurity. W. Maxwell Prince’s story gets pretty strange, but it allows for Martín Morazzo to really flex his muscles.

| Published by Image

Infinity 8 #1 begins adapting in English and North America’s standard comics format the Infinity 8 series that was previously published by Rue de Sèvres, created by Lewis Trondheim and Olivier Vatine. Part of the pitch for the book is an 8-part series each containing three issue arcs. The 8 parts certainly play into the structure of the story as each part will be done by a different creative team, and focus on a recursive time loop of agents exploring a debris field.

This first arc, written by Lewis Trondheim and Zep with art by Dominique Bertail, focuses on Agent Yoko Keren, a woman looking for a compatible mate among the ship’s crew so she can get pregnant and basically retire better off than she is currently. She gets to be the first guinea pig for the Captain’s time loop exploration of the debris, and it gets a bit weird when some of the ship’s complement of aliens decide that eating it is of the utmost importance. This story is weird sci-fi in the vein of Heavy Metal, but to me the draw is Bertail’s art. I’ve really been enjoying Bertail’s art in Ghost Money and he proves equally adept with wacky space stuff.

| Published by Lion Forge / Magnetic Collection

Iron Fist #78 jumps head first into Danny’s unresolved issues in what’s probably the best Damnation tie-in thus far. Ed Brisson uses the chaos of the event and the trigger of the penance stare to dredge up Danny’s feelings and reactions to what he considers his loss and failures, giving some really deep cuts into continuity in an organic, natural fashion. The art from Damian Couceiro and Andy Troy is also up to the heavy lifting. The layouts and panel designs at the beginning of the book as Danny navigates the surreal landscape of his memories and fears are particularly impressive.

| Published by Marvel

James Bond: The Body #3 has some great art by Rapha Lobosco, in the first of two series that have his work this week. His art is in a similar style to Eduardo Risso and it lends itself well to this dark tale of neo-Nazi arms dealers from Aleš Kot.

| Published by Dynamite

Kick-Ass #2 asks some important questions as Patience backslides into justifications for her criminal behaviour. Mark Millar steps up the moral quandary from just the vigilantism of the original Kick-Ass, even as she later protects a child from an abusive father figure.

| Published by Image

Lucy Dreaming #1 is fun. For starters, it’s nice to see Michael Dialynas again on another sci-fi/fantasy series after The Woods, even if it is just a limited series. His art naturally lends itself to the fantastical and it pays off in spades in this first issue, with nice designs for aliens, starships, and more. It’s also great that Max Bemis is bringing more of that weirdness and altered realities from his works like Centipede here. I’m really looking forward to seeing where this goes from here.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

The Mighty Thor #705 will break your heart. Epic storytelling and gorgeous art. Jason Aaron, Russell Dauterman, and Matthew Wilson should be proud.

| Published by Marvel

Ninja-K #5 brings the battle to the Acclimation Bureau and sparks off a deadly confrontation between Ninja-C and Ninjak. Christos Gage and Tomás Giorello bring this first arc to a stylish conclusion.

| Published by Valiant

Pathfinder: Spiral of Bones #1 brings the adventuring party back for a new expedition, this time far beneath Kaer Maga, the City of Strangers. Crystal Frasier is a new voice to the Pathfinder comics, but old hat to the roleplaying game, so she slides in nicely to the writer’s chair here. There’s a good amount of set-up and humorous banter as the Iconic character Imrijka is introduced in the comic as an old friend of Valeros.

| Published by Dynamite

Punks Not Dead #2 gets into more of Fergie’s ordinary life and the supporting cast of characters at his school and beyond. David Barnett fleshes them out fairly well, setting up some interesting hooks for what might be coming next. Combined with Martin Simmonds artwork, this series really is a must buy for anyone who enjoyed the British supernatural flavour of mid to late ‘90s Vertigo or the later series Vinyl Underground.

| Published by IDW / Black Crown

Regression #8 sees Adrian explore the nature of the cult and their grounds a bit more, although there is a weird bit in that he’s seemingly all right with the past lives, the demons, the cult itself and such, but apparently an orgy is a bridge too far. Death, murder, and demons are copacetic, but as soon as sex is introduced, Adrian wants to bug out. I’m hoping that Cullen Bunn does more with that theme in a future issue.

| Published by Image

Rumble #4 mainly deals with the fallout from Bobby’s injuries, with John Arcudi penning a growing divide between Rathraq and Del. David Rubín’s art perfectly capturing the insanity and the heart of the entire situation.   

| Published by Image

Runaways #7 begins the “Best Friends Forever” arc with the team trying to adjust to their new status quo and “normal” life. Rainbow Rowell is great at these kinds of interpersonal relationships and it makes for an entertaining read.

| Published by Marvel

The Spider King #2 is more glorious madness blending Vikings and bizarre alien technology. The artwork from Simone D’Armini just fits this action perfectly.

| Published by IDW

Summit #4 concludes the first story arc, with Val coming to the realization of Lorena’s motivations and Foresight’s shadiness that readers of the broader Catalyst Prime line already know. It comes a bit suddenly after a moment of misdirection, but it makes more story sense to get Val back to her friends at the MIT labs.

| Published by Lion Forge / Catalyst Prime

Tales of Suspense #103 is that issue that tells us exactly what has been going on with Black Widow while Hawkeye and Winter Soldier have been running around chasing after her body count. It’s kind of dark and has some fairly complicated potential Alien Resurrection style implications. Matthew Rosenberg still throws in some humour with Ursa Major, but this one’s really an opportunity for Travel Foreman to showcase some of the darker end of his skill set.

| Published by Marvel

TMNT Universe #20 continues the excellent “Service Animals” arc from Ian Flynn, Dave Wachter, and Ronda Pattison that’s getting to the core of what Null has been doing, and providing an interesting, humanizing look at Raphael and Alopex. The art from Wachter and Pattison is wonderful. There’s also a great back-up from Matthew K. Manning, Adam Gorham, and Brittany Peer that tells a humorous and heartfelt tale of Raph trying to get some sleep.

| Published by IDW

Thanos #17 is the penultimate chapter of “Thanos Wins”, featuring both Thanoses against the Fallen One, with a few surprise guests. Geoff Shaw really gets the opportunity again to showcase just how damn good he is at action and spectacle.

| Published by Marvel

Usagi Yojimbo: The Hidden #1 is the first of the series to follow the series of series format Dark Horse tends to use for Mike Mignola’s Hellboy universe. Regardless of the approach, this still has the same great Stan Sakai taste. Ostensibly we’re dealing with some fugitives, and a secret package, being tracked down by agents of the shogunate, but we’re light on details so far and high on mystery.

| Published by Dark Horse

Vampirella #11 is the second of the books illustrated by Rapha Lobosco this week as he and Jeremy Whitley bring this current volume to a close. This issue serves as a recap of Vicki’s adventures with Vampirella as she comes to a new understanding of herself, opening up to find a solution for the fake heaven and missing God problem.

| Published by Dynamite

Weapon H #1 is probably better than any one would have thought as ridiculous a concept as a Hulkverine would be. Spinning out of the “Weapons of Mutant Destruction” crossover and subsequent Weapon X follow-up arc, this series follows Clay, a former soldier and test subject for some mad science experiments blending Hulk and Wolverine DNA. Greg Pak blends those two aspects in the story itself, taking elements from both the Hulk and Wolverine legacy, and wisely begins this with a new take on the tale that introduced Wolverine to the world in the pages of Incredible Hulk with a new Wendigo. The art from Cory Smith, Marcus To, and Morry Hollowell sticks the landing.

| Published by Marvel

Witchblade #4 continues the trend of being another great issue of this series. Caitlin Kittredge is beginning to get into the meat of the lore behind the Witchblade and the thirteen Artifacts, tying the reboot in to the mythology of the original Witchblade/Darkness universe, while also fleshing out more and more of Alex’s backstory. The art, again, by Roberta Ingranata and Bryan Valenza is some of the most beautiful on the shelves today.

| Published by Image / Top Cow

Other Highlights: Amazing Spider-Man: Renew Your Vows #17, Archie #29, Babyteeth #9, Berlin #22, Corto Maltese: The Golden House of Samarkand, Descender #28, The Further Adventures of Nick Wilson #3, Ghostbusters: Answer the Call #4, Go Go Power Rangers #8, Incredible Hulk #714, Jim Henson’s The Storyteller: Fairies #4, Kill or Be Killed #17, Mata Hari #2, The Mighty Crusaders #4, Monsters Unleashed #12, Monstress #15, Moonshine #8, Ms. Marvel #28. Outcast #34, Quantum & Woody! #4, Southern Cross #14, Spider-Gwen #30, Star Wars #45, Star Wars: Poe Dameron #25, Superb #8

Recommended Collections: Aliens: Dead Orbit, Black Science - Volume 7: Extinction is the Rule, Giant Days - Volume 7, Harrow County - Volume 7: Dark Times A Coming, Iron Fist - Volume 2: Sabretooth Round Two, Moonstruck - Volume 1, Rick & Morty: Pocket Like You Stole It, Spider-Men II, X-Men Blue - Volume 3: Cross Time Capers

d. emerson eddy is doing stuff, Lori. Things!

[poorquentyn]

I'm re reading IT right now (slowly, as adult life is getting in the way) and was wondering what other bad storytelling choices you thought king made besides the. Uh. Sewer scene? Its been years since ive read it and nothing else really stood out to me as poor storytelling that i can remember. I'll read it for myself eventually but was curious of your thoughts. Love your blog!

Thanks! Stephen King often veers into caricature with his supporting characters, and It is no exception. The way he describes Eddie’s mom and wife physically goes well beyond the narratively useful purpose of establishing how their weight disorders have intertwined with Eddie’s hypochondria and into “ugh fat people are gross” territory. I don’t think King has conscious malignance in this area, because he finds a proper balance with Ben: the latter describes in realistic detail how he lost weight over time, his mom is upset that he’s eating less but is presented humanely (as someone who associates her son eating a lot with her doing well as a single mother), and King manages to avoid shaming Ben for his weight while also acknowledging that Ben personally feels a lot better about himself after having shed it–or rather, because of the confidence he gained in himself by taking charge of the situation. The idea here is not “Ben needs to lose weight because gross” but rather “Ben needs to be in control of his body.” 

The good doesn’t wipe out the bad, nor vice versa; gotta consider them both in context. Main characters are naturally going to get more nuance than supporting characters, but necessary shorthand can easily turn into harmful caricature. And of course, a storytelling choice that seems solid in isolation can become a problem within the work as a whole. Beverly is sexualized throughout It in a way that’s often very unpleasant to read, associated throughout with violence and misogyny. Sometimes this works, as a way of peeling back the layers of petty ego driving a man’s man like her husband Tom; he explodes at her in their introductory scene because her paying attention to Mike’s call instead of him makes him feel like he’s literally not there. Other times it doesn’t, like when King lingers on the “smell” that Bev and her father “make together” now that she’s reaching puberty. We don’t need that to get the point that Bev’s father has inappropriate feelings for her–we got that from Bev’s mom asking if he ever touches her. When you put both sides of the coin together with the infamous sex scene in the sewers and the amount of time spent on whether Bev will choose Ben or Bill, it starts to look less like King was taking a stand against objectification by showing its omnipresence than that he simply didn’t know what to do with Bev as a character without constantly making reference to sex, rape, assault, and molestation. While she does get some right to response on these matters, I don’t think it’s nearly enough. It pushes back against a mindset that casually treats women like objects, but fails to establish a counter-narrative rooted in the female characters as individuals, fleshed out beyond their relationships to the men around them. It’s less a question of Does Stephen King Hate Women than one of imagination and empathy. 

Of course, some flaws are lessened by context, rather than enhanced by it. Take, for example, our protagonist William Denbrough, a blatant author insert. Bill is a popular horror author (check) whose books are increasingly being adapted for TV and film (check) and who has a rather tense relationship with critics and academics (double check). The latter is spelled out in an extended flashback to Bill’s college days, in which he takes a stand that ought to be very familiar to anyone steeped in modern media discourse:

Here is a poor boy from the state of Maine who goes to the University on a scholarship. All his life he has wanted to be a writer, but when he enrolls in the writing courses he finds himself lost without a compass in a strange and frightening land. There’s one guy who wants to be Updike. There’s another one who wants to be a New England version of Faulkner-only he wants to write novels about the grim lives of the poor in blank verse. There’s a girl who admires Joyce Carol Gates but feels that because Oates was nurtured in a sexist society she is “radioactive in a literary sense.” Oates is unable to be clean, this girl says. She will be cleaner. There’s the short fat grad student who can’t or won’t speak above a mutter. This guy has written a play in which there are nine characters. Each of them says only a single word. Little by little the playgoers realize that when you put the single words together you come out with “War is the tool of the sexist death merchants.” This fellow’s play receives an A from the man who teaches Eh-141 (Creative Writing Honors Seminar). This instructor has published four books of poetry and his master’s thesis, all with the University Press. He smokes pot and wears a peace medallion. The fat mutterer’s play is produced by a guerrilla theater group during the strike to end the war which shuts down the campus in May of 1970. The instructor plays one of the characters.

Bill Denbrough, meanwhile, has written one locked-room mystery tale, three science-fiction stories, and several horror tales which owe a great deal to Edgar Allan Poe, H. P. Lovecraft, and Richard Matheson-in later years he will say those stories resembled a mid-1800s funeral hack equipped with a supercharger and painted Day-Glo red.

One of the sf tales earns him a B.

“This is better,” the instructor writes on the title page. “In the alien counterstrike we see the vicious circle in which violence begets violence; I particularly liked the “needle-nosed” spacecraft as a symbol of socio-sexual incursion. While this remains a slightly confused undertone throughout, it is interesting.”

All the others do no better than a C.

Finally he stands up in class one day, after the discussion of a sallow young woman’s vignette about a cow’s examination of a discarded engine block in a deserted field (this may or may not be after a nuclear war) has gone on for seventy minutes or so. The sallow girl, who smokes one Winston after another and picks occasionally at the pimples which nestle in the hollows of her temples, insists that the vignette is a socio-political statement in the manner of the early Orwell. Most of the class-and the instructor-agree, but still the discussion drones on.

When Bill stands up, the class looks at him. He is tail, and has a certain presence.

Speaking carefully, not stuttering (he has not stuttered in better than five years), he says: “I don’t understand this at all. I don’t understand any of this. Why does a story have to be socio-anything? Politics… culture… history… aren’t those natural ingredients in any story, if it’s told well? I mean… ” He looks around, sees hostile eyes, and realizes dimly that they see this as some sort of attack. Maybe it even is. They are thinking, he realizes, that maybe there is a sexist death merchant in their midst. “I mean… can’t you guys just let a story be a story?”

No one replies. Silence spins out. He stands there looking from one cool set of eyes to the next. The sallow girl chuffs out smoke and snubs her cigarette in an ashtray she has brought along in her backpack.

Finally the instructor says softly, as if to a child having an inexplicable tantrum, “do you believe William Faulkner was ‘just telling stories’? Do you believe Shakespeare was just interested in making a buck? Come now, Bill. Tell us what you think.”

“I think that’s pretty close to the truth,” Bill says after a long moment in which he honestly considers the question, and in their eyes he reads a kind of damnation.

“I suggest,” the instructor says, toying with his pen and smiling at Bill with half-lidded eyes, “that you have a great deal to learn.”

The applause starts somewhere in the back of the room.

Bill leaves… but returns the next week, determined to stick with it. In the time between he has written a story called “The Dark,” a tale about a small boy who discovers a monster in the cellar of his house. The little boy faces it, battles it, finally kills it. He feels a land of holy exaltation as he goes about the business of writing this story; he even feels that he is not so much telling the story as he is allowing the story to flow through him. At one point he puts his pen down and takes his hot and aching hand out into ten-degree December cold where it nearly smokes from the temperature change. He walks around, green cut-off boots squeaking in the snow like tiny shutter-hinges which need oil, and his head seems to bulge with the story; it is a little scary, the way it needs to get out. He feels that if it cannot escape by way of his racing hand that it will pop his eyes out in its urgency to escape and be concrete. “Going to knock the shit out of it,” he confides to the blowing winter dark, and laughs a little-a shaky laugh. He is aware that he has finally discovered how to do just that-after ten years of trying he has suddenly found the starter button on the vast dead bulldozer taking up so much space inside his head. It has started up. It is revving, revving. It is nothing pretty, this big machine. It was not made for taking pretty girls to proms. It is not a status symbol. It means business. It can knock things down. If he isn’t careful, it will knock him down.

He rushes inside and finishes “The Dark” at white heat, writing until four o'clock in the morning and finally falling asleep over his ring-binder. If someone had suggested to him that he was really writing about his brother, George, he would have been surprised. He has not thought about George in years-or so he honestly believes.

The story comes back from the instructor with an F slashed into the tide page. Two words are scrawled beneath, in capital letters. PULP, screams one. CRAP, screams the other.

Bill takes the fifteen-page sheaf of manuscript over to the wood-stove and opens the door. He is within a bare inch of tossing it in when the absurdity of what he is doing strikes him. He sits down in his rocking chair, looks at a Grateful Dead poster, and starts to laugh. Pulp? Fine! Let it be pulp! The woods were full of it!

“Let them fucking trees fall!” Bill exclaims, and laughs until tears spurt from his eyes and roll down his face.

He retypes the title page, the one with the instructor’s judgment on it, and sends it off to a men’s magazine named White Tie (although from what Bill can see, it really should be titled Naked Girls Who Look Like Drug Users). Yet his battered Writer’s Market says they buy horror stories, and the two issues he has bought down at the local mom-and-pop store have indeed contained four horror stories sandwiched between the naked girls and the ads for dirty movies and potency pills. One of them, by a man named Dennis Etchison, is actually quite good.

He sends “The Dark” off with no real hopes-he has submitted a good many stories to magazines before with nothing to show for it but rejection slips-and is flabbergasted and delighted when the fiction editor of White Tie buys it for two hundred dollars, payment on publication. The assistant editor adds a short note which calls it “the best damned horror story since Ray Bradbury’s "The Jar.” He adds, “Too bad only about seventy people coast to coast will read it,” but Bill Denbrough does not care. Two hundred dollars!

He goes to his advisor with a drop card for Eh-141. His advisor initials it. Bill Denbrough staples the drop card to the assistant fiction editor’s congratulatory note and tacks both to the bulletin board on the creative-writing instructor’s door. In the corner of the bulletin board he sees an anti-war cartoon. And suddenly, as if moving of its own accord, his fingers pluck his pen from his breast pocket and across the cartoon he writes this: If fiction and politics ever really do become interchangeable, I’m going to kill myself, because I won’t know what else to do. You see, politics always change. Stories never do. He pauses, and then, feeling a bit small (but unable to help himself), he adds: I suggest you have a lot to learn.

You can easily imagine this argument–a timeless appeal is being ruined by lefty college kids and their postmodern analyses–being made today by an alt-right YouTuber out to cleanse the game industry of SJWs. Throughout It, King keeps cutting back to an image of a librarian reading “The Billy Goats Gruff” to a group of kids, the latter enthralled (King tells us) by the primal purity of the kind of monster stories upon which both King and Denbrough have built their careers. “Will the monster be bested…or will It feed?” That’s King declaring that Bill’s his professors were wrong to wave aside his short horror stories. See? See?! I made it, and you pretentious eggheads were wrong to ever doubt me! This aspect of It is frankly embarrassing, especially as time marches on and we see how this mindset has taken root in the next generation.

But! While King very clearly believes this stuff, he’s also self-aware enough to include auto-critiques in his writing. Stan’s wife Patty picks up one of Bill’s novels and dismisses it as practically pornographic in its horror imagery. King goes too far in casting Patty’s dislike of Bill’s work as reflecting a lack of imagination on her part, but he then goes on to sympathetically explore how the grounded relatable struggles Patty has faced (anti-Semitism, her father mocking and dismissing Stan, their inability to have children) have led her to consider “horrorbooks” as shallow escapism. The real world, It admits, has horrors beyond anything the Kings and Denbroughs can come up with. “Werewolves, shit. What did a man like that know about werewolves?” 

Later on, when Ben is telling his triumphant story about calling out a high school coach who taunted him for his weight, Bill gently notes that as an author, he has trouble believing any kid really talked like that. That’s King using his self-insert to wryly poke fun at his own oft-overheated dialogue. Self-awareness and self-deprecation are absolutely vital to making a book as thematically and structurally ambitious as this one work. 

And while some of It’s politics make me cringe, other aspects make me perk up and take notice. King wrote It over the course of four years in which HIV and AIDS became a national crisis that was being largely ignored by said nation’s government. There was a growing conventional wisdom that the afflicted deserved their punishment and should be more or less left to rot. This was all part and parcel with the ascension of the religious right in American politics, especially within the Reagan White House. A huge part of the Reagan narrative (as we see in the “Morning in America” ad, also released while King was writing It) was a portrait of lily-white small-town America as a social ideal being beset by all sorts of ills that the left was either letting happen or actively supporting, and The Gays were most certainly among them.

It opens with a scene that seems to dovetail with that narrative: an idealized ‘50s small town in which an adorable innocent white boy from a good Christian family is horribly murdered by (what seems to be) a nightmarish external force that takes advantage of that innocence. Already, you can see a potential Reaganite spin–It as the Other, the “bear in the woods” threatening the ideal of Derry. 

But that’s not what It is about. The second chapter jumps forward a generation, into the mid-1980s in which King was writing, and onto a scene of violence that cannot be wrapped into the meta-narrative of the religious right. Three men attack a gay man on a bridge, their delicate sensibilities offended by his flamboyance. They beat him within an inch of his life and toss him over the side…where he finds It waiting for him with a gleaming sharp-toothed smile. Both the victim’s boyfriend and one of the assailants tell the cops and lawyers involved about the demon clown who finished the victim off, but the powers that be cover it up for the sake of a successful prosecution.

The idea being that they’re dealing with the symptoms, not the disease–the violence, but not the hand-me-down hate driving it. The bereft boyfriend tells the cops that he tried to warn his new-to-town lover that despite its cheery appearance, Derry is a “bad place,” one positively crawling with “AIDS is God’s punishment” homophobia. Moreover, he whispers through his tears, he realized while staring into Its silver eyes as It ate his true love that “It was Derry…It was this town.” 

So while the first chapter seemingly wrapped the era’s conservative politics in a cozy semiotic blanket, it was only baiting the hook so that the second can rip that blanket off like a Band-Aid. As Reagan strolled to re-election with 49 states at his back, as the Democrats’ convictions wavered and they began to drift rightward, as thousands of Americans wasted away while their government and so many of their fellow citizens watched pitilessly, here comes Stevie King to stick his middle finger in the Moral Majority’s face and say: gays aren’t the monsters, you are the monsters, you are the ones eating your children. He built a thousand-page Lovecraftian epic around that idea, and made it a bestseller. How fucking awesome is that?

Again, it’s all always going to be complicated. The good not only coexists with the bad–they’re often inextricable. The author who slipped a rant against leftist academics ruinin’ his storybooks into It is also the guy who now declares his support for BLM and his disgust for Trump, and It is both a deeply flawed work and one of my very favorite novels.

[amillionsmiles]

quantum mechanics, smirks, and other complications of the universe (Pidge/Lance)

Summary: It’s the littlest things that are hardest to measure. Pidge tries anyways. A/N: birthday fic for @flusteredkeith !!! you know how much I love you and basically every other fic I write ends up dedicated to you anyways but here’s a lil something short and sweet set in the canon universe <3 have a beautiful day~~ A/N2: partially inspired by this art by @shiros-sugar !

[Read and review on Ao3] or continue under the cut.

The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle says this: the more you know about the position of a particle, the less you can know about its momentum, and vice versa.

Pidge’s Field Guide to Her Friends (Version 2.0, after extensive beta testing) says this: in precisely ten ticks, Lance will approach the tall, four-eyed, four-armed alien with a wink and a pick-up line.

Sure enough, the experiment begins right on time.  Lance saunters over, all long limbs and diamond-edged smile, leaning casually against the pillar to deliver his pièce de résistance: “Are you from space?  Because your body’s out of this world.”  

Based on Pidge’s calculations (after all, a scientist is only as good as the notes she keeps), this line has a 67% success rate.

The alien looks at Lance, all four eyes staring at him blankly, before excusing itself from the conversation.  Pidge turns around to hide her snicker, taking out her palm pad so that she can update her data.  The column keeping track of “overtures made” goes up from 27 to 28.

“What are you doing?” Hunk appears at her shoulder.

“Testing a hypothesis.  Have you ever thought about how Lance is kind of like Schrodinger’s Cat?”

Hunk strokes his chin. “Not really. Explain.”

“The cat is both dead and alive until you open the box.  Lance is both charming and not until he opens his mouth, and then he’s just… not.”

“Hey!”  This comes from over her left shoulder; Pidge nearly jumps out of her skin upon realizing that the topic of their conversation has… decided to join the conversation.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear you talking about me behind my back,” Lance pouts.  “Not cool, Pidge. I thought we had something.”

“Sorry, I’m taken by science.”

Lance snorts and rolls his eyes, bumping her on the shoulder before his attention gets caught by the arrival of a new prospect.  In no time, he’s jumped right back in, and Pidge wonders, briefly, what that must feel like.  To throw yourself into something without any idea of where the chips will fall.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Hunk smirking at her.

“What?”

The grin widens.  “You think he’s charming.”

*

“Psst, Pidge!” Lance accosts her on the couch, draping himself over the back of it to speak right in her ear.  “I need your help.”

At this point, Pidge is proud to say that she’s gotten better at managing her reactions to Lance sneaking up at her.  Coolly, she closes her laptop, turning over her shoulder to ask: “With what?”

Lance shoots her a cryptic smile, shoving his hands in his pockets as he moves around the couch to stand in front of her.  “Come with me and you’ll see.”

Several scenarios flash through her mind.  1) Prank—a bucket rigged to spill on her head.  2) Surprise—Lance is a generous person, after all, and he did joke once that he was going to knit her a sweater.  3) Lance actually needs help.

Statistically speaking, it’s probably option three.

Sighing, Pidge gets to her feet and follows him out of the room.  Lance whistles, hands braced behind his head and elbows jutting out in the air as he leads them, cheerfully, through the halls.  They come to a stop in front of a set of doors, the scent of manure hitting her as they slide open, a low moo echoing from inside.

“Kaltenecker,” Pidge gasps, feeling immediately guilty.  “I forgot.”

Lance has already crossed the room in a few quick, easy strides, bringing a hand to Kaltenecker’s flank.  She moos again, turning toward him slightly; Lance raises an eyebrow at Pidge, gesturing her over with a slight tilt of his head.

So Pidge goes.  It makes her feel bad, wondering if Lance has been checking up on Kaltenecker all this time without her. Cautiously, she reaches toward the cow; Kaltenecker nudges against her palm gently, nostrils puffing warm air, nose slightly wet.

“There, see?” Lance is saying, stroking Kaltenecker’s side.  “Mom didn’t forget about you, she was just busy.”

It takes a beat for the words to hit. “Mom?”

Lance scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish.  “I mean, it felt weird to refer to myself as just the owner—that’s so cold, you know?  I figured we’re basically like Kaltenecker’s parents, so you’re Mom and I’m Dad—” Halfway through, Lance breaks off. “Okay, now that I’m saying that out loud and to your face, it sounds pretty weird.”  

“A little.”

“I mean, if you have an alternative…”    

Pidge purses her lips.  “Why am I the mom, anyways?  Why can’t you be the mom and I be the dad?”

“Fine, I’m the mom,” Lance says, not missing a beat.  They hold each other’s gaze for a solid ten seconds before a laugh bubbles up Pidge’s throat, and then she’s snorting into the back of her hand while Lance snickers.

“Who gets custody if we fight?” she asks.

“Hunk.”

“That’s actually what I was thinking, too.”

“Good to know we’re on the same wavelength.” Lance grins.

Kaltenecker snuffles against her hand again, and Pidge says: “Lance?”

He pauses his motions, tilting his head.  “Hm?”

“We should do this more often.”

Lance’s brow furrows. “The accidentally adopting a cow part, or the taking care of Kaltenecker?”

“Just—hanging out,” Pidge says, and she doesn’t know why those two words summon a burst of heat to her face, but she turns away slightly to hide it, not wanting Lance to get the wrong idea.

“Yeah,” Lance says, maybe a touch too quickly.  “Yeah, of course.”

*

“Lance.  Laaaaance.”

“What—dammit, Pidge!” says Lance, scowling as he turns his face straight into the finger Pidge has poised by his cheek.  “I can’t believe I fell for that.”

In the aftermath of their bout of Killbot Phantasm 1, Pidge sets her controller down and sprawls out on her back, the metal flooring cool against the base of her head.  There are a host of things to attend to: checking up on Green, helping Hunk in the kitchen, trying to advance another level in the Altean language training program.  But, for whatever reason, she wants to prolong this moment.

“You’re just a sucker,” she teases, folding her hands on her stomach.

Lance joins her after a beat.  The hair on her scalp prickles at his nearness.  “Enjoying the view?”

There’s nothing much to look at, just the cavernous arches of the ceiling.  Pidge traces a beam with her eyes, wondering briefly about what the rest of Altea’s architecture must have looked like, before she asks: “Lance, were you any good at spotting constellations?”

Matt had been good at it.  She remembers lying on a picnic blanket, sandwiched between him and her dad.  The stars glimmering to life one by one, the strength of their light growing as the night wore on, deepening.  Making a game of who could find Orion or Perseus first.

“Not really,” Lance admits.  “I could basically just find the Big Dipper and…that one swan one.”

“Cygnus?”

“Yeah.”  Lance is quiet for a beat, and then he adds: “It makes sense that you’d be good at them.”

Pidge frowns. “What makes you say that?”

“I was just thinking of what you did with your Galra finder—”

“Technically, it wasn’t made to find them, just to predict their most likely locations—”

“Okay, predictor, whatever,” Lance says, nudging her slightly with his elbow. “But that’s the point, right?  You find patterns. You connect the dots.”

This last part is said…differently, somehow, and Pidge turns her head, startled to find Lance already looking at her instead of the ceiling.  His face is frighteningly close, lashes dark against the smooth, tan skin of his cheek.  For the first time, Pidge notices the gentle slope of his nose, how it would only take a few inches for her to bump against it, to touch foreheads.  A small adjustment.

Lance’s lips part slightly. To take a breath, or say something else.  Something that’ll ruin this between them, whatever this is, and Pidge can’t take it, would rather not have her hypothesis confirmed.  (I think of you like—)

She jolts away. Sits up. Something flashes across Lance’s face, too quick to catch.

“I forgot—I promised Hunk I’d help try to translate some of the Altean ingredients in the kitchen today.”

“Yeah.” Lance doesn’t miss a beat.  “Yeah, you should go.”

At the doorway, Pidge pauses.

A theory: it will hurt if she looks back.

It’ll hurt more if she doesn’t.

She risks a glance over her shoulder. Lance is still lying on the floor, hands braced behind his head, now, staring up at the ceiling.  His cowlick is more evident from this angle, like a little sprout. She imagines squashing it flat with her hand, then squashes that desire, too.

*

The quandary of quantum mechanics: when you get down to the tiniest level, the very act of measurement affects what you’re trying to measure. Hence the inability to know for certain both things at once—momentum and position, for instance.

Memory is a little like that, too.  Pidge has read about it—how every act of recollection alters it, slightly.  And with the number of times she’s replayed certain moments—a joke made over their communications line, but just for her ears; a brush of fingers; the upward tick of Lance’s eyebrow; a razor-thin smirk shot across the dinner table—well, her data’s skewed now, isn’t it?  

Some things don’t make any more sense under a microscope.  You can spend all night turning them over in your head, and the harder you look, the more they seem to shift, made inscrutable.  It’s the difference between observing things and actually living them, maybe.  The risk of getting too close.

*

Pidge excuses herself from the celebration after a few rounds of mingling.  She’ll dive back in later, but it’s looking to be a long night and she needs to recharge.  Some people draw their energy from others; Pidge, on the other hand, has always preferred programming to people.

Jespora’s two moons are bright, the stars scattered between them like tiny jewels on black velvet.  There aren’t any constellations that Pidge can recognize, here, so she entertains herself with drawing some of her own.  The quiet reminds her of sneaking out onto the roof of the Garrison, tuning in to the chatter of the universe.  Ears straining for answers, Matt and Dad somewhere out there, still. Send me a sign.

“So, you come out here to rock out?”

The voice is right in her ear.  Pidge flails, and it really is like they’re back on the Garrison roof—Lance crouched over her, a single eyebrow raised.  The only difference is that they’re both wearing formal wear, this time, and the collar of her suit suddenly feels too constricting.

“Something on your mind, Pidge?” Lance presses, settling down next to her.  He stretches his legs out, leaning back on his hands.  No hesitant “Can I sit here?”  Lance just slots himself into place, buoyed by an easy self-assurance that Pidge envies, sometimes.

Pidge eyes him warily, reorganizing her body into her earlier cross-legged position.  Careful not to accidentally brush against him with her knee.  She’s not used to being this aware of her limbs around Lance; yet another thing that snuck up on her, before she knew what to do with it.

“I just needed some space,” she admits.  “Sometimes it feels like…like there are too many people to keep up with.”

Lance reaches over, gently fixing the tassel of one of her epaulettes.  “Yeah, I get it.”

“You’re good at this stuff, though,” Pidge says, forcing herself to be still under his attention.  “Talking to people, making them laugh…” She trails off, hugging her knees to her chest.  “Why’d you come out here, anyways?”

At her shoulder, Lance’s fingers pause.  “Honestly? There’s this girl I wanted to hang out with, but she bailed.”

Pidge snorts.  “Typical,” she says, proud that her voice comes out with its usual blend of sarcasm and annoyance. Green with envy. Never have her paladin colors been more apt.  But Lance is never going to get a read on her, not if she can help it.

She can still feel his attention on her face, though, which is all wrong.  Pidge is the one who keeps track of everyone, categorizes strengths and weaknesses, takes notes.  Lance’s job is to crack jokes and come up with dumb team slogans and—

Lance sighs.  It’s the heavy, long-suffering sound of someone giving up. Giving in.

“You have no idea who I’m talking about.”

“Um, no, was I supposed to be keeping track?” Pidge retorts.  Rhetorical question, since she does. Keep track. Not that Lance has to know.  Pidge pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, wondering if it was the tall alien lady with the pink eyes and blue hair buns.  Probably.

“It’s you, Pidge.”

The ground tilts, just a fraction, beneath her.  This isn’t part of any mathematical model she could fit to their interactions, not something she could have predicted.

“What?” she says, a little shrill.

“It’s you,” Lance repeats, blue eyes boring into her, and she wants to ask him about what that means.  If he has some sort of plan in his head for where to go from here. If it’s just a spur of the moment thing, a whim that’ll fall, unspoken, through the cracks, forgotten by morning.  Pidge thinks all this but doesn’t have the right words to formulate around them.  Just sits.

It’s such a Lance thing to do.  Offer up vulnerability without any meditation on what it might cost him. Say something simple and leave her spinning, still caught up in the uncertainty of it all.

In the end, though, it comes down to a simple truth.  Like wave-particle duality or the law of universal gravitation, this is what Pidge knows: Lance will do his best to catch her as she falls.

“So what do you say, Pidge?” Lance gets to his feet, offers a hand.  “It takes two to tango.”

“You’re so weird,” she finally manages, wrinkling her nose, but she lets him pull her up, lets him spin her out with a flourish, connected by their hands, until somehow they end up pressed close in the moonlight, her head resting against his chest.

She can hear his heartbeat, thumping just a tick too fast.  Unexpected, but right, somehow.  She swallows.

“Interesting.”

“Good interesting?” asks Lance, vulnerable beneath his teasing.  Both smug and uncertain, as only Lance can be.

“Unclear,” Pidge considers, tilting her head to blink up at him.  “Needs more data.”

Lance chuckles and hugs her tighter, her chin digging into the knobby bone of his sternum, and Pidge smiles, too, a particle firing in the dark—unsure of when this feeling started or how fast she’s been barreling into it but knowing, down to the electron, that her heart is exactly where it should be.

[tenroseforeverandever]

Dear Father Christmas... Chapter 11: December 24, 2026

MASTERPOST

Characters:  Tentoo; Rose Tyler; Jackie Tyler; Pete Tyler; Tony Tyler; OC Hope Tyler-Noble; OC Charlotte Tyler-Noble; OC Wilfred Tyler-Noble

Rated: Teen

Tags: Family!Fic; Kid!Fic; Pete’s World; Letters to Santa; Christmas Fic; Family; Fluff; Hurt/Comfort; Angst; Romance; Love; gun violence; violence resulting in death; life-threatening injury; life threatening situations

Summary: When Rose Tyler was little, she always wrote a Christmas wish list to Father Christmas. As she grew older, the wish list became more of a letter to someone she could confide in once a year, but she fell out of the habit somewhere along the way. Now, as a new mum, celebrating her daughter’s first Christmas, Rose takes up writing her Christmas letter to Father Christmas once again.

Rose’s Christmas letters are excerpts from her life with her beloved Tentoo and their children in Pete’s World, written once a year, for each of 31 years.

Chapter Summary: Rose is tired of never feeling as though she’s good enough for Jackie.

Notes: A boring little entry… mostly just Rose imparting the family news to Santa. The original inspiration for it (and indeed use of the prompt) doesn’t even happen until very close to the end.

Heaps of thanks to @rose–nebula and mrsbertucci. It just wouldn’t be the same without you tow lovelies along for the ride. <3

Thanks to @doctorroseprompts for their 31 Days of Ficmas prompts. A reminder that I am using the prompts very much out of order, but I intend to use them all. The prompt I used today was Mistletoe.

Also read at: AO3; FF.net; Teaspoon

December 24th, 2026

Dear Father Christmas,

Mum’s been having a go at me… again. There’s always something. I never seem to get it right or be good enough for her. I must be such a disappointment compared to her “Golden Boy”, Tony. Honestly, I’m thirty-seven years old, and I just feel like such a cow, but I can hardly wait for him to spring his news on her and Dad at tea tonight. Not that I believe for a moment that Mum’ll be upset (she’ll be happy he told her; I think she’s been expecting something like this for a couple of years now), but if nothing else, it should take her attention off me for a bit.

That being said, she’s been surprisingly supportive of me and the Doctor’s plans for Hope’s future education. It’s a bit unconventional so I was expecting her to kick up more of a fuss. But she seems to be on board (for now), which is a relief, because if all goes well, it’s what we plan to do with Charlie and Wilfred too. Hope’s finishing Primary school this coming year. She’ll be eleven years old by that time, but she’s not going to secondary school. Me and the Doctor sat and talked for a long time about the path we saw for our children in the future, and both of us agreed that, while their primary education provided them with many essential social skills we felt they needed to get along in life, when they finished Primary, if they were disciplined enough and mature enough, they should have a chance to pursue significantly higher levels of education.

We think Hope’s ready (more than), and her teachers agreed. We know our children aren’t the easiest to have in the classroom, so we’ve really appreciated the way all the teachers at our school have been willing to accommodate them, and consult us whenever they needed to. But they also recognize the limitations of a classical education for our brood. So, this spring, Hope will sit her A-levels, and in the fall, move on to Uni. She would like to become a medical doctor.

She won’t be joining Tony in the fall, though. He’s off to Uni too, going for a general science degree while he sorts out where his interests really lie, but Hope’s going to be doing all of her courses online, so she can work at her own pace and not feel overwhelmed being surrounded by all those rowdy young adults on campus. I have a funny feeling if she’d been forced to take courses on campus, Mum would have had much more to say about it, and rightly so.

No, it seems Mum’s happy to see everyone getting ahead in the world but me. Back when I was working on the Dimension Cannon, she finally stopped harping on at me about “airs and graces” ‘cause it was clear everything I was doing was so I could get back to the Doctor. I honestly think that’s the most supportive she’s ever been of me. I was so driven, and she knew there was nothing she could do to stop me, so she was just being my mum: making sure I slept and ate, and she’d always be ready with a hug if I needed it. She never, ever told me to give up, even when it seemed hopeless. I sure didn’t appreciate it much at the time, but looking back, it meant the world to me. I wish she’d be a bit more like that now.

I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end of it about my “injury”, last Christmas. She’s always going on about how peaky I look, or how much I’ve aged (gee thanks, Mum), and yeah, it’s taken a while for me to get back to feeling myself, but I’ve been eating well and keeping fit, and I think I’m just about there.

Blimey, the red tops had a field day with that whole incident. Somehow some piecemeal bits of information leaked and word got out that the Vitex heiress (that would be me!) had been killed by a mugger who attacked me with a knife. I haven’t been such big news since our wedding. Oh, and the kids being born. But that was all very well controlled, and we had scheduled press days, so it all died off pretty quickly after that. Anyway, it took a while for this story to fade away, and they milked it for every drop of shock factor they could. But they eventually lost interest a while ago, after it turned out I was actually alive. Although, occasionally a story will still appear that a body swap took place, or that alien necromancy was involved and I’m really a zombie. But mostly they’ve given up.

Mum hasn’t though: she’s like a terrier with a bone!

My brush with death (and it really was touch and go there for a while) made me rethink the choices I’ve made in life. And Mum always has her two cents to add. I thought I had returned to the field work because of the thrill, but really, the job wasn’t usually all that exciting. It was just something I was good at and had lots of experience with, especially after all my trips through the void, searching for the Doctor. Living with my family of geniuses, sometimes it’s really hard not to feel left out and downright inadequate, so you cling to those things that are familiar, that give you some kind of comfort, yeah.  

Mum laid the I-told-you-sos on real thick during my recovery, as if I couldn’t see for myself I’d had enough of that job. She was thrilled when I told Dad I was resigning, but it didn’t take her long to remind me that I needed to find some work to do. I was half-expecting her to tell me to try to get a job at the butcher’s again. She should talk! As if she does anything!

Well, that’s not entirely fair. Not fair at all, to be honest.She does tons of charity work! Tons! She’s actually created her own charitable organization: The Big Yellow Truck. Providing women with the power to change their world. That’s their slogan. They are responsible for founding a series of women’s support centres and shelters throughout the UK. Mum’s founder and chair, but she also gets right in there and helps out. She always says she could have used this kind of assistance when she lost my dad, and feels like she should be giving back now she has the means to do it. I think she wanted me to join her, and help her run it. And it would have been a great job, but me working for my mum… nope! Nope with a capital N.

But, I do like working with people, helping them out. And I do hold the title of Ambassador of Extraterrestrial Affairs, and I really enjoy the odd time I get to work as a liaison between my planet and the rest of the universe. I’m good at it. I know a thing or two about aliens, and with the Doctor by my side, I have my own personal fountain of knowledge I can draw on.

I had an idea I could build on that job a little, and take on some related responsibilities. There are more and more of the public coming in contact with aliens every day. The Earth is becoming a planet of interest out there in the universe, and more aliens are dropping by to check us out. But for an unsuspecting, uneducated public, these encounters can be frightening and sometimes traumatic. And things can get out of control quickly. People need to know there’s someone they can turn to who understands and actually believes what they’re going through. And the aliens need to know they have someone they can connect with to help them get by on planet Earth without causing mass panic.

So I suggested to Dad that it would be a good idea to start a new department of Torchwood: Encounter Counselling and Extraterrestrial Integration. He was right on board. He even said I should head it up, get it underway, so that’s what I’ve been doing. And it’s really exciting, but I just feel so woefully underqualified, so I’m going back to school to certify as a counsellor in the New Year. There are several different levels, different qualifications I can earn, and I’m determined I’ll work through them one by one.

The Doctor and Dad (and Tony and the kids) were all really excited for me, but not Mum. She didn’t understand why I wanted to take even more on when I was already so busy getting the new department up and running, and I was already doing a good enough job with the qualifications I had. “Sweetheart,” she said to me yesterday, “why are you always trying to show up everyone else, make yourself into something you’re not? Why can’t you just be happy with what you’ve got?”

Santa, I’ll be honest. That stung. I mean, that really, really hurt. A lot. I couldn’t get it off my mind all night. I finally talked to the Doctor about it and he gave me something to think about. He told me she reminded him of Donna a bit, shouting at the world because she doesn’t think anyone’s listening. He said, “Love, she hates that she’s never had a chance to do all the things you’ve done. She’s a bit jealous.”

I feel so stupid. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, yeah. When I think about how I am with Tony, so jealous of him being Mum’s “little angel” compared to me. I’ve been secretly hoping he’ll go and do something bad, like coming home drunk one night, or failing an exam, just so it’ll bring him down a notch, knock him off that pedestal a bit. And I’m so, so sorry, Santa. It’s childish and mean. But tonight, I’ll hold his hand and just be there for him as much as he needs me, because I’m his big sister.

And… I’ve just figured out exactly what I’m going to give Mum for Christmas.

Safe travels tonight, Santa. Love to all! I’ll check back in with you Christmas day and let you know how it all goes!

love, Rose

--ooOoo--

Happy Christmas, Santa! I hope your Christmas is as amazing as mine has been!

So, let me get started here. Last night Tony invited a friend to join us for Christmas Eve tea, which used to happen quite often when he was small, but it hasn’t happened for a few years, so it’s kind of a big deal.

I was pretty sure what was about to go down because he’s confided in me a lot over the years, so when the doorbell rang, he automatically looked over to me for support. I got up with him to go answer the door. The big lump grabbed my hand (I mean he’s seventeen years old now, six foot two; he towers over me), and I just let him hold on to me like he did when he was  tiny. He knows I figured it out all on my own years ago, and I told him I knew it wouldn’t be a big deal with Mum and Dad

Sure enough, his friend came in and we all three go through to the dining room where everyone’s sat around the table. There’s silence for a few beats. Then Tony drops my hand and takes his friend’s hand instead. “Hey everyone,” (he’s stammering) “I’d like you all to meet Noah Milne, my boyfriend.”

You could hear a pin drop, and then suddenly my mum’s telling Noah to come on in and make himself at home. “We don’t bite, sweetheart.” And Dad and the Doctor are up out of their chairs, shaking his hand and welcoming him to the family. We had such a great time (Noah fits so well with the rest of the family), and the best part was, at the very end of the night, as Noah was about to head home, Mum and I spied Tony and him snogging under the mistletoe. “Ah, now ain’t that lovely?” Mum said, and I couldn’t agree more. I was so proud of my little brother, my Toto; he’s a Tyler, through and through. Each of us are courageous, strong, and smart in our own unique ways.  

As for Mum’s Christmas gift… she was a little more hesitant about that, and that’s okay, but I hope she’ll come around. I’m pretty sure she will, though. I asked her to join me at school in the New Year, so we can both earn our counselling certifications. She’ll be able to make great use of it at The Big Yellow Truck and really get involved with counselling the women, which I know is what she’d love to do. And she’s a natural. Better yet, this is a journey we can take together, improving ourselves so we both have more opportunities to make a difference in this world.

[shamondmilk-blog]

The Backstory

Where did it start?

The first time I remember binge eating was when I was 7 years old. There was a bag of Halloween candy atop a shelf in the guest room at my house in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey. I imagine my mom never intended us to find it. Candy was never really allowed in the house. If we were lucky, there'd be an occasional Skinny Cow in the freezer, which my sister and I relentlessly tried to get a hold of first. I can't remember ever enjoying vegetables as a child. It was always a struggle to finish my carrots that came with every dinner. I'd sneak them to my Golden Retriever when my mom's back was turned. Vegetables were always an incentive in the house, so the precedent was set: vegetables are an adversary to be vanquished to get to the ivory tower containing whatever savory goodness was on the plate. I'm sure this was never my mom's intention, to foster this adversarial relationship with healthy eating. She wasn't much for cooking when I was growing up, and never thought to present healthy food in a way that was appealing or creative to me or my siblings. Can you blame her, coming from a dysfunctional family background of nine in an Irish-Italian household? My grandma is probably delusional and self-centered enough to believe that the lectures she gave her children were proper nourishment, and the fried salami ends bought from the local butcher shop were an additional treat. What a prize.

Anyway, the incident with the Halloween candy was isolated, at least it seemed that way at the time. I remember thinking after that binge session that what I had done wasn't normal. All the adages of spoiling your dinner and getting a tummy ache and the countless euphemisms that people use instead of saying "hey kid, making that pattern of eating a habit will spike your insulin and fast track you to Type 2 Diabetes and a foot amputation" ran through my head. I had done a bad thing. But at the same time, it felt like a great thing, too. So much chocolate and sugar, what 7-year-old is self-aware enough to assess short-term reward against long-term consequences?  Not I. But it seemed inconsequential at the time. The metabolism of a fairly physically active 7-year-old is not going to shit the bed after one candy binge. I’d be fine, until the move happened.

After 3rd grade, my parents informed my siblings that we would be moving again, this time to Naperville, Illinois. In my 8 year stint on this planet, it would be my 6th move.  I don’t remember being particularly upset about it.  Making friends after every move never seemed terribly difficult during the other moves, so why would this time be any different? I was fairly popular in New Jersey. I remember walking around the soccer field during recess by myself, by choice. I remember a lunch supervisor coming up to me frequently asking me in a thick Polish accent “Olivia, where are your friends?” They were on the playground doing whatever it was that 8-year-olds in the early 2000’s did together, and no one was kicking me off the playground. I had spent all day in the classroom with them, and ate with them at lunch. I was good to be 20 minutes without them and spend some quality daydreaming time. Bitch, I have friends, I should’ve noted to the supervisor. It would’ve gone over great, I’m certain.  

Enter 9-year-old Olivia, fresh meat at Elmwood Elementary School. The classroom was set up in clusters of 4 connected desks, which was different from the conversational rows I was used to at my old school. Everyone in Naperville knew each other by then.  They had broken off into their respective friend groups, for the most part. As far as these 9-year-olds were concerned, they were who they were going to be for the rest of their lives, quarter life crisis be damned. Hopefully some of them got the chance to backpack around Europe before settling into their mediocre corporate lives and Spongebob themed 3-piece suits. If I got stuck in one of those clusters with kids who had no interest in expanding their friend circle, I’d resign to drawing forest animals and Pokemon and daydreaming that dragons were real. So, needless to say, I was not quite the chameleon that I needed to be to merge into the blonde, N’Sync listening, Lip Smackers wearing fembots-in-training that made up the majority of Naperville girls.

Nothing about this account so far could possibly imply that I was bullied (spoiler alert: I was). First, I was bullied for being different. Being bullied for being fat would come later. I needed to be alienated first. I didn’t watch Spongebob, which in case you didn’t know, was the gold standard for Naperville kids in the early 2000’s. I preferred Backstreet Boys, but N’Sync was the preferred boy band of my classmates. I was a Crip in a Blood world. I liked fantasy and science fiction. My sister introduced me to The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy, and all bets were off. I was set down the path of nerdom, but as any nerd knows, the adventure is much harder if you’re solo questing. To translate that last sentence for the non-nerds: I had no real friends. I had playdates with other kids, but nothing really stuck. But the names stuck, “weirdo, freak, lesbo, gross, fat, ugly bitch,” to name a few of the commonplace ones (oh, but by 8th grade I developed really big tits, so at least I had that going for me. I remember my guy friend reporting to me that even though I was the notorious goth weirdo, the wrestling team loved my boobs. Aw, thanks guys, self-worth attribute +1).

By the end of 4th grade, I had descended far down the social totem pole, but not so far that I had lost the desperate ambition to climb back up. After all, walking around alone at recess loses its luster when it’s involuntary. So I let the popular girls continue to make their digs, and I would take it. We’re all friends, right? Well, those friends didn’t call to my house for play dates, and they sure as hell never referenced to me as “friend.” So, I sat at home, lost in my computer games or buried in my books. The satisfied feeling you get from laughing  and talking with friends wasn’t there. Something needed to fill the void. But what? Somewhere in my developing brain, with so few long-term memories and subconscious cues to choose from, the answer revealed itself: sugar, chocolate, potato chips, potato-and-chocolate chip cookies (thank God Pinterest wasn’t a thing yet).

And so it started. There was just one small problem. My mom is an Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher style (no offense to Robert Downey Jr.).  By Iron Lady, I mean she is a seasoned Ironman Triathlon participant. The picture of health, from what I remember, save the Chardonnay obsession. That meant no unhealthy food in the house. Only low-fat, low-sugar sweets. So how does a 10-year-old looking for a salt and sugar fix compensate if there’s not a potato chip or candy bar in sight? Why, she eats 10 lower-sugar snacks in one sitting, hoping to get the same resolve of course. I started eating everything and anything remotely sweet. If there were no Kudos bars or Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches to be found, balls of white bread dipped Hershey’s in chocolate syrup would suffice (I wish I were joking). Oh, also, a few chocolatey Cliff Bars would do in a pinch (you know, the ones that are supposed to replace an entire fucking meal).

But that short-term comfort only lasted so long, and I happened to be the only one who ignorantly saw the temporary benefit of it. My mom and I played a years-long game of hide-and-seek, but my mom and I used objects as our playing pieces. My mom’s pieces were the hidden snacks, and my pieces were the hidden wrappers. We’d find our usual hiding places for both, and yelling would ensue once we found each other. I must’ve felt like I was fighting a battle on both fronts. On one end, I used by binge eating Guerilla tactics to combat the feelings of isolation from my peers, and stealth tactics to hide food from my mom. I don’t think it would be crazy to interpret this as a pretty shitty setup for my relationship with food as a whole, no?

So, I guess that’s where my binge-eating story begins. But where does it end? I guess the more important question is “how does it end,” or even “does it end?” I guess you can’t start a solid story without a solid beginning, so that’s what this will be. It’s time to start this journey with a reference point, which is what I suppose this long and psychoanalytic account will serve as. But I’m not crazy about the idea of doing this alone. And as every seasoned nerd knows, solo questing is harder than going at it with a party.

[simplemlmsponsoring]

New Post has been published on http://simplemlmsponsoring.com/attraction-marketing-formula/blogging/how-to-build-a-freelance-writing-business-while-travelling-the-world/

How To Build A Freelance Writing Business While Travelling The World

These days, there is a lot of waffle on the internet about becoming location independent.

I’ve seen countless ads pop up on my social media feeds featuring a guy relaxing by a pool with his laptop, with promises of making your dreams come true. It is only when you click on the link do you find that it is for a dodgy MLM scheme or a course that promises to help you ‘become a digital nomad’ but provides no actionable steps.

This is not one of those posts.

A few years ago, I had reached the end of the rope with my desk job.

I was sick of working eight hours a day (minimum), five days a week, only to make money that I didn’t have time to spend.

I was in my twenties, and yet it felt like I’d reached a dead end already. I was working all day in a job that made me miserable, to make enough money to live how I wanted, but then I never had enough time to spend my money doing the things I loved.

I craved the freedom to set my own working hours, find my own clients, and to be able to up my income far quicker than the average 3 – 5% annual raise that most office workers get for their hard work.

So, I decided to make a change, and I set about building my own freelance writing business.

Oh, and I decided to fly across the world to Thailand and start traveling shortly after – there’s no better motivation to succeed than moving to a new country and leaving your cushy office job and stable salary behind!

Over the next few months, I worked – hard. I built the foundations of my freelance writing business and then continued to grow that business into a real, thriving career while I traveled the world.

Read: 11 ways how traveling will enhance your career and life

Now, I’m entirely location independent and get to do a job that brings me so much joy.

That first year contained a lot of stress, long days and little sleep, but it was worth it for the freedom I’ve created for myself.

The best part? I can say, without a doubt, that anyone can build a freelance writing business – and you don’t need to buy a digital nomad course to get there. If I did could do it, anyone can.

Below, I’ve listed some of the critical steps you should take to set up a freelance writing business while traveling the world (and avoid some of the stress of figuring it out all on your own).

Ready to travel and build your freelancing business? Here is how:

1) Lay The Foundations Before You Leave

While I did manage to build a freelance business while traveling successfully, the task would have been a lot harder had I not prepared the foundations of my writing business before I left my full-time job.

If you have not yet leaped into the digital nomad lifestyle (i.e., you still have a stable income and are living in one place), my most significant piece of advice would be: lay the foundations of your business before you take any risks.

Personally, I waited until I had several long-term clients secured, and was making at least 50% of my income from my office job before I decided to hand in my notice and start traveling.

2) Build an Online Presence: Write, Connect, and Engage

A digital nomad is just someone who works exclusively online (and thus has complete location independence).

To build an online business, there is one simple thing you need to do first. Any guesses?

You’ve got to get online!

This may sound obvious for some and a lot of you may laugh, but for me, setting up social media accounts and actually using them was an alien concept.

I was always a lurker online. Now, I make time every single day to share my blog posts, connect with other freelancers, bloggers, and businesses, and get involved in my online community.

Building an online presence is essential if you want to run a freelance business successfully, and even more so if you will be relying on online interaction to connect with others as a digital nomad.

This will:

Increase your exposure to potential clients Be a great showcase of your personality and skills for clients checking out your services as a freelancer Help you connect with leading freelancers in your niche (and maybe even lead to referrals from them!) Identify you as an expert in your field too

Read: How to Build a Personal Brand (and Why You Need One)

3) Create a Portfolio

Whether you’re building a freelance writing business from your home, or on the move, one thing remains the same: you need an excellent portfolio to guarantee you continue to land quality clients.

By quality clients, I mean companies that are willing to pay for your worth. There are far too many low-quality jobs online these days, and unfortunately, there are a lot of people that underestimate their worth and take low-paying jobs without seeing any other option.

Your portfolio will:

Showcase your highest quality writing samples Show what styles you are most experienced at writing in (long-form articles, witty social media posts, web copy etc) Highlight specific brands/industries you have worked in and can offer valuable experience to future employers

One of the biggest mistakes I see many new freelance writers making is to either pitch for jobs without having a portfolio, or to pitch for a job and send one link!

So, how to build those samples for a super strong portfolio?

There are several creative ways you can build your portfolio without having to land a job first. Some of the most effective methods I used to build a solid portfolio that helped me land my very first paid writing job include:

Blogging: Start a blog today, and start writing about any topic that really interests you. It could be anything from entrepreneurship, to pets. The key is to showcase your writing style and personality. Learn how to make a blog on WordPress platform within 10 minutes.  Guest posting: There are many sites online that will allow you to submit a guest post to share with their readers. Some are harder to be accepted on to (thanks again, Harsh!), while others don’t necessarily require you to be an established blogger in your own right before they allow you to write for them. Guest posting is a great way to build a quality stock of writing samples on already established and respected websites. Write for friends and family: This was one of the first steps I took to build my freelance business while I was traveling. I contacted friends and family with their own businesses, and asked if I could write them some new web content, a blog post, or anything else I thought I could help with. At first, I did this work for free to add samples to my writing portfolio – but over time, I had enough experience behind me that I could reasonably charge for my services too.

Also see:

How to Start Your Freelance Writing Career; a Real-life Case Study

4) Know Where You’re Going

I think many people have the romantic idea of traveling with their business to the most exotic, remote places on earth.

However, the reality is that working on the road comes with a few big obstacles: one of which is finding a secure WiFi connection so you can actually work.

This is one of the biggest differences you’ll definitely need to bear in mind between building a freelance business from home, and building yours while you’re on the road.

I recommend always researching where you’re going before you choose a new destination. It does take the spontaneity out of your trip a little, but it is so worth it for knowing you’ll be able to meet your deadlines and work comfortably.

Trust me, no one enjoys working on the road when you’re desperately trying to send off an article using your phone’s hotspot and sitting out in the middle of a paddy field at night surrounded by cows (yup, that really happened to me!).

5) Make Virtual Tools Your Best Friend

Another inevitable obstacle you’ll face when building your freelance writing business while traveling the world is having to communicate with clients and meet deadlines in completely different time zones.

If you’re not careful, you may find yourself up at 3 am frantically sending emails – or worse, accidentally missing a deadline altogether.

The best way to overcome this is to start using virtual tools which will make your life immensely easier.

I use virtual tools to manage my projects, communicate with clients, host virtual meetings, and schedule social media posts both for my blogs and for my clients automatically.

A few of my favorite virtual tools include:

Hootsuite or Buffer for social media automation Trello for managing projects Slack for instant messaging with clients/remote teams Google Hangouts or Zoom.us for virtual meetings Calendly for scheduling meeting

All of these tools have free and premium memberships (I only ever use the free one!), and make managing a business while you’re constantly on the move so much easier.

Key Takeaways

The above steps are some of the most important lessons I learned while building my freelance writing business on the road, and will make starting your own business while traveling so much easier.

To finish, I want to share a few key takeaways I’ve learned from this lifestyle that are important to remember:

– There is no ‘get rich quick’ hack Click To Tweet

Making money online and becoming location independent, whether you’re a freelance writer, blogger, or something else entirely, does not come quickly.

Those schemes you see online promising to help you earn hundreds in a matter of days seem too good to be true because they are. I built my freelance writing to the point where it is today over an entire year – it took time, and a lot of hard work, but those are the two things that really pay off.

– A digital nomad’s life is awesome, but it’s not all glamour #Digitalnomad Click To Tweet

Yes, running my freelance writing business while traveling the world is a dream come true. I wouldn’t trade this freedom for anything.

That being said, don’t believe all those glamorous ‘laptop by the beach’ shots you might see online. The reality is that I’m often working in my hotel room or a busy cafe, and then go out exploring a new city. Constantly moving around, traveling, packing light and all that comes with working on the road isn’t for everyone – and that’s okay.

Have you been thinking about setting up your own location independent freelance business? I hope these tips have helped get you one step closer!

Here are a few hand-picked articles like this:

5 Debunked Myths About Being A Digital Nomad The Ultimate Guide On How To Find A Digital Nomad Job I Make $1000/Month Outside My Job. You Can Too! This Is How

This is a guest post by Yaz Purnell from Untraditional office. If you would like to write a guest post for ShoutMeLoud, check our submission guidelines.

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How To Build A Freelance Writing Business While Travelling The World is a post from ShoutMeLoud – Shouters Who Inspires

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