#adding my fifty cents

[ninellecantpaint]

LISTEN. Listen.

I was born in Russia, a country whose democracy was virtually eliminated, not in 4 years, not in 5, but by gradually, slowly stripping people of their rights to speak out and leaving every institution rotten and corrupted. The entire time I've been alive, Putin has been in power. 24 years. I'm 18. Me and my mother wouldn't be able to escape now if she didn't have enough foresight to leave the country before things went to shit completely. Many times I've wondered what would I be had we stayed. "I'd probably kill myself, haha", that's what I often said. But now, I'm thinking of all the young people, of all the queer people, of all the good people who have to wake up to a hopeless landscape of fascism in front of them. How they still live. Live, though they can't speak out, not even on internet. Live, even though they can go to jail for wearing a rainbow bracelet. How I never thought about them enough, because "oh, it's not my country anymore!".Please. Promise me to be loud. Promise you'll fight like your life depends on this. Russians allowed this to happen because they had zero political consciousness after almost a century spent under soviet oppression. But you are supposed to be a country of freedom. Try to live up to the title. Bite and scratch if you have to in order to defend it. Because maybe one of these days some transgender kid from Novosibirsk will look at you and feel hope. Hope that some things in this world can be saved after all.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Fifty per cent of web users are running ad blockers. Zero per cent of app users are running ad blockers, because adding a blocker to an app requires that you first remove its encryption, and that’s a felony. (Jay Freeman, the American businessman and engineer, calls this “felony contempt of business-model”.) So when someone in a boardroom says, “Let’s make our ads 20 per cent more obnoxious and get a 2 per cent revenue increase,” no one objects that this might prompt users to google, “How do I block ads?” After all, the answer is, you can’t. Indeed, it’s more likely that someone in that boardroom will say, “Let’s make our ads 100 per cent more obnoxious and get a 10 per cent revenue increase.” (This is why every company wants you to install an app instead of using its website.) There’s no reason that gig workers who are facing algorithmic wage discrimination couldn’t install a counter-app that co-ordinated among all the Uber drivers to reject all jobs unless they reach a certain pay threshold. No reason except felony contempt of business model, the threat that the toolsmiths who built that counter-app would go broke or land in prison, for violating DMCA 1201, the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act, trademark, copyright, patent, contract, trade secrecy, nondisclosure and noncompete or, in other words, “IP law”. IP isn’t just short for intellectual property. It’s a euphemism for “a law that lets me reach beyond the walls of my company and control the conduct of my critics, competitors and customers”. And “app” is just a euphemism for “a web page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to mod it, to protect the labour, consumer and privacy rights of its user”.

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Sinning With Lust (Good Omens One-Shot)

Aziraphale x GN!Reader 18+ ONLY / requests are open

Summary: Aziraphale catches you reading a spicy novel.

CW: Aziraphale has bde here

Good Omens Tag List: @coffee-and-red-lipstick @quickslvxrr @clarina04 @motionlessindoubt @stevekempscocktails @go-bonkers-go-foolish (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

“What have we here, then?” 

Those five words startled you so badly that it sent your Kindle flying out of your hands and onto the floor. 

“Jesus Christ!” You shouted, hand flying to your chest in fright. Your heart beat hard and fast for a few moments before you returned to yourself, hammering dying down. 

You’d been reading a rather spicy scene in your novel, and you hadn’t expected to be interrupted quite like that. Particularly so startlingly. 

“Oh, come now, that’s not very nice- blaspheming in an Angel’s abode.” Aziraphale tutted at you teasingly, those eyes glinting with mischief. He was good at that. “My house is God’s house, you know.” 

“Listen,” you breathed, heartbeat finally returning to normal. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you sneaking up on me.” 

“Sneaking?! Well, I resent the accusation, my dear. I assure you I was approaching at my usual pace, gait and noisiness.” 

You grunted and made to stand to grab your Kindle, though Aziraphale shushed you and encouraged you back into your spot, insisting that he should get it for you as he was the reason it had been dropped so unceremoniously. 

“What were we reading today, dear?” Aziraphale asks, leaning to pick up the tablet and pass it to you. 

You’d always thought those scenes in movies where the protagonist had something to hide and the main antagonist, side character or whoever went for it in slow motion was stupid. Turns out it’s pretty accurate. 

Your heart beat faster in your chest and you reached for the Kindle to snatch it out of his hands before he could read the page sitting there incriminatingly. You watched as his eyes skimmed a couple of lines and widened comically before settling again after the initial shock. You noted the telltale subtle darkening of his irises and blushed profusely. 

“Oh, I see,” he said, voice taking on a slightly lower pitch. You shied away, looking out the window and covering half your face with your palm. This was truly mortifying. 

“Been a bit naughty, have we?” Aziraphale asked, putting the Kindle on the side table and standing before you. He brought one hand down to move your own and softly cupped your chin, leading it so that you were now looking up at his heated gaze. You swallowed thickly. “Lust is a sin, you know, my dear.” 

You nodded, unable to form words. Your mouth was suddenly dry and you would have given anything for a big glass of water. 

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale’s head cocked to the side. “You’re looking positively scared, little rabbit.” 

You breathed out a panicked laugh. Oh, this was- Aziraphale was ticking so many boxes for you right now. 

“Reading such filth in my home, dear- In God’s home. Do you think you need to be punished?” Aziraphale’s bottom lip poked out in a mild pout, mocking you. Your eyes flitted between his, and you shook your head no. 

“No? Hmm, I’m not sure I agree.” 

You lean your cheek into the palm of his hand and Aziraphale practically swoons. You know you’re putting on the charm. It usually has about a fifty per cent success rate, and you’re wondering which way Zira will go with it when he’s suddenly leaning down and pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead. 

“Sweet thing,” he said softly, giving you one of the most loving smiles you’ve ever seen. “My office, ten minutes, hmm? Don’t be late.” 

Then he wandered off into the kitchen, leaving you breathless and blinking at the space that your Angel had just been occupying. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied to the wall.

[heavyhitterheaux]

Bake Sale High

First Lady of Private Garden Blurb

Jack is 18 and First Lady is 17

Synopsis: Urban gives you the wrong brownies 🤭

Pairing: Baby!Jack Harlow x Baby!Reader

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

Your mouth was watering at the sight of Urban's brownies that he had made with the help of his dad for the soccer team's bake sale  to raise money in order for them to get new uniforms. Eating breakfast before you left the house was never possible since you always woke up so late and Jack would have to damn near pull you out of the bed when he came to get you.

As you reached your hand out to open one of the containers, Urban quickly snatched it away from you making you pout.

“Urby! I'm hungry! Give me one! JACK! Make him give me one!”

“Urb! Give it to her!”

“I will, but not that one!”

“What, why?” Jack asked as he looked at him before holding the  other container of brownies up and inspecting them.

“They have a special ingredient.” He told the both of you as he made a poor excuse of a wink as you and Jack stared at him before looking at each other.

“If that was you winking at us, never do that again.” Jack told him and Urban immediately rolled his eyes.

“They have weed in them.” Urban said as he tried to whisper it and failed miserably.

“And you can't whisper.” You added as Urban let out a huff and opened the other container and handed you and Jack one brownie each.

“That'll be a dollar and fifty cents for both of you.”

“Not for your best friends it won't be. As much as you steal my food.” You said as you broke off a small piece and threw it into your mouth.

“I do not!”

“Urby please stop talking because you do.”

“Jack, you gonna let your girl lie on me like that?” Urban asked.

Jack was so focused on the brownie and he just shrugged before responding to him.

“So she can beat both of our asses? Nope, you on your own.”

“Seriously!?”

All three of you were sitting near the bleachers waiting for the first bell to ring when you started to feel weird. Jack noticed that something was off too and quickly made a point to ask if you were okay.

“Babe? You feel alright?” He asked as he turned to you, however seeing how your eyes looked startled him.

“Um, no not really. I feel heavy and my mind is cloudy.”

“Uh, Urb…. Look at her eyes.” Jack instructed Urban. Once he turned around to look at both of you he simply muttered.

“Oh fuck.”

“URBAN! YOU SAID THE OTHER ONES HAD WEED IN THEM! LOOK AT HER! SHE'S HIGH AS A KITE!”

“IT'S JUST A SMALL AMOUNT!”

“URB! She probably can't take it! She's a lot smaller than I am! She's never been high before!”

“Yeah, I didn't really think this one through. I must have mixed up the containers or they are both literally mixed throughout both of them.” He said as he held both of them up and inspected them.

“OBVIOUSLY!”

“Smush, I have a quiz first period. How am I supposed to take it!?” You asked since you were now freaking out. You had never gotten high before and for this to be the first time, you were terrified.

“Okay, baby calm down. It'll wear off. It'll be fine.” Jack told you as he was trying to talk you off a cliff.

“It's not going to wear off before first period! Babe, my arms don't work! They're so heavy! And why am I so hungry?” You whined as you laid your head on his shoulder while Jack just glared at Urban.

“My bad.” He quietly said as Jack just shook his head.

Jack immediately slid your phone from your pocket to send a text to hot chips and bad decisions.

Y/N- it's Jack and I need a favor

Jess- Not the white boy texting us

Blanca- If you hurt Y/N, I will let Panchito loose

Victoria- Will you two let the man explain!?

Y/N- Thank you, Victoria. Y/N just ate a weed brownie because Urban's dumbass mixed up the containers. Any of you have eye drops?

Blanca- WHAAAAT

Victoria- We literally just got to school. How the hell has she had time to get high already?

Y/N- VICTORIA FOCUS 

Jess- Lmaooooooo and we have a quiz first period 

Y/N- Jess! This isn't funny!

Jess- Oh admit it, Jack. It's a little funny.

Y/N- We're outside by the bleachers

Ten minutes passed before all three of them made their way to the bleachers to see you out of it as you were now laying in Jack’s lap.

They simply looked at Urban who held up his hands in defense.

“Wait, how are both of you not high? Didn't you both eat brownies?” Jess asked before busting out laughing.

“I'm guessing that the batches are mixed sooo I definitely can't sell those not knowing which is which.” Urban explained as Victoria took out her eye drops and held your eyes open to drop them in.

“Somebody literally has to keep an eye on her the entire day.” Jack said as they all turned to look at you to see that you were digging through your backpack and pulled out a lollipop that you quickly stuck in your mouth.

“Not us being put on babysitting duty.” Urb muttered and Jack let out a scoff.

“You were the dumbass who gave it to her!”

“But Lil Bit, on a real note, they were good weren’t they?”

“NOT NOW URB! I'M TRYING NOT TO DIE!” You exclaimed as you tried to stand up and wobbled a little to the left. Luckily, Jack caught you. 

“Damn, Urban. How much did you put in those brownies!?” Victoria asked him as she quickly got on the other side of you.

“Um…. Not that much.”

“Clearly it was because this girl isn't even on planet earth anymore.” Blanca said as she watched you with wide eyes. 

The first bell had now rang and Jack let out a sigh.

“Well here goes.”

It was now the end of the day and everyone had taken turns walking you to your classes to make sure that you had gotten there on time. Lunch consisted of you eating the majority of Urban's and Jack’s food before also eating your own. You could feel your high slowly starting to wear off by 1:30 and you thought to yourself that it was absolutely crazy that it had lasted that long. Jack had waited for you outside your last class so he would be able to take you home. You were the last one to leave the classroom and immediately embraced him before you held up your quiz to show him.

“You okay now?” He asked as he leaned down to kiss the top of your head.

“Yes, and apparently she graded the quiz since I was the first one to finish and I got a 100 on it.”

“Wait, isn’t that your hardest class?” Jack asked as he looked at you and you simply nodded. 

“Yeah and I didn’t even study which is the crazy part. Where’s Urban? I need another brownie tomorrow for my history test.”

“Baby, NO!” 

[maaarine]

My PMDD hell: why I went abroad to have my ovaries removed (Sarah Gillespie, The Times, Nov 27 2024)

"For six years, from my late twenties, I have lived with a condition called premenstrual dysphoric disorder, or PMDD.

Due to a genetic quirk, I have a brain sensitivity that makes my body intolerant to its own hormonal changes.

Instead of becoming moody and irritable, as with PMS, I become catatonic and racked with pain.

Dysphoria blooms in my brain, making me depressed and paranoid. I binge on carbohydrates, needing 3,000 calories a day just to function.

This happens for 7-14 days every month, during the latter half of my menstrual cycle, as hormone levels plummet.

On the third day of my period, the fog lifts and I feel normal again. But relief is soon replaced by dread as I survey the destruction.

There are relationships to repair, overdue bills to pay and excess pounds to lose.

It is the life of Sisyphus: every month, I roll the boulder up the mountain only for it to roll down again. (…)

PMDD is surprisingly common and, according to World Health Organisation data, affects 5.5 per cent of women of child-bearing age — about 824,000 women in the UK.

Of these, more than a third have attempted suicide. Yet hardly anyone’s heard of it.

No one knows the cause, either, though scientists generally agree that it’s genetic — hence why psychological therapies can’t fully fix it.

It was only in 2019 that the WHO added PMDD to its international classification of diseases and related health problems (ICD-11), legitimising it as a medical diagnosis (though there are still medical professionals who dispute its existence). (…)

After diagnosis, women with PMDD are put onto a ladder of treatments ranked from least to most invasive.

But as the body ages and hormones become more erratic, PMDD gets progressively worse.

So even when I found a rung on the ladder that worked, I never got to rest there for long.

First, there were lifestyle changes: diet, weight training, high-intensity interval training (HIIT).

Then supplements: chasteberry, evening primrose, magnesium, calcium, L-tryptophan, vitamin B6. Then antidepressants: fluoxetine, sertraline, citalopram.

Then contraceptives: Evra, Yasmin, Eloine. Finally, there was HRT: Utrogestan, Estradot, Estraderm.

I climbed that ladder for five years. Only HIIT and fluoxetine worked, for about nine months each; the rest worked for two months, if at all. (…)

After all this, only one rung was left on the ladder — one with a 96 per cent satisfaction rate, the closest thing to a cure.

This last-resort treatment is a bilateral salpingo oophorectomy: the surgical removal of both ovaries and fallopian tubes.

Upon their removal, all hormone fluctuations would stop, my hormone levels would drop to almost zero and I would enter menopause.

I would need to take hormone replacement therapy (HRT) until my fifties or risk the early onset of osteoporosis, heart disease and dementia. It would also make me infertile. (…)

Getting approved for surgery on the NHS requires a trial period in a reversible “chemical” menopause: monthly injections that would shut down my ovaries, end my suffering and “prove” that I had PMDD.

That was the idea, anyway. Instead, the injections threw my hormones into chaos, resulting in a PMDD episode that lasted for 11 months.

Deprived of even the monthly breaks in my symptoms, I languished in bed.

My attention shattered; I spent countless days scrolling my phone. I gulped down painkillers and sleeping pills like Skittles.

My finances were collapsing. I gained more than two stone in weight.

“It should be working by now,” the gynaecologist said after three months. “Have you tried eating more vegetables?”

The next gynaecologist was no better. “If it hasn’t worked, that suggests it’s not PMDD,” she said. “I should probably refer you to a psychiatrist.”

After months of my pleading, she agreed to write to the surgeon. But her letter was an act of sabotage.

“Sarah has diagnosed herself with PMDD,” she wrote, ignoring my GP’s diagnosis.

“She is on many help groups and accessing a lot of support from other PMDD sufferers online.” In other words: “This hypochondriac is spending too much time on the internet.”

Yes, I was on the internet, but I wasn’t talking to help groups any more.

Instead I’d been digging into scientific papers to find studies on chemical menopause.

Eventually, I found one — a meta-analysis of five clinical trials published in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry.

It stated that chemical menopause treats PMDD in “upwards of 70 per cent” of cases — but not 100 per cent, as the NHS doctors had said.

The International Association for Premenstrual Disorders (IAPMD) backs this up.

On its page on chemical menopause it says, “In rare cases [chemical menopause] does not fully suppress the cycle and there are breakthrough symptoms… If this was the case, you may still respond well to surgical menopause.”

Two months later, I was in Lithuania. Feeling desperate and unable to afford the £10,000 it would cost for private surgery in the UK, I had googled “gynaecology surgery Europe”.

This led me to Nordclinic in Kaunas, which treats about 2,000 British patients annually.

I sent my medical records to the surgeon, who agreed to perform the surgery. (…)

Though it’s early days, I still can’t believe how well I feel. My future unfurls before me without interruption.

I have so much time: time to write, to see friends and family, to travel, go on dates, paint and sing and read and run.

Time to cook, as I can now handle knives without fear. Time to sit and do nothing and burst out laughing from sheer wonder — for life without PMDD is so, so wonderful and I will forever be grateful for it.

That said, I still need to reckon with all the time taken from me over the past six years.

My trust in our healthcare system is broken and will probably never be restored.

I need to kick away the crutches — food, phone, pills, alcohol — that have held me up and rediscover better ways to cope.

But this time, I don’t need to keep starting again and again and again every month.

Yes, the scars are still red and raw. But by next summer, they’ll be gone."

[foundtherightwords]

As the Sun Will Rise - Chapter 1

Pairing: Grunauer (Overlord) x OFC, Beauty & the Beast retelling

Summary: After losing most of his unit in a disastrous D-Day mission, Derwin Grunauer returns to his hometown near Miami, body riddled with scars and heart heavy with guilt, only to find his neighbors shunning him due to his German name. He retreats into his family mansion and remains there, unwilling to rejoin the living, until the day Alba Reyes turns up at his door with a basket full of warm bread. As the daughter of a Cuban immigrant, Alba knows something of being an outsider, and when she offers to work for Derwin as his housekeeper, it is not only to pay off her father's debt to the Grunauers, but also because she feels some connection to the reclusive young man. When that connection develops into something more, they must overcome both the town's prejudice and their own doubts to find happiness.

A/N: My inspiration for this came from these lovely artworks that reimagine Beauty and the Beast in a 1950s setting. The idea of making the Beast a World War II veteran jumped out at me, and given that "Overlord" is a World War II movie, I immediately knew I'd write this for Grunauer. I based this on the original screenplay more than the movie itself (Grunauer's full name and the fact that he's from Miami are both in the script), since Grunauer actually survives in that. The title is, of course, a lyric from "Beauty and the Beast".

Warnings: period-typical attitudes (sexism, racism, prejudice), PTSD, some violence, non-explicit smut

Chapter warnings: period-typical sexism and prejudice

Chapter word count: 5.2k

Chapter 1

"I'm so glad the sugar ration is over, aren't you?" Mrs. McLeish said, peering at the rows and rows of cakes and pastries behind the glass.

"We all are, Mrs. McLeish," replied Alba, handing the gray-haired lady her purchase neatly wrapped in paper bags. "That'll be a dollar and sixty-three cents."

"Are you sure, dear?" Mrs. McLeish felt the bags, trying to remember what she'd bought.

"Of course. Ninety cents for half a dozen loaves of bread, fifty-two cents for ten ham croquetas, and twenty-one cents for three cheese pasteles," counted Alba. There had been no mistake—Alba knew this was only Mrs. McLeish's way to weasel some discount out of her.

Mrs. McLeish started counting out her money with excruciating slowness. "My Ted has been so looking forward to your bakes ever since he came back from the Pacific, you know."  

Alba smiled and reached into the display case again. "Well, here's a slice of tres leches cake, to thank Ted for his service. On the house," she quickly added. Mrs. McLeish's wrinkles immediately relaxed, just as Alba knew they would. Papi wouldn't like it, but they couldn't afford to alienate a customer now.

Mrs. McLeish was barely out of the door when the cheerful chime of the shop bell was drowned out by an obnoxious roar. Alba looked up to see a bright red Aston Martin screech to a halt across the street.

"¡Mierda!" she muttered under her breath. This bit of profanity earned her a stern look from the statue of La Cachita, the patroness of Cuba, on her altar set in a corner of the bakery. "Sorry," Alba mumbled to the statue. She tried to dip behind the counter, but it was too late. The driver, a tall, broad-shouldered man with raven hair slicked back, wearing a leather flight jacket that was too heavy for Miami in late June, was already striding toward the door. He pushed it open with unnecessary force, making the bell chime furiously in protest.

"Allie!" he declared, flashing a grin that showed his white teeth to perfection. "Just the girl I want to see."

Alba tried to pull her lips into the semblance of a smile and ended up with something more like a grimace instead. "Mr. Grant, good morning," she said. "What can I get you today?"

"Call me Gastin, dearest Allie," replied Grant, leaning against the counter. "How many times do I have to ask you again?"

"As many times as I've asked you to call me Alba, not Allie, Mr. Grant," Alba said smoothly. Grant's smile faltered, but only for a moment, before returning to full blast.

"But Allie sounds so much nicer! Allie Grant. Just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

Ignoring his suggestive leer, Alba repeated, "What can I get you today? A pastelito, perhaps, or some croquetas?"

Grant shuddered. "God, no. Do you have any idea how fattening those can be, with all that cheese and butter and frying oil?"

It was on the tip of Alba's tongue to snap that he was in a shop that thrived on cheese and butter and frying oil, but she bit back the retort and simply said, a little impatiently now, "Then what do you want?"

"You know what I want, my dear Allie." Grant was now leaning so far over the counter that a bystander may think he was trying to reach into the till. "A date with you."

"I'm afraid I'm very busy at the moment," Alba said automatically.

Grant let out a derisive laugh. "Busy with what?" He gestured around the empty bakery. It was after eight; the first waves of customers had gone, which meant Grant had timed his visit to catch her specifically. He certainly hadn't driven all the way here from his swanky family mansion on Millionaire's Row for one of La Perla del Sur's pasteles.

Mierda.

"Come now, Allie," Grant continued, seizing her hand in a tight grip. "I don't understand why you keep working in this dump. When we're married, you'll have the biggest mansion on Miami Beach and never have to deal with all this misery..."

Alba's face tightened. For six months now, Grant had been hovering around the neighborhood and pestering her into going out with him, despite her making it clear that she had no time for him. She knew she was the minority in this. Most people would consider him a great catch. A war hero and the heir to a real estate empire, courting the daughter of a lowly baker, a Cuban immigrant at that? She should have been over the moon. It was true that she had been flattered by his attention at first. But she wasn't interested in finding a boyfriend, and she'd treated him the same way she did all customers, polite and friendly. Only when Grant started harping on about marriage, as if they were already engaged, that she firmly shut it down. Even then, he couldn't seem to take a hint, whether because he was too arrogant or too dim, Alba wasn't sure. So her politeness had turned into grudging tolerance and finally into barely concealed dislike. Still, he refused to leave her alone.

"Maybe I like the misery," she bit out.

Grant opened his mouth, but before he could come up with a response, an angry voice rose from the street. It was Mr. Olson, whose grocery store was across the street from the bakery, and whose front door was currently being blocked by Grant's monster of a vehicle.

"Who's the schmuck that parked his car in front of my store?" Mr. Olson shouted, waving his broom. "Move it before I smash your headlights in!"

Grant flung Alba's hand aside and ran out of the bakery without another word. Seizing the opportunity, Alba ducked through the swinging door that separated the front of the bakery from the sweltering back room, where two enormous ovens were constantly belching out steam and heat. She almost collided with her younger sister, Beatriz.

"Alba!" Beatriz exclaimed. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I need you to man the counter for me," Alba said.

"Why?"

"He's here."

"Who?"

"You know who. Señor Slick." Alba's lips curled in distaste.

"Really?" Beatriz craned her neck to look through the curtain. Alba glanced behind her. Grant was busy arguing with Mr. Olson, but she grabbed Beatriz's shoulders and positioned herself so Beatriz would hide her from view anyway.

Alba couldn't understand why Grant was so determined to woo her. She definitely wasn't as pretty as Beatriz, though they shared the same features and coloring. The same hazel eyes on Beatriz were bright and clear, while Alba's eyes couldn't seem to decide which color they wanted to be and ended up as a sort of muddy brownish green. The same dark curls on Beatriz were glossy and bouncing with her steps, while Alba's had a tendency to frizz maddeningly in the humid Florida air, so she mostly kept it under a headscarf. Beatriz's figure was all soft curves, while Alba's was straight and flat as a pond cypress.

And most of all, Beatriz, like other girls in their neighborhood, was always making sheep's eyes at Grant. He never paid attention to any of them though. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he only set his sights on Alba because he liked a conquest.

But Alba had no time to dwell on all of that now. "Yes," she told Beatriz, "and you can ogle him to your heart's content if you man the counter for me."

Beatriz's face fell. "But Papi told me to make the delivery." She gestured to a basket, packed with loaves of bread in paper bags, a box of ham and cheese croquetas, and a box of pasteles filled with guava jam, still warm from the oven.

"Delivery? Where to?" La Perla del Sur Bakery did not do deliveries. Those who knew of their bread and pastries would line up outside its door before the opening time of six o'clock, come rain or shine. 

"The Grunauer place," said Beatriz.

Alba smacked her forehead. Of course. How could she forget?

The late Dr. Grunauer had been their landlord. When they first arrived in Miami from Cuba thirteen years ago, Alba's parents, Mauricio and Ana, had found a nearly dead town, brought to its knees by two great hurricanes and the Great Depression. They had rebuilt their lives alongside the city. They had found this place for cheap, and Dr. Grunauer, a professor at the university, had only been too glad to let them have it after the crash of the land boom. Mauricio had traded his suit and tie for an apron and worked tirelessly next to his wife to open this bakery. But it was difficult to curb the ambition of a high-ranking government official, even if the coup d'état of 1933 had stripped him of his power. Mauricio had borrowed from Dr. Grunauer to buy a vacant beachfront store, hoping to open another La Perla, to be run by Alba's older brother, Rafael. Then came the war, and Rafael joined the Air Force and never came back from the Pacific, and Ana soon followed him, so that was the end of that. The beachfront property was left to languish through the war, and in the end, Mauricio had to cut his loss and sell it for cheap.

Dr. Grunauer, too, had passed away a year before the end of the war. Mauricio was not one to ever forget a debt, and although Dr. Grunauer's only son, who had come home last year, never mentioned it, Mauricio had been sending him bread and pastries and even fresh fruits sometimes, hoping that he would not call in the debt any time soon.

Now Alba snatched the basket out of Beatriz's hand. "I'll go," she said. "You man the counter."

"But—but—" Beatriz glanced at the back, where Mauricio and the assistant baker, young Frank, were busy loading trays of shaped dough into the ovens. Alba knew Papi didn't like Beatriz to be at the front alone, despite the fact that she always drew a crowd, mostly of young men—or perhaps precisely because of that.

"Bea's too busy flirting," he'd once said to Alba. "She'll mistake flan for croquetas and sell her own shoes as pastelitos next. I need you there, to keep an eye on the till and tell me when we're running low on things." And so Alba had no choice but to grin and bear it, though she didn't have Beatriz's natural charm and ease with the customers, and a day working at the till always left her with crescents of sweat under her arms, sore cheeks from having to stretch them into unnatural smiles for so long, and a raging headache.

"The breakfast rush's over, you'll be fine," Alba assured her sister. "I'll be back before lunch." She rushed out the side door before Beatriz could raise further protest and draw Papi's attention.

"Be careful," Beatriz called after her. Alba wondered if the warning was meant to be about Grant or the Grunauer place.

As she wheeled her bicycle out the back gate and down the lane, Alba saw her best friend, Claudia Barron, watering her garden, the hose curving over her pregnant belly. Claudia had spent her whole life in their neighborhood of Cypress Grove. She'd grown up down the street, dated a literal boy next door, Marty, and after Marty came back from the war, they had gotten married and moved into a house on the same street. Sometimes Alba thought she would go crazy if she were Claudia, never going further than a few miles from where she grew up. Other times, she envied Claudia her straightforward life.

"How's Marty Junior?" Alba nodded at Claudia's belly.

"Kicking up a storm last night. It's this heat, I don't think he likes it." Claudia raised a quizzical eyebrow at the bread basket. "Where are you going with those?"

"Delivery to the Grunauer place."

"Some sweetener for Gruesome Grunauer, eh?"

"Don't call him that," Alba said, rolling her eyes.

"It fits him, though. Like father, like son. He's been back for what, a year? Yet nobody's seen him. He's locked himself away in that mansion with all those snakes and gators." Claudia shuddered. "I wonder at your dad, letting you go there alone. Why can't he or Frank go?"

"They're busy," Alba said shortly. "I have to go now."

Without waiting for Claudia's goodbye, she got on her bike and rode away. Claudia was a good friend, but she could be an awful gossip sometimes. "Gruesome Grunauer", indeed! Yes, it was true that Dr. Grunauer had always been rather strange. With his balding head, owlish eyes, and quiet, mumbling voice, he reminded Alba of a mad scientist, like Victor Frankenstein or Dr. Jekyll, and she, like the rest of the neighborhood kids, had been slightly afraid of him. The nickname had started when they found out he raised snakes and other reptiles on his land, and it stuck. There was a rumor that he even kept an alligator. Every Halloween, the kids always dared each other to go to the Grunauer place to get a glimpse of this alligator.

And then there was Mrs. Grunauer too. Apparently she had been bedridden, and nobody had ever seen her. When she passed away, shortly after Alba's family moved to Cypress Grove, people had whispered that Dr. Grunauer had poisoned his wife.

During the war, those childish rumors had persisted and taken on a more malicious tinge. The war hadn't been easy for Dr. Grunauer with his German name and German accent, and some people had even turned against the Reyes for their association with him. And now, with the old man dead and his son back at the mansion, more rumors had surfaced. They said young Grunauer had been badly injured in the war, and those injuries had left him disfigured. It didn't help that he never set foot outside of his home.

Alba never subscribed to the local rumor mill, but she couldn't help feeling a slight sense of trepidation as she rode her bike down the back lane that followed along the Tamiami Trail. Alba preferred this shortcut, which ran right through the cypress swamp west of the city. She had always loved the swamp, loved seeing the bald cypresses rising from it like majestic giants, their trunks dripping with ferns and orchids, loved watching the herons and egrets that waded amongst their roots, loved the thrill of sighting an alligator floating lazily over the dark water. Even with the occasional blare of a truck horn from the interstate in the distance, it still provided a quiet spot in the busy city.

This morning, though, Alba paid no attention to the beauty of nature. Leaning on the pedals, she only hoped that she'd made enough of a head start that Grant wouldn't be able to follow her in his car. She wondered how the Grunauer place had changed. She knew where it was, of course, though she'd been too much of a wimp to come right up to its gate. In her childhood memory, it was the grandest house she'd ever seen, as grand as the Palacio del Valle in her hometown of Cienfuegos back in Cuba. She also wondered what young Mr. Grunauer would be like. Though they were roughly the same age, young Grunauer had never been a part of the Cypress Grove gang—he had been sent to a boarding school in Jacksonville even before Alba arrived, and none of the kids in the neighborhood knew him.

Soon, the lane branched off into two even smaller trails, little more than footpaths lined by willow and cocoplum bushes. Rolling her bike down the right trail, Alba finally came to a clearing. The willows and cocoplums gave way to magnificent oaks covered in Spanish moss that stood on either side of the path like sentinels, guarding the mansion of her memories. It stood back from the path, a little aloof, a little wary, a queen surveying her empire, its white walls shining like a mirage against the dark canopies of the trees surrounding it. A porch held up by tall columns ran around the house, shielding it from the sun and prying eyes. A beautiful frangipani stood in the back, its branches, dotted with star-like blooms, reaching toward the house as if in adoration. If those oaks were the sentinels, then the frangipani was an attendant bowing down to the queen.

Alba shook her head. Such flights of fancy were usually Beatriz's purview; Alba herself was more likely to notice that the yard was overgrown, the porch needed sweeping, one of the window shutters was sagging, and the paint was chipping. A swing full of dead leaves creaked on rusty chains on the porch, adding to the overall abandoned air of the place. As she drew closer, she also saw a sign hanging crooked on one of the oaks, with "BEWARE OF DOG" scrawled across it. This mundane little detail dispelled any fanciful impression she had of the house, and instead of the palace of her childhood, now she only saw a sad, neglected place.

Alba looked around cautiously. There was no sign or sound of the dog she should beware of. Emboldened, she wheeled her bike past the rank of oaks and leaned it against the porch. The front door had no bell—Dr. Grunauer probably had gotten rid of it after the kids played too many games of ding dong ditch, and nobody came out here now—so she knocked instead.

No answer. She knocked again, louder, calling out, "Hello? Anybody home?" From somewhere deep inside the house, there was a bark. Although it was deep and rumbling, it wasn't the bark of a dog one should beware of. It was not ferocious or angry, only rather annoyed, like that of a dog that had been wakened up from a nap.

Alba reached for the door handle. It turned with some protest. She pushed the door open and stepped into a cool, dark front hall. Something crunched under her foot, and Alba looked down to find more dead leaves strewn across a hardwood floor that hadn't been swept in God knew how long. A door on her left was ajar, showing what looked like a living room overlooking the oak-lined drive. Next to this door was a staircase, its top disappearing into the dimness of the second floor. On the top of the stairs were some strange, pale shapes that looked like logs or a rolled-up carpet that somebody forgot to put away. Sunlight from the open door behind Alba couldn't penetrate the gloom, and thoughts of snakes and gators swirled around her head, making her hesitant to step beyond the little patch of light.

"Hello?" she called out again, her voice lost in the profound stillness of the house. "I'm from the bakery. Is there anybody here?"

There was that bark again, more excited than annoyed this time. In the hallway beyond the staircase, a huge shape emerged, silhouetted against the darkness. It was a dog, she could see that. The biggest dog she'd ever seen.

Alba stood rooted to the spot. She only had the presence of mind not to scream. Screaming would only agitate it further.  

The shape came into view. It was a great boarhound, so dark and glossy that it appeared little more than patches of shininess in the dark. It stalked toward her on paws as big as dinner plates, eyes glinting, nose sniffing, tail lifted in alert.

Then, slowly, that tail moved side to side.

Alba couldn't believe her eyes.

The huge dog was wagging his tail. He'd stopped by the bottom of the staircase, seemingly trying to make up his mind about her, but clearly he didn't see her as a threat.

"Here, boy," Alba said shakily, reaching out a hand.

The dog ran to her and almost bowled her over in his eagerness to sniff the bread basket she was carrying. She tried to lift the basket out of reach, but it was quite difficult—when stood on his hind legs, the dog could easily reach her shoulders. "Down, boy," she said. The dog sat and looked up expectantly at her with his liquid black eyes. Alba gave him her hand. He licked it. "Oh, you're just a big softy, aren't you?" she said, laughing in relief and kneeling to rub his ears.

"He's an idiot," said a voice above her.

Startled, Alba looked up. What she'd thought was a roll-up carpet turned out to be a leg encased in khaki pants, and the logs were the arms. A person was lying on the top of the staircase.

"Who are you?" he said. She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the scowl in his voice.

"Alba Reyes," she replied. "I'm from La Perla del Sur."

"La what?"

"The bakery. I'm Mauricio Reyes' daughter. We rent your store in Cypress Grove?"

There was a groan, and the shapes moved. The man was sitting up. The dog gave a little woof and bounded up the stairs to join him. Alba involuntarily craned her neck, trying to get a better look. His face was still half-hidden in the gloom, and in the light shining through the window at the landing, she could just make out a shock of sandy brown curls and a pair of dark, dark eyes. There was no sign of those disfiguring injuries that she could see.

As those eyes met hers, fragments of memories flitted through her mind—a pair of brown eyes, schoolyard noises, the sudden, bright pain of a split lip, and a voice, asking, Where did you learn to punch like that?

Before she could grasp it, the memory was gone, like the reflection on the surface of a pond being broken up by a pebble. The eyes on the top of the stairs were scowling at her again.

"Good morning," she said uncertainly.    

***

Derwin Grunauer was not having a good morning.

He'd woken at five, as usual. Even though he could now sleep in as late as he wanted, the habit developed after eight years of boarding school and three years in the army was hard to shake. He hadn't gotten up though. What would be the point? He had nowhere to be, nobody to see, nothing to do.

But Otto, who seemed to have a sixth sense of when his master was awake, had scratched at the door and whined, demanding to be let out, so Derwin had reluctantly gone downstairs, opened the door, and gave the dog his breakfast. For himself, he hadn't wanted any. His pantry had been empty since the day before, but he loathed picking up the phone to call the grocer. He knew he had to, eventually. Either that or starve to death, and Derwin didn't think he was brave enough or desperate enough for that. And so he'd made himself a cup of coffee with the dregs left in the pot and gone upstairs to mentally prepare himself, otherwise he would start panicking and stammering on the phone like an idiot.

Then his treacherous leg had tripped at the top of the stairs, making the cane fly out of his hand and sending him sprawling face-first across the steps. The fall hadn't hurt that bad—he'd been climbing as fast as his leg allowed, which was not very fast at all—but it had drained him of whatever energy he had, and left him angry and despondent. Angry at himself, at his throbbing leg, at the world in general. And despondent at life. He'd turned over and remained there, ignoring Otto's attempts to pull him to his feet. There was no point in getting up. There was no point to anything. He wished he could have stayed there until he melted in the heat and dissolved into the floor. Eventually, Otto had given up and returned to the kitchen to clean up the remnants of his breakfast.

He hadn't heard the knocks.

It was the smells that hit him first. The heavenly, warm, yeasty smell of freshly baked bread, the rich, savory smell of fried ham, and the buttery, sugary smell of pastries. His stomach growled.

Great. He was so hungry that he'd started hallucinating.

Then he heard the voice. Olfactory and audio hallucinations might be a bit much, so he cracked open an eye and looked for the source of the sound.

Somebody was standing in the front hall. No, not just somebody. A young woman. Wearing a sleeveless blouse and a sensible pair of slacks and sandals, with strands of her dark hair falling out of her headscarf. Sunlight was streaming in through the open door behind her, framing her like a halo as she looked up at him, her mouth falling open in surprise. She was too far away for him to make out the color of her eyes, but he could see that they were light and bright, fixed on him with none of the suspicion and hostility he was used to from other people, only curiosity.

Otto was licking her hand too. Traitor.

Still, Derwin refused to let himself be taken in. A lack of animosity didn't necessarily mean kindness. When he came home last year, after several months in St. Mary's Hospital in Portsmouth and a longer stint at the VA Hospital up in Bay Pines, where they'd tried and failed to get his leg back to working conditions, Derwin hadn't expected much. His father was gone, killed by the strain and loneliness of the war, and they had never been popular in town to begin with. He'd only hoped to settle down and have a quiet life. Yet somehow, what he found was even less than what he'd expected. People turned their backs on him in stores and restaurants, whispering to each other and pulling their children close wherever he went past, calling him Kraut and Jerry and worse. All because he had the misfortune of bearing a German name.

This young woman, whoever she was, probably hadn't heard much about him. The moment she did, she would turn and run, like all the others. And when she said she was renting the old store in Cypress Grove, it fell into place. She was his tenant. No wonder she was friendly. She couldn't afford not to.

"My father asked me to bring you some bread," she was saying.

Derwin's stomach growled again, so loudly that he was sure the young woman heard it from all the way at the bottom of the stairs. He grimaced, mortified.

The bakery... yes, he remembered now. In the past few months, he'd been finding bread and pastries outside his front door with a note saying "Compliments of La Perla del Sur Bakery". He'd been wary, but then he'd come across the name on his monthly bank statements and realized they were just trying to be nice to their landlord. The bread was good, and the pastries were phenomenal. Plus, it saved him from having to go to the store. They had tried knocking at first, and when he never answered them, they just left everything on the porch, like a silent offering to some faceless deity. Once, he hadn't found it until days afterward, when the bread had gone soggy in the humidity and the pastries stale. He'd eaten them anyway.

His love for pastries didn't stop him from feeling annoyed with this young woman for invading his space, however.

"Are you OK?" she asked after a while, when he didn't say anything or make any move. "Do you need help getting up?"

He grunted a refusal.

"Should I bring these into the kitchen for you?" she continued, lifting a wicker basket to show him. The mouthwatering smell intensified.

"No need," he mumbled. "Just set them down there."

"Where?" The woman looked around the front hall. There was no place to put anything, except for a side table piled high with mail that Derwin couldn't bring himself to open.

"Anywhere."

"Your dog may get into them."

"I don't care."

"I'm going to put them in the kitchen," she said in a voice that invited no further argument, and before he could stop her, she was walking briskly down the corridor. She tossed a piece of pastry to Otto, and he immediately followed her, tail wagging. Traitor.

Grumbling under his breath, Derwin pulled himself up by the banister and limped his way downstairs. If he didn't catch her in time, this woman may go through the entire house, and he couldn't have that.

He stumbled off the last step and almost ran straight into the woman, who was coming back from the kitchen.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, catching his arms and helping him stand up straight.

Their eyes met, and Derwin found his breath caught in his throat for a moment. He'd been right—her eyes were light, bright green, gleaming like a forest pool in the shade, where the leafy canopy above is reflected in the quiet depth of the water.

Those eyes flicked briefly to the scar on his left cheek, before turning away, not out of disgust as Derwin had expected, but rather of embarrassment. She took a step back and let go of his arms.

"I've put the bread in your bread box," she said (I have a bread box? though Derwin). "I'm not sure when you want the pastries, so I've put them in your fridge. Heat them in the oven before you eat them, they'll taste better. The guava pastries will go great with some coffee."

That was probably the most anybody had ever said to him in over a year. Derwin stared at the young woman, not knowing what to say. She gave him a smile—quick and uncertain, but a smile nonetheless—and walked out with that same brisk, graceful stride, still followed by Otto, who was gazing at her adoringly.

"Otto, stay," Derwin said sternly when the dog looked like he wanted to follow the woman out the door. Otto reluctantly obeyed.

"Oh and, don't set the oven higher than two hundred degrees when you warm the pastries, or they'll get burned," the woman said over her shoulder, before closing the door behind her. A moment later, Derwin heard her bike rattling down the drive.

He glanced at Otto, who met his eyes with a wistful, reproachful look. "Don't look at me like that," Derwin said. "I didn't chase her off."

Leaving Otto in the front hall to whine and watch the figure on the bike disappear behind the oaks, Derwin limped into the kitchen to retrieve the pastries. She was right; they tasted much better warm, though he wouldn't offend them by pairing them with his dishwater coffee. Otto soon gave up his vigil and came into the kitchen as well, looking inconsolable. Derwin took pity on the dog and shared the ham croquettes with him.

"Just because she gave you pastries doesn't mean that she's your friend," he told the dog.

Otto always fell in love with anyone who showed him the smallest bit of attention. It was a terrible habit.

Chapter 2

So here's the Grunauer fic that I promised! It's my longest to date (82k, 20 chapters plus an epilogue), so I'm going to post it twice a week. If you want to be tagged when I update it, let me know, or you can just check back here every Tuesday and Saturday!

[kayleighwinchester]

Downpour

((It's been a long time coming, but I finally finished another of the drabble drafts I have rattling around for @artyandink's Jensen-a-thon! This one is meant to prelude Rocks and Rom Coms and Long Story, but can certainly be read separately! I present to you: Stanford-Era Dean being the socially-inept, ill-adjusted boy I maintain he would be.))

What would arguably be the most important day of your life, looking back, was an entirely average Monday; it was one that would even count as a bad day.

You went to class – you were running late, and it was only the first week. You had lunch at some overpriced cafe on campus; another several hours of classes that made a headache start to throb at your temples; as rain began to pour down as you walked home, you ducked into the nearest building – a run-down looking gas station that, really, had no business keeping their prices a solid ten cents higher than everywhere else in town – to wait it out.

He was leaning against the counter beside the display of brightly colored lottery adverts and scratch off tickets, brows furrowed as he stared out at the rain, grumbling about how he’d “just waxed the damn car–”, his eyes fixed on a sleek black muscle car safely hidden beside pump three from the sudden downpour. It seemed he was stuck there, just like you were, if his muttering was any indication. His green eyes darted to yours as the bell above the door jingled cheerfully, and the sour expression on his face lightened just a bit. “Kind’a wet out there, huh?” He asked, lips quirking into a lopsided grin as he took in your damp clothes and disheveled hair.

“Usually what happens when it rains,” You quipped, making a bee-line for the line of coolers, grabbing an overpriced bottled iced coffee. You heard him snort out a laugh behind you, and you couldn’t help but grin as well, idly wandering toward the aisles of snacks.

The sound of the rain on the roof was getting louder, not quieter, and the realization struck that, unless you wanted to arrive home entirely soaked to the skin, you were likely going to be stuck there for a while. Grabbing a bag of mini-donuts, you made your way to the register where he was still leaning, arms folded, on the counter, sliding your newly acquired snacks toward the register.

You reached into your pocket, digging for your wallet.

Nothing.

You paused, dropping your backpack down to one elbow, digging through each compartment.

Nothing.

As you wracked your brain to try to locate your missing wallet – and more importantly, your money – it hit you. You’d spent the batter part of the previous evening indulging in a bit of retail therapy, and your wallet was probably still on the coffee table, right next to your laptop. The realization was a welcome one in that you knew where it was, but an incredibly inconvenient one in regards to where it wasn’t.

You looked up at the cashier – a girl a few years younger than you, who was staring at you with a bored, unamused look. “I, uh – I’ll just put those back,” You offered sheepishly.

“I got it.” You startled slightly as the man beside you leaned forward, casting you a wink and another brilliant grin, sliding a ten across the counter. His eyes cut back to you, that million dollar smirk not fading as he offered his hand. “Dean.” He supplied.

“Y/N,” You introduced, before quickly adding, “Look, I left my wallet – I don’t have any way to pay you back.” You slowly took the bag the cashier offered, shaking his hand with your free one.

“‘S fine,” The man – Dean – waved your concern off with a hand. “It was, what, ten bucks tops? ‘S fine.” He flipped briefly through the change he’d gotten back, counting, and – “Yeah. Seven fifty. Not gonna miss it.” He smiled over at you. God, that smile was borderline disarming. “‘Sides, I can think of a few ways for you to pay me back.”

There it was.

You grimaced slightly, and he seemed to realize his misstep, holding up his hands immediately in surrender. “Not what I meant,” He said quickly, a sheepish expression immediately darting across his face – you got the immediate impression that wasn’t a line he’d tried before, nor one he’d actually thought out before he used it.

God, he had no idea how to talk to women, did he? “Alright,” You said slowly, reaching into your bag to fish out the bottled coffee, giving it a few shakes before you opened it. “What did you mean, then?”

“I was just thinkin’ – I dunno. Coffee, maybe? Real coffee, not that,” He cast a stare at your bottle like it had personally offended him somehow. “And – hell, it doesn’t look like ‘s gonna stop rainin’ any time soon. Maybe I could give you a ride home.”

Your first instinct was the logical one – a very firm thank you, but hell no – but the words didn’t come out. Instead, you let your eyes wander over his expression. If you had to guess, he was around your age - give or take a year or two. He didn’t seem threatening. He seemed awkward. Not for the first time, you were reminded of the boys you’d had classes with the last two years – freshly out of high school, full of faux self-confidence and one-liners they’d snagged from suave action heroes that always got the girl.

You glanced out the window at the rain, which seemed to have no intention of slowing – let alone stopping – any time soon. “Weren’t you just complaining that you just waxed your car?” You pointed out, taking a sip of your coffee.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, leaning his weight against the counter. “S’pposed to give it an hour – she should be fine.”

“She?” You quoted skeptically, earning another sheepish grin. You took another sip of your coffee, glancing down into the bag at the paper bag of mini-donuts, considering your options. Your shoes and socks were already soaked through, squishing uncomfortably as you shifted. You could wait out the rain – which didn't seem like it would stop any time soon – or you could take your chances ending up on some daytime crime show like your mother loved to watch so often.

You glanced back up at him – he'd gotten a scratch off ticket and was slowly working his way over it, one of the quarters from his change gripped between a thumb and finger, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyes flitting back up to yours. “Yeah, alright.” You finally conceded. “Any funny business, and I'm tucking and rolling.” You warned.

Dean gave a wide grin, one that sent a flutter of butterflies through you. “Deal. I won't even lock the doors.” He raised one hand – the one still holding the quarter between two fingers – in a teasing promise. “Just let me finish this –...” His face, scrunched up (adorably, though you would never admit as much) in concentration, lit up as he scratched off the remaining few squares of his lottery ticket, one fist pumping briefly in the air. “Score!” He grinned over at you. “What’d’you say we stop for that coffee first?” He asked, proudly holding up the ticket.

He was still grinning ear-to-ear as he held the door open, the bell jingling overhead, before he followed you out into the rain.

[malum-forev]

The Prodigal Son

Hi hiii so this is kind of a prologue! I wanted to get your guys' feedback! I noticed you really liked these two minis I posted of Mob!Bucky and I kind of want to write a mini series. What do you guys think?? Pls let me know in the comments!

From the moment you were born, you were spoiled. You wouldn’t know until a few years later that you were born into a very important family and the most feared man in Brooklyn, was your father. To many, he was a cold and distant sentencer, but you only knew him as the kind soul who picked up a son from the streets. 

James Buchanan Barnes was the prime example of right place, right time. Born to a gambling father and an alcoholic mother, he spent most of his childhood on the streets. Sneaking away from people who his parents owed money to and charming old ladies to earn a dime or two. He soon realized that it would be easier to relieve his parents’ debts if he found a way to get on people’s good side before his parents got on their bad one. So, James started hanging around the popular underground casino.

James soon realized that every Tuesday and Friday at two thirty pm, a nice car would pull up to the entrance of the restaurant and stay parked outside for three hours. The customers inside would always leave once the man in the black coat arrived. 

But twice a month, the car would come covered in mud. So after noticing the pattern and following it for two weeks, he decided to invest all his capital- around one dollar and some change- in car cleaning supplies. 

He hurried down the corner as he saw the black car come to a halt. The tall man opened the door.

“Hello Sir, good afternoon. I couldn’t help but notice your car is dirty.” James had rehearsed the dialogue in the mirror at least a dozen times. “I would like to offer you my services, I have the latest technology in car cleaning and detailing.”

The tall man looked down at James, eyeing the contents in his bucket. 

“Latest technology huh?” he scratched his chin.  “And how much is the wash going to set me back?”

“I can assure you this will be no set back.” James stood straight as an arrow and looked the man in the eyes, even if he had to crane his neck almost all the way back. “I can see you are a wise man who cares for his vehicles, after I am finished with the job you’ll see why this is a great investment.”

“Investment?” The man repeated, fighting back a smile.

“Investment.” James assured. “Three dollars is what I charge.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Three dollars? I might as well buy a new car with that kind of money. Why should I let you wash my car instead of the man across the street?”

James shook his head. “You see, Mr. Host does a fine job cleaning cars but, he isn’t qualified to treat pieces of art like the ones you drive. Most people who come around this part of town, don’t have this kind of car. I, on the other hand, know that this is the newest Cadillac model. The 1930 engine is quite fussy and if even one ounce of soap gets into it, it becomes useless. I would never let that happen.”

The man looked down at his watch and realized it was five past two. It was the first time he had ever been late to a meeting, and he hadn’t even noticed. 

“Knock down fifty cents and the job’s yours.” The man told James, stretching out his hand to seal the deal. 

James looked down at his outstretched hand but before he shook it, he added: “I’ll knock it down to two dollars if you give me the job twice a month.”

The man nodded and shook the boy’s hand, taking two steps away and opening the restaurant door. 

He stopped. “Why two times a month?”

James smiled. “Because twice a month you come here from upstate, getting your wheels filled with mud.”

“You’ve been following me, Son?” 

James shook his head. “I like to call it Client Research, Sir.”

The man couldn’t fight a smile anymore. “You’ve got a name?”

“James Buchanan Barnes, Sir.” He said.

“I’ll see you in two weeks, Bucky.” The man said without turning around. 

James couldn’t stop smiling the whole time he washed the man’s car. Firstly, because it was the first time ever he would be assured a paycheck and secondly- and most importantly for him- it was the first time in his fourteen years of life someone had given him a nickname. 

Pls don't forget to comment and reblog if you are interested in a mini series (probs 5 chapters). thank you love youuu!

tagged: @kpopgirlbtssvt @shara-ne @namelesssaviour @hallecarey1 @send-me-styles @jessicaloons @shewhojumps @honeyglee @giftedyoungster3000 @likehonestlysametho @batmanbiersack02-blog @calwitch @im-a-marvel-ous-hoe @soldiersweiner @maggiejackson3 @chelseaslibrary @kittybeansbarnes @ryebr0d @leyannrae @jvanilly @marvel-stories33 @casa-boiardi @ilovetaquitosmmmm @bucksangel @claireelizabeth85

*I have tagged those who commented and reblogged my last Mafia!Bucky story, I hope that's okay! If not, please message me so I can take your @ off the tagged list :)

[ifelllikeastar]

His grandmother gave him the nickname "Muddy" at an early age because he loved to play in the muddy water of nearby  Deer Creek. Muddy grew up in the cotton country of the Mississippi Delta on the Stovall plantation near Clarksdale, Mississippi. He taught himself to play harmonica and played guitar simply, yet powerfully, proving that three chords played rhythmically and loudly could be as expressive as any tune with more notes and chords. "Waters" was added years later, as he began to play harmonica and perform locally in his early teens.

He had his first introduction to music in church and by the time he was 17 he had purchased his first guitar. "I sold the last horse that we had. Made about fifteen dollars for him, gave my grandmother seven dollars and fifty cents, I kept seven-fifty and paid about two-fifty for that guitar. It was a Stella and people ordered them from Sears-Roebuck in Chicago."

As a young man, he drove a tractor on the sharecropped plantation, and on weekends he operated the cabin in which he lived as a “juke house,” where visitors could party and drink moonshine whiskey made by himself. He eagerly absorbed the classic Delta blues styles of Robert Johnson, Son House, and others while developing a style of his own.

Muddy Waters was born McKinley Morganfield and died on April 30, 1983 at the age of 70.

[imbadatparking]

Vanessa’s house is the biggest on the block. It sits at the top, overlooking the rest, a beautiful white gate growing unidentifiable purple flowers that change to yellow and blue as the year drags on. The gate is always locked, but the contrasting garden that thrives in the front yard makes it all seem welcoming anyway. I’ve never been inside, but the rumors say that there’s a life-sized painting of Vanessa’s great grandaddy hanging above the real fireplace, that Vanessa has a trust fund in her bank account, that the only reason they live here, instead of somewhere where they’re surrounded by people like them, is because of Vanessa’s daddy’s work. 

Her’s may be the biggest, but Charlie’s and oSamantha’s are pretty close. They were no small feats, even looming next to Vanessa’s, with their tall structures and shameless flaunting, even more so considering the other buildings they stood near. The rows of houses get bigger and bigger the further you drive up the hill. The people are haughtier, and the grass, in an almost funny way, is literally greener on the other side. 

We live at the bottom, and not very proudly. Stock gray tin roof that causes water to run down its tilted surface, across the rusted gutters, into the house in a way that drip, drip, drips into the bowls we place on the concrete floor. There are only a few houses that look like ours, and the kids sit at the curbs and play jacks and trade dimes and nickels for quarters at the corner store. Past that, the road tilts at an almost 45 degree angle, and another layer of wealth is added for every new house. 

It was hard to get used to at first. In Illinois, there wasn’t a Vanessa’s house or a Charlie’s house or a Samantha’s. Our old neighborhood wasn’t divided from those with money and those without. Everyone there had the same gateless front yard where nothing but weeds grew, the same hole in the big toe of their shoe, the same fifty-cent deck of cards to entertain themselves. 

I never used to be ashamed of where I lived, because I never had to worry about looking good in front of kids with money, but ever since we moved here, it’s been different. Vanessa told me I could pretend her house was mine, so the embarrassment isn’t as bad, but that doesn’t change the fact that I know where I live. No, I say, pointing to the sad, poverty-wracked building, that’s not where I live, I actually live there, and I’d point from my bus seat to the top of the hill, admiring the way Vanessa’s gleans in the sunlight like gold underground, feeling pride in a place I didn’t even live in. After Illinois, when Mom needed a change of scenery and Daddy needed a reason not to drink, that’s the place we picked. The biggest house on the hill. The one that overlooks the rest.

| k. - @nosebleedclub prompts. march v. drive up the hill

[cooladddy]

Maeva Ghennam makes a donation to Jawad the Daesh landlord and causes a huge scandal!

This is a new scandal affecting Maeva Ghennam . Manon Tanti's best friend very often finds herself at the heart of bad buzz because of her choices. And the least we can say is that his latest decision did not go unnoticed.

The candidate leaves Shauna Events

On social networks, Maeva Ghennam never misses an opportunity to give her opinion on several subjects . In recent days, she has notably taken a position in the conflict between Israel and Palestine. The young woman converted the Palestinian cause and attracted the wrath of many Internet users. She also claimed that this choice had caused big arguments with Magali Berdah, the creator of Shauna Events. Maeva Ghennam also announced that she was leaving the company . She revealed: “My babies, I made a decision that was very hard for me. I took the time to think about it and I think it’s the best solution for both of us . ” Before also adding: “I just want you to know one thing, it’s that I don’t have money in my heart. For me, my principles, my commitments take precedence over a contract…” . Maeva Ghennam said: “I can't do it anymore, everything that's happening in the world is hurting me too much. You have to make choices, I made them, it breaks my heart, but it’s best for both of us . ”

“She defends her own”

The reality TV candidate also clarified: “I can't do it anymore, everything that's happening in the world is hurting me too much. You have to make choices, I made them, it breaks my heart, but it’s best for both of us . ” Before concluding: “She defends her own and that is to her credit, and mine comes before a contract… I will explain everything to you, give me time” . But recently, Maeva Ghennam found herself at the heart of another scandal. Recently, blogger Skyresstvr released some important information about Greg Yega's ex . He revealed that the latter had provided financial support to Jawad Bendaoud. The latter is known to be the lodger of Daesh. One of Eric Zemmour's relatives did not hesitate to share a video where Jawad Bendaoud was present. The latter made a sequence on TikTok and received money from Internet users. Le Figaro revealed that this money can be sent as a gift. Before specifying that a rose represents one coin, a donut corresponds to 30 coins, etc. Thanks to a pack of 36 coins, the beneficiary can then benefit from fifty euro cents. But that's not all.

Maeva Ghennam would have made a donation to Jawad

NextPLZ also indicated that “700 coins are worth 11.39 euros, while it takes 7000 coins to earn 116.15 euros” . In this video, the man who calls himself the Daesh landlord received a donation. And it is an account which would belong to Maeva Ghennam who sent gifts to Jawad Bendaoud. On the other hand, the blogger has not made the exact amount of this gift public. A real scandal for the reality TV candidate . As a reminder, the man had claimed that he had hosted the terrorists without knowing his identity. On the other hand, justice had decided to impose four years in prison on him , two of which were suspended after this affair. It remains to be seen whether Maeva Ghennam will decide to react to this new scandal. To be continued! Read the full article

[alyosiuscreightonward]

Dear Diary. Today I’m sitting in the laundromat waiting for my clothes to finish and I hear two people talking about politics.

They both ramble on about how Biden is going to lose in the next election. They mentioned Ukraine and Hawaii. They both agreed that Biden doesn’t care about them in this neighborhood.

They went on how Ukraine got x amount of money and military assistance from the USA and how Hawaii got nothing. Therefore the president doesn’t care.

I don’t understand how people can bitch and complain about this that and third yet they’re unable to offer up a solution. I ponder if either one has ever voted? 🤔 Like my sister in law who watches videos on her phone and believes every single word that she hears and sees. 🤦‍♀️

Now I’m not an idiot and I know that there is some shady shit going down however when I’m sitting in my recliner with my dog, I personally don’t believe that I’m the target of something nefarious. It’s like some years ago when someone said something about Obama. I had to ask them, did Obama knock on your front door and tell you that he was out to get you and that you have folks who would fill Yankee Stadium to prove your point?

I’m wondering if any elected official of any sort has ever been to your house and with malice and forethought deliberately took advantage of you? If so, then I’ll offer up Dodger Stadium.

I mean I am ineligible for any sort of government assistance because apparently I made fifty cents too much an hour and this was from the 90s till today. During the pandemic I had made an attempt to get food stamps and was denied yet again meanwhile several people I know still get them and I’m food insecure. I’m eating most meals from the dollar store and I’ve no clue what healthy food is nor what fresh vegetables taste like.

Though I think that I could possibly find a solution however something else in my life would be neglected and I’d find myself behind the eight ball 🎱 again for the umpteenth time.

The situation I am in right now being at the laundromat is because of my sister in law. Yet I’m going out on a limb here but I’m sure that there are several reasons why I’m here but one of them is because a video she saw on her phone.

In the final analysis, the government didn’t have any say in making me go the laundromat. Ukraine is under siege by Russia. Hawaii is in the midst of a massive natural disaster. Things are being sorted out and a tick mark will be added to the butchers list but it won’t be tomorrow morning.

Another thing that I think of is of a advertisement for a presidential candidate. They’re claiming that every single person who has passed away from an overdose of Fentanyl is directly related to the Southern Border. That’s a small percentage yet they apparently don’t know how the opioid crisis actually started. I’m guessing it could have started with the blue collar workers who were injured and then it went to the nicer neighborhoods. Though I pondered, isn’t there a possibility that in some rural communities there could be an issue of methamphetamines? Yet the television news 📰 is only available in the inner city. 🤔

Y’all can talk about politics and all that rot but have you ever considered the possibility of having a clear understanding of what it means to solve the problem. I’m sure y’all have a hundred page policy with 8 X 10 glossy colored photographs with circles and arrows and a PowerPoint presentation ready to go. I’m sure you have it readily available on your website.

post script…I will admit that that one point in my life, if you called my house over the years, I may have answered the phone with, Thank you for calling, the Libertarian Party, the Republican Party, the Conservative Party and my favorite, Lassiez Faire.

[helios-narloch]

A Roll of Quarters Never Hurt Nobody

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandoms: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics),

Relationship: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson

Characters: Peter Parker, Wade Wilson, yellow box, white box, Nubbins

Additional Tags: Nubbins is a cat, Wade loves his cat, Peter is Broke. and so am i, hidden identities, Cute, free food, friends - Freeform, This was deleted so i'm posting it again, realistic?, Adults

Language: English Published:2022-08-11 Words:9,055 Chapters:1/1

It began awkwardly.

"I'm not homeless?" Wade frowned as he slowly took the offered scone from the young man.

The stranger's face paled and his expression glazed over as his frazzled college brain scrambled for an appropriate response. 

"I live in the apartment upstairs," Wade added to fill the awkward silence, unintentionally grinding the guy's mortification further. "I'm just waiting for my DoorDash because last time the chick walked off with the goods."

He could see the wheels and cogs turning in the young man's head as he tried to think but Wade was running out of things to say before this turned into a one-sided conversation he didn't really want to have. "You sure you're in any shape to be handing out food so Willy-Nilly?" He asked as he glanced him over, reaching out to peel a piece of masking tape off of the man's chest that had .50 cents written out in sharpie.

[I hate it when people write cents like that, having a point before the cent amount means it's half a dollar, no need to write cents after it. Choose one or the other. Dollars with a zero and decimal or cents, not both please.]

"Oh, well- I just..." the man giggled nervously before he scrubbed at his face, pulling at his skin so that his eyelids pulled away from his eyeballs and threatened to let them pop out of his head for a mere point two seconds.

(That was mentally scaring.)

The fifty-cent sweater was nice. It looked like some kind of wool knit. It was black with white snowflake patterns and looked casual with his well-loved jeans and abused backpack. His hair was brown, fluffy, and clean.

(And his eyes are bloodshot and big...)

His eyes were green....

[concerningly dark bags hang below those dusty green irises]

"I'm sorry.  You just looked like you needed something. Sorry about your DoorDash lady... you don't look homeless, I'm sorry. Did I say that, how did you know I was thinking that?" The young man asked, clearly distraught. "Don't worry about the scone, you can keep it."

(Bitch, as if I would ever consider giving it back.)

(Lick it, claim it as ours.)

[Would you shut up?]

"Your eyes gave it away. Most people look at ugly fucks like me and just assume I'm a ptsd ridden maniac with no home or way of getting a job." He shrugged. "It's not a first."

"That's...." The strange shook their head "again, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Thanks for the snack..." he offered the masking tape back from the end of his finger and looked away, taking a bite from the treat. It was blueberry, sweet and equally boring.

* * *

The second time he ran into him it was in the laundry. He was sitting, playing Mr. Love Queen's Choice while he was waiting for his machine to finish (as one does) when a sharp intake of break caught his attention. He looked up and none other than the green-eyed Peter was there to greet him. Well, not literally greet him. He wasn't even facing his way.

He watched the young man for a minute, staring silently while the guy pressed the start button only to fiddle with the settings knob and try again when the machine didn't start. Peter turned his attention to the mechanism, pushing the lever in to try and figure out what he'd done wrong, clearly in denial over the fact that his quarters had just been eaten.

[he seems pretty stressed. You should check it out.]

(But Lucien is confessing his feelings... who cares? We are in a date with a fictional man)

[maybe a real man wouldn't hurt.]

(With this face? Are you daft?)

Wade sighed and locked his phone. He pulled out his earbuds and got up to walk over to the familiar face. "Everything alright?"

Peter tensed, glancing over with a shameful look. He recognized him quickly and the tension left his shoulders but he still avoided his gaze. For once Wade didn't feel like it was because he was hideous.

"Hi," Peter said quietly. Laughing nervously for a moment. It must have been a moment needed to compose himself because when he looked over at Wade again an expressive mask had been put on to hide the anxiety that had been pouring off the kid moments ago.

"Guess you didn't know this is the quarter eater, huh?" Wade toed the washing machine. It was dented from years of angry patrons kicking out their frustration on the thing. Naturally, the machine was built like a tank and about twenty years older than Wade so the dents weren't a huge deterrent unless you took a good look at the scuff marks left behind from the soles of Peoples shoes. "Someone must have ripped off the note I left on it last week."

"Oh." Peter said quietly, staring at the agitator surrounded by his clothes in dismay.

"Here, just throw everything into that one next to mine." Wade pointed a few machines down. "People don't use the ones next to me in case they have to run into me while unloading."

Keep reading this sweet little slice of life on A03.

[this-is-sen-lin]

A Nickel For the Lizardman

Tucson Festival of Books 2023 unsolicited writing sample

Synopsis: When the circus comes to town, eight-year-old Edie Cartwright goes to see the "ferocious, fearsome Lizardman" in his grotty old tent at the edge of the fairgrounds. But posters don't always tell the truth, and sometimes you need to open your ears for the full story. 1453 words

ONE DAY ONLY!

the poster declared.

FROM THE HIGHEST CAVES OF SHANGRI-LA

THE FEARSOME

FEROCIOUS

LIZARDMAN!

Two yellow eyes glowered down at me below the words. Well! That sounded worth my fifty cents. I followed the posters to the far end of the fairgrounds. A lady in a polka-dot suit was waiting for me by the entrance of a grubby yellow tent. She started as I approached, like she was shocked I came all this way. The lady looked left to right, like there was another attraction I had meant to see instead. I handed her my nickels. 

“You got five minutes, missie,” she said with a toothpaste-ad smile. “Don’t worry! He doesn’t bite.” I thanked her and stepped inside. The air was thick and sticky, with a sour, moldy smell that stuck to your tongue and made your eyes water. The sun beat down on the top of the tent, throwing a sickly yellow light over everything inside. Four steps from the entrance stood a big iron cage with straw and torn-up newspaper strewed along the bottom. And right in the middle was a big dark lump, like a forgotten sack of laundry.

“H-hello?” I asked as I took a step forward. The musty air seemed to swallow my words. I stood an arm’s length from the cage, my heart fit to bust out of my chest. 

With an almighty snort, the lump reared up and threw its bulk against the bars. The cage pitched forward and then settled back with a thump, throwing up a cloud of dust that choked me as I screamed. I fell flat on my rear and sat there, panting, choking, panting, choking. If I could speak, I would have cussed.

The Lizardman hissed. He glowered between the bars with cunning black eyes, gripping the iron with ten curved amber claws. Mottled scaly brown skin hung off his lanky bent-up body, and his frontside was shocking blue. His long tail lashed like a snake. From deep inside, he gave a low, rumbling alligator bellow and hissed between his teeth. And then, after a moment or two, he asked, “Scared?”

I sat stunned. And then, slowly, I nodded. That seemed to please the Lizardman, and he let go of the bars to sit back on his haunches, arms crossed. “Well, I hope this was worth it for you, little girl,” he said. “You could have bought ten bags of popcorn or ridden the elephant twice for the amount you paid to be here.”

“You talk,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. 

“Of course I do,” he replied. “I’m the Lizardman.” I nodded again. “Oh, and close your mouth,” he added. “You’ll let the flies in.” 

I closed my mouth.

I sat on the ground for what felt like a small eternity. I said nothing. Neither did the Lizardman. I felt like I’d been called on in class and didn’t know the answer. “What’s your name?” I said at last.

“I don’t have one,” the Lizardman replied.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Why don’t you have any hair?” I felt my face heat up.

“My mama shaved it off on account of lice,” I sputtered.

“Ah,” said the Lizardman. He laced his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes.

“It was mean of you to ask about my hair,” I told him.

“It was mean of you to ask about my name,” he responded. “I don’t have one. No one thought to give me one.”

“Why is that?”

“You really ought to think before you speak.” We lapsed into silence again.

After chewing on my thoughts for a moment, I said, “I’m sorry I made you upset, Mr. Lizardman.” He took his time before answering.

“Mm. It’s all right. I wouldn’t have expected you to know.” Silence fell again.

“My name’s Edie Cartwright,” I offered.

“Charmed,” the Lizardman said. He closed his eyes again. As I spent a little more time thinking, he said, “Go tell the woman outside that the Lizardman wants to do his special trick.”

“‘Special trick’?” I asked.

“You’ll see.”

I let the lady know. She followed me in, lit the Lizardman a big cigar, and stepped outside again. I watched the Lizardman take a pull and blow a plume of smoke straight up into the air.

“That’s not much of a trick,” I said.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, “but it’s the only way they let me have these.” He took another pull and blew smoke out his nostrils, like a dragon.

“So,” I asked, “do you ever miss Shangri-La?” He gave me a sidelong glance.

“Shangri-La?” he said. “Ah. The posters. Shangri-La doesn’t exist, Edie. I’m from Delaware.”

“Are you really?”

“Mm-hmm. Worcester County, specifically. At least, that’s what I was told. I was sold to the circus as an egg.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. It’s actually not a bad life.” He chuckled and tapped the ash from his cigar. “You know, I used to be under the Big Top. I juggled knives on the tightrope and sang opera with the clowns. The magician used to have a trick where the clowns would wrestle me into a cabinet and spin it around. Then he’d pop out like he’d been changed by magic.”

“Wow!” I cried. “That would have been a sight to see! But how come you’re not under the Big Top anymore?”

“I’m past my prime,” said the Lizardman with a shrug. “My joints are stiff, my bones all ache, and I don’t see quite so well anymore. But Lizardmen don’t grow on trees, so they kept me around. I was in the sideshow for a while, until I took a bite out of the human blockhead for saying something stupid. But this little tent suits me fine. It’s warm and dark, and nobody comes around.”

The tip of a thin pink tongue passed over the Lizardman’s lips. “And the nice thing about that is,” he continued, “you don’t overhear the gossip. You know. Whether Sadie loves Chester or Alfonso, or if the fire-eater’s a communist. Or whether the Lizardman’s worth the chickens they feed him.” He chewed on the end of his cigar and stared off into space.

I got to my feet and brushed the dirt off my skirt. “I think you’re worth all the chickens in the world,” I said. 

“Really?” said the Lizardman.

“Really. There’s got to be a million or more chickens in the whole United States of America, but how many Lizardmen are there?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” the Lizardman replied. “I’ve never seen another one of my kind.”

“Never?” I asked, eyes wide.

“Never,” said the Lizardman. He tapped a little ash from his cigar.

“Well,” I said, “even if there was a whole Lizard New York, you’re the only one who sings and juggles and smokes a cigar. There won’t never be another Lizardman like you in the whole history of the world.”

“Don’t use double negatives, Edie.”

“Don’t sell yourself short!” My voice nearly cracked. “And if you want me to, I’ll come back here every single year. I’ll save up all my quarters so I can come here and sit on the floor and listen to you tell your stories. I’ll listen to you. I’ll listen to you.”

The Lizardman slowly lowered his cigar. “I think I’d like that, Edie Cartwright,” he said. I dug into my pockets for my last nickel and stepped up to the cage.

“For you,” I said, showing it to him. “To remember me by.”

The Lizardman slipped a bony hand between the bars of the cage. I dropped the nickel in his palm, and he pulled it back again. He turned the coin over in his hand, again and again. It flashed like a minnow in the dim.

“Time’s up,” the lady in the polka-dot suit softly said as she poked her head into the tent. The Lizardman closed his hand.

“Don’t forget,” he whispered. 

“I won’t,” I whispered back. “This time next year. The circus always comes around.” The Lizardman nodded and raised a solemn hand goodbye as the lady led me out of the tent.

I walked home that evening, wrote the date on a scrap of paper, and hid it under my pillow. Mama scolded me for how dirty I’d gotten, but I barely even heard her. I was already thinking about next year. I was ready to wait.

And I’ve been waiting since. It’s been forty long years, and the circus has never missed a date. But the lady in the polka-dot suit sells lemonade now, and there’s a flea circus in the old yellow tent.

[astarion-dekarios]

"My Brother"

In the early part of an evening of our lives,

my brother and I felt like we were trapped

in a net made of glue; New Orleans humidity

was the same as the temperature-ninety. After

drinking some cheap wine, I noticed he had

drifted off to sleep with ashes hanging from

fifty per cent of his cigarette. The breeze

coming from the window was getting cool;

he sneezed; I went to cover him with a

blanket, and of course put the cigarette out. The

ashes fell on the floor, and dissipated to the

command of the wind before I could reach them,

so I just threw the blanket on him, put what was

left of his ashed-cigarette in the ashtray, then

went to sleep. I was sixteen, he was two years

less, but more curious; he was the one who found

a way to get into our house “without a key”, camou-

flage Mrs. Katy’s lemon pies until they “disappeared”,

and find someone of age to purchase wine for us. But

on the other hand, I soon proved to be a “partner in

mischiefs”-I mastered all his antics. He was good in

biology, being the first to explain to me what the pro-

cess of photosynthesis was, and I was a wiz in mathe-

matics, mentally computing what our change should be

“before” the grocer added it up on his register. We

supplemented each other perfectly. My brother and I

did practically everything together; we went to school,

church, parties, fishing, swimming, played ball, and to

secure our togetherness even more, we dated girls who

were sisters.

Years later, in the late part of an evening of my life, I

sat staring (after drinking a bottle of Don Pernignon Cham-

pagne) across the room. I noticed that the breeze had become

wild and colder, but this time it did not interfere with my

brother or his ashes, for they both were resting well in the

hermetically sealed urn on my altar.

--Arthur C. Ford, Sr.

[onbearfeet]

I would LOVE an analysis of this. A candidate for Congress in my district keeps running racist and anti-immigrant ads on Tumblr. TUMBLR. I'm sure he's wasting a whole fifty cents on it or whatever, but I would dearly love to know what convinced him that he could sway voters on this of all platforms with those of all ads.

If Kamala wins on Tuesday and if it’s not particularly close I would love for someone to make it their mission in the post mortem to discover if those horrific and inescapable anti immigration and anti trans ads that Rs are running moved the needle at all or if they actually turned people off