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lindoig8 · 3 years

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Sunday 18 April

We were on the road a little earlier than usual and soon met up with a couple (Dad and adult Daughter, we think) going the other way. We had seen almost no other cars on this road, but they hailed us down and asked if we had seen the other two cars in their party of three vehicles. We had, just a few minutes earlier, so they were not far ahead of us and this car had obviously passed them without recognising them. We knew of a side road up to the Strzelecki Track and suggested that their companions may have taken that route, but it was in the opposite direction they wanted to go – to Lyndhurst rather than Innamincka. They turned around and we let them pass us while they raced off to find their friends – only for us to pass them again 30-40 clicks ahead where they were again studying their maps and GPS. We stopped again and used Heather’s Maps.me app to give them the lie of the land because they couldn’t understand their own GPS. Off they went again and we caught up with them and their travelling companions at the junction with the Strzelecki. They had finally found each other, having probably never been more than 10 clicks apart and having passed each other at least once, possibly twice. I have an excellent navigator aboard so I hope we never get into the sort of pickle they seemed to have succumbed to.

The Strzelecki was something of a disappointment! We drove it 191 kilometres west to Lyndhurst and at least half of it was sealed with a good deal more prepared and ready for sealing. I reckon the government, all governments, should just decide to seal the entire surface of Australia and be done with it. There is so little adventure left in the Outback and we are continually hearing stories of the Outback Way, the Plenty Highway, the Tanami and who knows what else being sealed. It is just so sad!!! It will change the face of the Outback once the luxury hotels and resorts are built to take advantage of the bustling tourist traffic on all the sealed freeways (probably tollways!) – totally destroying the last vestige of romance, excitement and challenge. Within a very few years, there will be no authentic Outback to see and explore. If you want to learn about the Outback, do it now or it will be too late.

We had a few more stops along the way and at one place, I heard water dripping onto the road and found that the tap on one of our water tanks had been broken off when a stone flew up and hit it. I plugged it with 'Blue-tack' but doubted if it would hold (and it didn’t).

We were going to get fuel at Lyndhurst, but the bowser was not working and would be fixed in a few days. So we went south to Copley – alas, it was Sunday and the bowser there was closed too. So we ended up at Leigh Creek again, close to 50 kilometres south of Lyndhurst when we wanted to go north, but at least we got fuel. We booked into the Caravan Park at the service station so we could have showers, only to find we had to return to the servo to get the code for the ablution block.

We then found that another stone had broken the inlet hose to our water tanks so we have had to rely on our own tanks and the DC pump in the van ever since. Fortunately, we figured we had plenty of water to last us to Alice Springs so it was not going to delay us while we arranged repairs - at some unknown location!

It is interesting that we always have hundreds of small gravel stones rolling around on the car roof, making it difficult to open the back because they get lodged in the joint between the door and the roof. Every horizontal surface under the car and van is chockers with similar stones, often quite a lot larger, but the only way they can get onto the roof of the car is to be flicked up onto the sloping front of the van and bounce the 2-3 metres forward onto the car roof. There is plenty of evidence of minor stone damage on the van so I don’t suppose it is all that surprising.

A car and trailer turned up a few minutes after we arrived in the caravan park and the woman pleaded with me to tell her the code for the ablution block because she was desperate to use the toilet. I was reluctant because I thought it was a con, but eventually agreed – and they never returned to the servo to pay for their stay in the park. But next day, they wanted to empty their Portaloo and found the dump-point was padlocked. We never had a key so when she asked me for one, I redirected her to the servo and an hour later she returned, presumably having been forced to pay for the night in order to get the key to the dump-point.

We had a loquacious busybody parked next to us at Leigh Creek who was very eager to tell us all the things we were doing wrong and where we should go instead of what our plans involved, but I eventually escaped him and hid out in the van instead. And he left well before us next morning so I avoided most of his ramblings then too.

Monday 19 April

We needed to exchange our empty gas bottle for a full one so went to the servo only to find that the dust had clagged up the padlock on our gas bottle and I had to use some bolt-cutters to cut the lock off. Dearest gas ever at $50 a bottle – usually under $30. (I subsequently had to cut the clogged padlock off our second gas bottle too!)

Our first stop was Farina – the ruins of what was once a sizeable town of well over 300. There were lots of ruins around of shops, a smithy, school, hardware outlet, train station and yards, a bank, mill, bakery, etc., but in 1955 everyone simply walked away and left the place to crumble in their wake. We have seen quite a few places like this, mainly based around a single industry or service (telegraph or train station, for example), but this was a significant diverse township with a Council and local laws – yet within a single year, it became a deserted, heavily-vandalised ruin. Where did everyone go? What did they do in their new abodes? If they left everything behind, how did they survive? It is not much more than 50 years ago, certainly well within my lifetime, and it seems so hard to understand how people simply decided to leave en masse and how they survived afterwards. It certainly gives me cause for thought.

And why are all such buildings so heavily vandalised? Vandals will wreck anything, but most of the wrecked buildings we saw were made out of stone, often constructed of two layers with an air-gap between and up to about 6-700mm thick. What induces vandals to demolish such structures? It would be bloody hard work for no reward. One of the sidings we saw beside the old Ghan track had been left in such a state that I could have given some of the walls a gentle push and the entire wall and roof would have collapsed on me. It looked quite dangerous so why would anyone deliberately leave a building in such a precarious condition? Some very strange people inhabit this world!

We stopped in Marree to fill out our Northern Territory border forms. It took almost an hour – and they were never even looked at. So much bureaucracy for so little benefit. I have probably always been something of a bureaucrat myself but hopefully, always for a purpose. This Covid thing seems simply to always have been a device to keep the population under the thumb of the politicians.

Marree is at the eastern end of the famous Oodnadatta Track (and at the southern end of the Birdsville Track that we drove a few years ago) and the road itself was probably in better condition than it has been for any of our earlier 3-4 crossings. It is more than 600 kilometres of gravel and ends at Marla on the sealed Stuart Highway. We stopped at several places that day: a couple of defunct railway sidings (from when the Ghan paralleled the road en route to Alice Springs) as well as a few dry riverbeds and occasional watercourses, looking at plants and looking for the very elusive birds – of which there have been very few so far this trip. Surprisingly, at one expansive patch of water, I saw a flock of Silver Gulls (500+ km from the ocean), an Australasian Grebe, some Pacific Black Ducks and some Little Black Cormorants – as well as the usual Budgerigars – many more of them than I can recall on previous trips, but many fewer Zebra Finches.

We stopped to photograph some of the Art in the Desert, quirky stuff erected by a local pastoralist who decided that there needed to be more entertainment along the Track. It is just a string of quaint installations a couple of clicks long on his property beside the Track. I will post a couple of pics if I can find them.

We camped overnight at Coward Springs. Literally an oasis in the desert with an extensive permanent wetland that is the habitat of quite a few waterbirds, despite us not seeing any this trip. There were about 150 people there overnight: very different from our previous visits, and a nice little earner for the current owners at $15 a head (plus $10 a head for day visitors). Mind you, there is a lot of work for them to do, just the two of them looking after a big area with diverse challenges not encountered at most ‘resorts’. There are several big date palms there and on our first visit several years ago, we picked some and put them in our pockets for later – needless to say, our pockets ended up full of a dusty gooey mess that was quite inedible. Once bitten…… so we never indulged this time.

Before dinner, I walked to the natural hot spa but never went in. It is not all that big and there was a family already in it so adding us (even if we had wanted) would have made it a bit crowded. I strolled around the edge of the wetland hoping to see some of its inhabitants, but although I was almost constantly regaled with a cacophony of gentle squeaks and squawks from the reeds and shrubbery, I saw only Crested Pigeons.

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dragonsateyourtoast · 4 years

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Special thanks to @skylarklanding for a donation to the Emergency Release Fund!

By the way, head on over to that blog to get a taste of some of Skylark’s art; similar to what I’m doing, you can show a donation and receive a custom art as thank-you!

Original post of mine

Prompt, courtesy of @writing-prompt-s: “It is impossible to erase a curse, but it is possible to trade it with someone else. You’ve been wandering for years, searching for someone willing to trade curses with you, but never suspected it would happen like this.”

Not many people are unlucky enough to get hit with a real curse. A true curse, a curse that writes itself into your bones and blood, not some surface-level scuff on your soul. Those happen all the time; little things like a higher likelihood to stub your toe, or a few extra minutes of searching when you’ve lost your keys.

To be cursed with a true curse is different. It’s something that you feel in your lungs when it hits you, which screams like static in your mind when it activates. It lies dormant like a disease, letting you forget it exists occasionally, until the time comes for it to rear its ugly head and it spits venom into your life once again.

You can’t get rid of a real curse. The little ones? You can polish them away, or pay a witch to get rid of them, or whatever. But the real ones... those are powered by something greater than just a little bit of malice. Those ones aren’t just throwaway statements of “I hope you always forget about your tea” or little sigils drawn on paper and burned to ash. These ones are borne of blood.

I used to sing at a church. I’ve long since abandoned the church, after they told me I was evil for a good number of things, including my curse. I didn’t even think it was that bad, at first.

When I speak, things come to me. Animals, mostly. Sometimes it’s plants. Insects and spiders and stuff are the biggest problem. Birds are the next worst. No matter what I do, if I utter a single syllable, I am swarmed in an instant with everything alive around me except other people. I laughed on a lakeshore once - the fish died when we were trying to shove them back into the water. I sighed too loudly once, on a wet night; I’d never seen so many worms.

There are online boards for people who want to swap curses. I know you can do it - curses don’t like to be destroyed, but they love to hop around. They’re kind of sentient; they like to see new things. Sometimes, if you don’t give them what they want, they’ll evolve, force you to carry them harder. Mine is pretty dormant; I never speak, but it doesn’t cause problems. It can feel my misery.

I’m not going to get into what got me cursed in the first place. It was an accident, and it wasn’t even my fault, and I’m marked forever in more ways than one.

July, 2014. I sat in my room, reading a book. I don’t remember what it was. One of my friends messaged me, asking about a movie that was coming out, and while I was checking movie times I saw someone had pinged me in the curse boards.

Curious, I visited. I’ve had this curse for twelve years, mind you, and never been able to find anyone willing to switch me. It’s just too inconvenient.

But, there in the board, was a message in a five year old thread I’d made. It read:

“Hi! I saw your notice. I’m a wildlife biologist in Arkansas. I’m cursed too, and I think that you would be the perfect person to switch curses with, if you’re willing. It seems like you’re an active member of the forums, but it’s been a while; do you still have the same curse you did before? I’d really like to swap you for it, if that’s still possible.”

What? I stared at it, uncomprehending, until I finally messaged her directly through the site. “Thanks for your interest,” I told her. “What curse do you have, so I can know what I might be getting into?”

“Nothing too terrible,” she wrote back. “When I speak, whatever I say comes out in a different language. I never know which language it’s going to be, either, and if I stop speaking or take a breath, well, it switches. It’s really a nuisance if I’m trying to communicate with people! Yours seems to be that you can’t make any sound at all; being able to laugh or speak without consequences would be an improvement for you, right?”

“It would,” I wrote back. “And it would mean you have a lot less freedom in what you can say. Why do you want my curse?”

“I can’t explain it,” she said, “I guess I’ll have to tell you if it works.”

We agreed to meet up about six hours from where I lived, at the halfway point between our houses. I wasn’t working at the time - it’s difficult to hold a job when you can’t speak or your building suddenly reveals how many rats are in it - so I gathered what I needed and left the next morning.

Six hours. I had six hours while driving to wonder why she would choose to make her life worse, by preventing herself from even laughing. I couldn’t fathom why. Did she want every living thing to swarm her at all times? I say swarm - I mean it. Just because the curse brought the animals to me didn’t make them friendly. I’d been bitten, stung, pecked, and scratched more times than I could count.

Whatever. It probably wasn’t my place to ask. I hadn’t asked her how she had gotten cursed, she hadn’t asked me, and I wasn’t going to ask her what she wanted it for if she wasn’t willing to tell me.

I pulled into the designated place - a restaurant on a tiny little highway exit in the middle of nowhere. I stood next to my car and waited.

About fifteen minutes after I’d arrived, a car pulled into the parking lot a few spaces away from mine and shut off. A woman got out - probably about thirty, with dark brown hair and brown skin, warm green eyes shining out from her face. She glanced over, saw me, and her face lit up. “Zdravo!” she called, and I knew it was her - that wasn’t a language I recognized. I nodded in response.

She pulled out her phone as she came over, and opened up a notes app. I opened mine too, watching, and she wrote down. “Songbird, right?”

“That’s me,” I wrote back, showing my screen to her. “Got everything we need?”

“Yeah, I visited a witch before I left home; that’s what I did with the rest of yesterday.” She set down a bag that had been slung over her shoulder and pulled out a shiny green box. She opened it, pulling out a length of white silk, and held out a hand. I held out mine, and she grasped my forearm; I took hold of hers.

Together, we wound the white silk around our hands and arms, binding us together, and tied it on the bottom, which is a lot harder than you’d expect. Then she looked me in the eye, still brimming with excitement. “Bist du so weit?” she asked, and then sighed and rolled her eyes. “Är du färdig?”

That still didn’t make sense, but I got the sense she was asking me if I was ready. I nodded sharply.

She began to speak. I didn’t understand it, of course. The language must’ve changed at least four times as she was trying to talk, and I couldn’t get a word of it, though I kind of understood some of what sounded like maybe French. I did catch her name, though: Maria Coombs. She finished, and looked up to me, expectantly.

My turn. This was going to be rough. I opened my mouth, swallowing; I really, really didn’t talk often. “My name’s Sage Lawson. I willingly take on to myself the burden this stranger bears, so that they might carry mine in turn.”

Above, I saw a flock of starlings divert swiftly in its path; a fly bounced off my face. “I give to this person the magic that has plagued me. I take upon myself the magic that has plagued her. Together, we give to each other.”

Nothing seemed to happen, but the starlings fluttered into a nearby tree and began to squawk at each other, ignoring me. I looked warily up at them.

“Is that it, then?” Maria said, and gasped, her eyes going wide. She clamped a hand over her mouth. The birds overhead hopped downwards into the branches surrounding us, eyes black and wary.

I hastily unbound our hands. I was still too nervous to talk. Maria picked up her phone. “Say something!” she tapped out, and showed it to me, grinning.

I rubbed my hands together. “Antoka,” I said, still feeling my voice rasp in my throat, and paused. I’d meant to say “sure,” but my mouth had just... said something else. The feeling was uncomfortable, to say the least. “... أعتقد أنه نجح.”

Maria clapped her hands together. She was beaming, brighter than I’d ever seen anybody smile. I ran my hand over my mouth, shaking my head. I could speak... though I wouldn’t make any sense. Whatever. I could work with this. I could work with this!

“Thank you,” Maria typed back, still beaming. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

I didn’t, really, but she was so happy, I couldn’t help but smile and even give a little breath of a laugh. That was more than I could’ve done before.

I handed Maria the silk back. She took it, replacing it in the box, and put it back in her bag. Already, she was humming.

You could hum, I remembered. You just couldn’t open your mouth and speak, or laugh, or sigh too loudly. Humming was the only thing that had saved me from despair after I’d been cursed.

“Maria,” I called, as she walked back over to her car with a bounce in her step, and she turned, eyebrows raised.

“Hmm?” she said, without opening her mouth.

“Ευχαριστούμε,” I said, with a smile.

Maria may not have known the language, but she understood a thank you when she heard one. She beamed at me, waved, and got back into her car.

Three months later, I got a message from Maria, the wildlife biologist living in Arkansas. It was an email that she’d sent after getting my email address from my account on the curse forums, where I’d been busy figuring out how to work with my new curse.

“Thanks,” it read, “for all the help. You have no idea what this means to me.”

Attached were two pictures. One was of her on a canoe, floating through some kind of forested swampy area, and the other was a photograph - in full color and perfect clarity - of an ivory-billed woodpecker.

#me content #writing #donation thanks fiction #bail funds #fiction #surprise! environmentalism #rip #this kind of got long #curses #prompt fill #skylarklanding

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newstfionline · 4 years

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Headlines

Western wildfires (NYT) Across a hellish landscape of smoke and ash, authorities in Oregon, California and Washington State battled to contain mega-wildfires on Sunday as shifting winds threatened to accelerate blazes that have burned an unimaginable swath of land across the West. The arrival of the stronger winds on Sunday tested the resolve of fire crews already exhausted by weeks of combating blazes that have consumed around 5 million acres of desiccated forests, incinerated numerous communities and created what in many places was measured as the worst air quality on the planet. “There’s just so much fire,” said Ryan Walbrun, a fire weather meteorologist with the National Weather Service. “And so much smoke.” The fires, which have killed at least 24 people in the last week alone, have engulfed the region in anguish and fear, as fairgrounds have turned into refugee camps for many who have been forced from their homes.

The Maitre d’ Will Take Your Temperature Now (NYT) In recent weeks, a new cadre of gatekeepers armed with thermometer guns has appeared at the entrances of hospitals, office buildings and manufacturing plants to screen out feverish individuals who may carry the coronavirus. Employees at some companies must report their temperature on apps to get clearance to come in. And when indoor dining resumes at restaurants in New York City later this month, temperature checks will be done at the door. Since the beginning of the pandemic, the practice of checking for fever has become more and more commonplace, causing a surge in sales of infrared contact-free thermometers and body temperature scanners even as the scientific evidence indicating they are of little value has solidified. Gov. Andrew M. Cuomo of New York last week called for checking patrons’ temperatures as one of several ground rules for resuming indoor dining in restaurants, along with strict limits on the number of tables and a mask mandate for diners when they are not seated. Restaurants also will be required to obtain contact information from one guest at each table.

Voting by mail (California Sunday Magazine) Voting by mail is an increasingly attractive and necessary option for voters, but it requires actual infrastructure to accomplish, large machines to be built and acquired, and a significant effort to get the ballots where they need to be. In 2016, 20 percent of Americans voted by mail, but this year it could be as high as 50 percent. A commercial grade printer can make 50,000 ballots in an hour, but it takes an enormous $500,000 device called an inserter to get the envelopes—linked by barcode to a specific voter—appropriately stuffed at the clip of 14,000 ballots per hour. The process is meticulous: when in 2014, an inserter misfired for 35 seconds in Phoenix, 232 voters in California and 1,000 in Colorado and Arizona got misprinted ballots, and when they caught the error they were able to fix that. The other 3.8 million ballots handled at the facility were fine.

As Sally chugs to coast, Gulf residents get ready (AP) Hurricane Sally, a plodding but powerful storm with winds of 90 mph, crept toward the northern Gulf Coast early Tuesday, with forecasters warning of potentially deadly storm surges, flash floods spurred by up to 2 feet (.61 meters) of rain and the possibility of tornadoes. Hurricane warnings stretched from Grand Isle, Louisiana, to Navarre, Florida, but forecasters — while stressing “significant” uncertainty — kept nudging the predicted track to the east. That eased fears in New Orleans, which once was in the storm’s crosshairs. But it prompted Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis to declare an emergency in the Panhandle’s westernmost counties, which were being pummeled by rain from Sally’s outer bands early Tuesday.

Russian opposition leader Navalny able to leave hospital bed (AP) Russian opposition leader Alexei Navalny is off a ventilator and is able to leave his hospital bed briefly, his doctors said Monday, while Germany announced that French and Swedish labs have confirmed its findings that he was poisoned with the Soviet-era nerve agent Novichok. Navalny, 44, was flown to Berlin for treatment at the Charite hospital two days after falling ill on a domestic flight in Russia on Aug. 20. Germany has demanded that Russia investigate the case. Although noting the improvement in Navalny’s health, the statement didn’t address the long-term outlook for the anti-corruption campaigner. Doctors have previously cautioned that even though Navalny is recovering, long-term health problems from the poisoning cannot be ruled out.

Lukashenko meets with Putin (Foreign Policy) More than 100,000 protesters flooded the streets of the Belarusian capital of Minsk on Sunday in one of the largest demonstrations against the rule of longtime President Aleksandr Lukashenko since his disputed victory in last month’s presidential elections. Police said they detained 400 people during the protests. The demonstrations came before a meeting between Lukashenko and Russian President Vladimir Putin scheduled for today, during which they will reportedly discuss deeper integration of their two countries. Lukashenko’s relations with Moscow had deteriorated in the months leading up to the election, but he has since warmed to Moscow again as the threat to his reign has grown more acute. Putin recently confirmed that he would send a reserve police force to Belarus if Lukashenko requested it.

US issues sweeping new travel warning for China, Hong Kong (AP) The U.S. on Tuesday issued a sweeping new advisory warning against travel to mainland China and Hong Kong, citing the risk of “arbitrary detention” and “arbitrary enforcement of local laws.” The new advisory warned U.S. citizens that China imposes “arbitrary detention and exit bans” to compel cooperation with investigations, pressure family members to return to China from abroad, influence civil disputes and “gain bargaining leverage over foreign governments.” “U.S. citizens traveling or residing in China or Hong Kong, may be detained without access to U.S. consular services or information about their alleged crime. U.S. citizens may be subjected to prolonged interrogations and extended detention without due process of law,” the advisory said.

In Japan, coronavirus discrimination proves almost as hard to eradicate as the disease (Washington Post) When a cluster of coronavirus infections broke out in Kyoto’s Horikawa Hospital, medical staff were not only battling a potentially deadly disease at work. They came home to fight an even more unsettling disease—fear and discrimination. Their children were turned away from nursery schools and after-school clubs, their spouses were told not to come to work, three were fired from their second jobs and one was told point-blank to stay away from a favorite diner. “Our staff were really shocked, severely shocked,” said Masaaki Yamada, the hospital’s administration chief, explaining that the affected workers had not necessarily been in close contact with infected patients. “Some even said they were afraid to go home, and afraid of being seen by their neighbors,” he said. “They got family members to put the garbage out for them. Some said they would go to work when it was dark and come home when it was dark again.” The hospital received anonymous phone calls telling employees to die or threatening to burn the place down. Nearly nine months after the coronavirus first arrived in Japan, “korona sabetsu” (coronavirus discrimination) is proving almost as hard to eradicate as the virus itself.

Mideast deals tout ‘peace’ where there was never war (AP) For the first time in more than a quarter-century, a U.S. president will host a signing ceremony between Israelis and Arabs at the White House, billing it as an “historic breakthrough” in a region long known for its stubborn conflicts. But while the optics of Tuesday’s event will evoke the groundbreaking agreements that ended decades of war between Israel and neighboring Egypt and Jordan, and that launched the peace process with the Palestinians, the reality is quite different. The United Arab Emirates will establish diplomatic relations with Israel, a fellow U.S. ally it has never gone to war with, formalizing ties that go back several years. The agreement cements an informal alliance against Iran and could pave the way for the UAE to acquire advanced U.S. weapons, while leaving the far more contentious Israeli-Palestinian conflict as intractable as ever. A similar agreement announced Friday with Bahrain, which welcomed a visiting Israeli Cabinet minister as early as 1994, also formalizes longstanding ties. But it’s debatable whether agreements like these, among already friendly countries, do much to advance regional peace. “Normalization of states in the region with Israel will not change the essence of this conflict, which is the systemic denial of the Palestinian people’s inalienable right to freedom and sovereignty,” said Hanan Ashrawi, a senior Palestinian official.

Nigeria reels from twin crises that threaten food availability (Reuters) Mal Shehu Ladan took a boat across what was, until this month, a growing rice paddy. Now, like thousands of hectares of rice in Nigeria’s Kebbi state, it is under water. Floods early this month across northwest Nigeria destroyed 90% of the 2 million tons that Kebbi state officials expected to harvest this autumn, the head of the state branch of the Rice Farmers Association of Nigeria told Reuters. The loss amounts to some 20% of the rice Nigeria grew last year, and the waters are still rising. Farther south, outside Nigeria’s capital, Abuja, chicken farmer Hippolite Adigwe is also worried. A shortage of maize forced him to sell most of his flock of more than 1,000 birds, and the 300 left are hungry. Chicken feed prices have more than doubled, and he isn’t sure how long he can cope. Twin crises, floods and maize shortages, come just after movement restrictions and financing difficulties caused by COVID-19 containment measures complicated spring planting. Some farmers and economists say it could push Nigeria, Africa’s most populous nation, into a food crisis. Rice is the country’s staple grain, and chicken is a core protein. “There is a real fear of having food shortages,” Arc Kabir Ibrahim, president of the All Farmers Association of Nigeria told Reuters. “The effect on the food system is going to be colossal.”

After Two Decades of Rot, Zimbabwe Is Coming Apart at the Seams (Bloomberg) In Zimbabwe, pregnant women are left alone in hospitals to give birth, taps have run dry in major urban centers, infrastructure has all but collapsed and more than half the population needs food aid. This is the toll that two decades of economic mismanagement have taken on a nation once considered one of Africa’s shining stars. Promises of an economic revival and more political freedom made by President Emmerson Mnangagwa, now in his third year of rule, have rung hollow and public anger over intolerable living conditions has spurred protest action that’s been brutally quashed by the military. Western governments that berated long-time ruler Robert Mugabe for violating civil rights are leveling similar criticism against his successor. And even South Africa, a regional power broker and long-time Zimbabwe ally, has now entered the fray, dispatching envoys and ruling party officials to Harare, Zimbabwe’s capital, to try and help its neighbor resolve the deepening crisis. No headway was made in initial talks and more are planned in coming days.

#headlines #news

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2studentsoforeignlanguages · 4 years

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TEXT TALK NOVELS

A BRIEF DESCRIPTION

A Text Talk Novel or Cell phone Novels (Japanese: 携帯小説) it is a literary work written, as you can infer, on a cellular phone via text messaging.

This phenomenon emerged almost 20 years ago and arrived in the English language world in 2008. It that way it began a new literary movement among thousands of young writers and readers all over the globe, first on Textnovel.com and now also on Wattpad.

We can say that this "not that new" literacy movement is a remarkably unique new form of writing, it is in fact, a fusing serialized online storytelling with a simple haiku-like poetic technique (a type of short-form poetry originally from Japan) and with prose narrative.

When it comes to the structure of these cell phone novels, each page or chapter is usually averaging around 50-100 words, implementing white space, fragments, deeply personal thoughts or ideas, or emotions. However, there are no restrictions on genres, form, style, or content.

THE ORIGINS

A young man named Yoshi, who originated from Japan, started writing a novel in his mobile phone including short chapters that could fit in an email message. He sent it to his closest friends and then forwarded, suddenly, this novel became worldwide known.

It is important to highlight that the different technological devices in Japan were more advanced than the Western counterparts back then. These tools were capable of 3G internet networks and email messaging and did not have SMS text limitations.

Since Yoshi’s “Deep Love” was known, more and more publishers and writers decided to embrace this new trend and as a consequence many Apps, as well as websites, were created in order to allow Japanese people not only to read them but also to publish their own stories online pen names and secret identities.

Inspiring a new generation of amateurs writers, the majority of them were high school students expressing very personal, emotional, existential, and controversial topics that may be considered taboo in the Japanese culture, topics such as bullying, rape, abortion, friendship using a colloquial vocabulary.

These books have then accumulated millions of reads and readership, published into print form and made into films, TV drama, anime and manga, and so on. The top five bestselling books each year in Japan are often cell phone novels. Some famous examples are: “Koizora” (Love Sky), “Akai Ito” (Red String of Fate), “Kimi No Sei” (It’s Your Fault), “Moshimo Kimi Ga” (If You) and more: http://hakaiya.com/20101204/movie-12945

THE WRITING STYLE

The concept set off the combination of narration and poetry, creating short chapters using white space, line breaks, fragments, poetic devices, and focusing on sensory, emotional, or dialogue content, you will find many cliffhangers. Each chapter is less than 200 words and averages around 50-100.

This type of style opens doors to creativity and imagination; it encourages young writers to reflect deeply about choosing the most accurate diction and layout and to think outside the box and at the same time to deliver the maximum potency in between the lines. In addition, it motives a haiku-style sentimental art form.

It actually allows writers to sound more sophisticated and literary beyond their age just by using their sensitivity and perception of their tiny moments in life. On the other hand, Text Talk Novels inspire to return to literature and poetry, even though its content is related to pop and youth culture in general.

What is amazing about this literary written work it's the fact that by using and bringing apps and social platforms it is widespread easily and everyone could have access. Due to social media writing or reading small chapters could be done between classes, during commutes, or even when you are lying in bed.

THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE MOVEMENT

Steve, K.T., or Takatsu, in 2008 introduced the English cell phone novel. After some research and reading, he realized that there was no such thing as English cell phone novels, and seeing the potential of this literary form, he came across Textnovel.com (the first site in North America to recognize cell phone novels).Since there were not actual cell phone stories on the website, some Japanese cell phone novels were translated.

Takatsu felt so inspired that he starts to experiment with his own original cell phone novel called “Secondhand Memories”. This novel became the very first English language cell phone novel in the West and in the world.

After publishing “Secondhand Memories” a lot of writers of all ages from all over the globe began to get involved in the community. After many years of work and leadership, these writers have been exploring and evolving the different possibilities and styles as well. Becoming more philosophical, artistic, and poetic or start to incorporate visual elements like changing fonts and sizes of fonts.

In 2015, the community also expanded as the Wattpad Cell Phone Novel Network.

“The goodness of inspiration and connecting from art to heart, one heart to another, one life to another, is epitomized in the cell phone novel form, its deeply personal subculture and spirit, and its globalization.”-Takatsu.

CELL PHONE NOVEL SAMPLES

Here are some samples from cell phone novels over the years.

Chapter 1, Secondhand Memories (2008) by Takatsu

It was July. She looked at me with a smile on her face. I smiled back. It was summer. School was off. I was in complete bliss. There was nothing better than this. With her beside me, nothing could go wrong. “Let’s go.” I heard myself say. She nodded.

Chapter 307, Secondhand Memories (2008) by TAKATSU

As we stood there, still in an embrace, all the color slowly returned to the world. The dark grey clouds above were scattering, golden sunlight released from Heaven’s gates above. Like honey, the grassy field in front of us turned colden, lit ablaze with vibrant color. The grass began to sway back and forth counting to a beat, dancing with the wind. I stood there, wide-eyed like a child in awe. Spring. Spring has come. Life. Life has returned.

Chizuru by EllieCue

Birds with the same feathers, flock together – I never knew what this adage means before. I mean, why do people group themselves according to “who” they are? Why can’t everyone just get along with each other? Like… …friends?

I hope you have enjoyed a lot reading about this literary movement!

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lindoig6 · 4 years

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Starting out

Twitchers, listers or tickers or any of a dozen other (usually derogatory) names are people who observe birds and record what they see. Typically, they keep lists of their sightings and record a range of data that they accumulate over time, often fuelling competition with other birders and affording bragging rights when an oddity or rarity is seen.

To be an eligible sighting for anyone’s list, the bird must be seen (although some people are happy to record species they hear) and seen (or heard) well enough to make a conclusive identification. The bird must be alive (roadkill doesn’t count) and free-roaming, so caged birds or those with clipped wings in zoos or animal parks are not legit. To make it to the official Australian bird-list, the species must have bred in a sustainable way in the wild in Australia for at least 10 years. This obviously excludes the many vagrants and accidental visitors, but I recall being frustrated for several years because I had seen a few quite large flocks of Helmeted Guineafowl, Numida meleagris, that had not been included the Australian list at the time.

It is often possible to obtain lists of bird species previously recorded in various locations from local tourist bureaux or visitors’ centres covering a town, a national park, a Key Biodiversity Area, etc., allowing tourists and others to simply tick a box to record their sighting of each new species. This can be quite simple yet rewarding for many people, particularly children or novices to birding: a step on the path to more rigorous record-keeping.

Starting your birding record

Even if you start at the very simplest of recording (ticking the box), the key essential is to identify what you are looking at. The Tourist Bureau checklist doesn’t list birds by colour or size: it is always by name (even though all birds have at least two names). None of the lists I have seen describe the local birds as ‘medium-sized black and white bird’ because many parts of Australia will have at least 3 or 4 such birds – Magpies, Magpie-larks, Willy-wagtails, Stilts, Cormorants, Currawongs and so on. Instead, birds are listed by name.

So! A small selection of medium-sized black and white birds.

Magpie-lark

Little Pied Cormorant

Australian Magpie

Pied Stilts (previously known as Black-backed or White-headed)

Pied Butcherbird

Hooded Robin (featured at the top of my every post!)

A simple example of the universal naming convention is the ubiquitous House Sparrow (its common name – normally with each word capitalised), and usually adding its scientific or Latin name Passer domesticus (the first word, or Genus, is always capitalised, the second word, or Species – and often a third, or Subspecies – always in lower case). Incidentally, these cute little birds are found in many places around the world, having been widely introduced (as they were in Australia), but even here, they are not everywhere. They are only in the eastern half of the country and even then, they are quite uncommon in large areas of their territory – so they are not really ubiquitous at all.

Knowing that you saw a Sparrow may not help you find it easily on a list if it is shown as a House Sparrow – under H rather than S. And if you are visiting Sydney from Perth, you may well never have seen a Sparrow before so might imagine it to be almost anything other than one of the more common urban birds of Western Australia. But identification of the species is still the key to everything that comes after that.

Immature Male House Sparrow

Some basic resources to aid identification

Field Guides and birding apps

This is where a Field Guide with lots of good pictures is almost essential. Some Field Guides have photos whilst others have drawings or paintings. You need to decide for yourself which you prefer, but I prefer paintings for two main reasons. With a photo, you see an accurate depiction of a bird from a single angle – the image that the bird presented to the camera at the precise moment the shutter was released: sometimes not a good image if the specimen did not cooperate with the photographer. With paintings, the accuracy of the image might be (very marginally) inferior to the photo, but the artist’s whole objective it to depict the aspect of the bird that most aids identification, often showing several aspects, particular parts of the bird, and showing the plumage differences between male and female specimens, when breeding or in eclipse, birds of different ages or subspecies and so on. This is generally too difficult if only photographs are displayed, and it is left to the accompanying text to cover these variations.

An alternative to a Field Guide that some may regard as too bulky, too heavy or too hard to use in windy conditions, is an app on your phone of tablet. These are usually more easily searched, often with a feature designed to assist in identification by screening out (or in) geographical areas, sizes, colours, habitats and so on where your specimen is likely (or unlikely) to be present. Some of these apps include a small selection of typical calls or ‘sound-bites’ you may hear if your bird is singing.

In either case, the Field Guide or app will include some text that elaborates on the image to assist your identification as well as a map indicating the typical range of the species in question.

As I said, this is a matter of preference (and your level of interest and budget), but my preferred Field Guide is the Australian Bird Guide published by CSIRO and my preferred app is ‎the Morcombe & Stewart Guide to Birds of Australia – despite some limitations. But don’t take this as my recommendation. Do your own research and decide what suits you best. There are plenty of apps and Guides (including area and habitat specific apps) to choose from so find the ones that suit your interest best. I use several and haven’t worried too much about the modest cost involved because each purchase has lasted (or is likely to last) me for quite a few years.

If you intend birding overseas, there are lots of Field Guide and apps (some free, some quite expensive) covering many countries or regions across the globe – but very little (and no apps) for some less travelled areas as I have discovered to my disappointment several times. Just search for something like ‘Bird Field Guide/App’ plus your desired country/region name and explore what is available

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hanalwayssolo · 6 years

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In The Line of Duty

A/N: Timely for Iggy’s name day! So. Slightly departing from the usual structure in which I write my stories, so this may seem a bit... weird? Fragmented? So I kind of not recommend reading this via Tumblr mobile bc that app murders the formatting lmao

Tagging them pals! @blindedstarlight @valkyrieofardyn @bleucommelhiver @gowithme @noboomoon @emmydots @lazarustrashpit @raspberryandechinacea @hanatsuki89 @mp938368 @boo-dangy @animakupo

Ignis breezes through the freeway, his Aston Martin almost flying through the rainy night. He is never one to drive like a madman, but this is a desperate time that certainly calls for this very desperate measure. He spares a glance at the rearview mirror. A shabby white Mitsubishi and a gaudy yellow Volvo still remain in close pursuit. Looks like the flock of paparazzi back from Maagho’s really is a persistent lot. In the passenger seat, you sit in an unsettling silence.

Fuck these bastards, he mutters under his breath.

Speed limits be damned. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Ignis revs the engine and zips past the steady traffic.

“Let’s get you back to your flat, alright?” he offers kindly.

You say nothing.

Suddenly, Ignis finds himself missing your chatty, teasing antics. That silly smile of yours. By this time, you should have been pleading him to let you go someplace else—anywhere but your place—while annoying him to death with your usual smartass quips. You never do.

Months before, Ignis had been perfectly convinced you were the most insufferable human he has ever come across. Funny how he now thinks otherwise. Even funnier that he now cares. Because it’s not his business to care. His job was never to look nor to listen.

But at this point, you have made him break every single rule in his book.

The first thing Ignis notices when he meets you is your eyes.

Something about your strong and striking gaze makes him wonder why someone like him is even employed at your service. One look from you, he is pretty certain you are completely capable on your own in terms of sending anyone who dares cross your path—may it be troublesome paparazzi, or overzealous fans and haters alike—to run with their tails between their legs. Your composure and confidence says just as much. Seems to him that you’re the type of person who does not need anyone’s protection, let alone a bodyguard.

Which is a sentiment you made very clear that morning in the luxurious luster of Hotel St. Regis’s lobby.

“I’m afraid Aranea here has wasted your time—” you tell Ignis as you set your cup of coffee back on the table, sharply turning your attention to the silver-haired woman who is sitting across from you— “but like I said, I can take care of myself just fine—”

“Really?” Aranea scoffs, casting you a challenging glare. “And by taking care of yourself, do you mean going around punching paparazzi square in the face and breaking their camera as you please?”

You shrug. “Well, that fella fucking deserved it—”

“Whether they deserved it or not isn’t the fucking point, you idiot. Do you have any idea how Cor had to shell out his own money to keep that incident from going out to the press?” Aranea sighs in resignation. “Look, this is more than just taking care of yourself. This is about—”

“—my career, my image, and my reputation, blah blah blah. Yes, you don’t need to do all of Cor’s spiel—I get it.”

Aranea raises an eyebrow. “Do you really? ‘Cause if you really did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation and Ignis wouldn’t be the fourth replacement in the span of six fucking months.”

You fall silent. Though Ignis is compelled to say something, he knows very well not to provide his thoughts, unsolicited or otherwise. That’s never in his job description. He had been trained to keep his mouth shut, and he is going to do just that. Besides, what would he know? Such is the world of glitz and glamour that is show business, and Ignis has never been tasked with handling celebrity clientele before. If anything, among his peers, it was either Gladio or Nyx who gets paired with the high profile A-listers. Clarus’s directive for him came as a strange surprise, the initial briefing of his task even stranger. All throughout his fifteen years of service in the Lucian Security Bureau, people frequently assigned to Ignis were government big shots, business moguls, and upper echelons of society who have been targets of terror and violence.

However, in your case… Ignis could see that you fit in neither the former nor the latter. At least for now, that’s what he thinks.

You spread your elbows over the table, eyeing Aranea with a wicked smile all over your face. “You know what would be better, Ari?”

“Don’t call me that—”

“You could pass as both my handler and bodyguard, don’t you think?

Aranea looks at Ignis, then back at you. “Does that come with a raise?”

You lean back against your seat. “Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.” Aranea exhales a derisive laugh. “Then I suppose we leave Ignis to do that job for all our sakes. Anyway, we better get going—” from her satchel, she pulls out a sleek-looking tablet— “you have to be ready for your four p.m. table read and a seven p.m. interview Dino of Meteor Publishing.” To Ignis, she says, “I assume you’ve already been briefed by your superior about all your responsibilities?”

Ignis sits up straighter and nods. “Yes.”

“Good. It’s pretty simple actually, but the past bodyguards can’t seem to do it.” Aranea smiles, clapping Ignis by the shoulder as she narrows her eyes on you. “Just don’t let this moron out of your sight, and we’ll all be fine.”

The first thing you notice about Ignis is his eyes.

Never mind the scar that cruised the left side of his face, that tiny slash over his right eyebrow, or even the one on the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even need to look at you directly for you to marvel at how fiercely green his eyes are, like the colour of a bright summer’s day. However, back in the lobby with Aranea, there is no warmth in his silences nor in his clinical concentration; there is only a crippling coldness. One look at him and you could already surmise that he’s had his fair share of danger in his profession. Though he is lean and lithe unlike your past bodyguards who all seem to be built out of heavier materials, you cannot shake the feeling that Ignis might have killed a man with his bare hands.

Still, you don’t really need someone like Ignis. You never needed someone like him. A bodyguard should have been the least of your concerns. Besides, you have enough people monitoring your every move that getting a fucking bodyguard is as insane as it’s going to get. Cor often reminds you that this is all for your safety, and that as your manager, he only wants to keep you safe. Aranea chastises you that you’re overreacting, and that you’re still free as a bird. Except you’re as free as any bird locked in a cage that they might as well just lock you up in prison.

And in the first few hours that Ignis has started following you around, the fact that he hardly spares you a moment for a decent conversation—except for his courteously clipped responses like “Let me know if you need anything else,” or “I’ll be right outside your door”—prison seems like a more amiable place to be.

By his second week, Ignis finally understands how unpredictable you can be.

Okay, maybe he does not understand it quite fully. He has to admit, though: he admires the elaborate effort you put into your juvenile pranks. It comes in the strangest of ways and in the oddest of days: from your attempts to lock him up inside your trailer, down to that crafty disguise to sneak out of the film set, all of which he had seen you fail miserably time and again. Out of all your many crimes, petty they may be, hopping in the backseat of someone else’s car to escape him from an after party still takes the cake. He had to forcefully “borrow” a stranger’s motorcycle just to chase you down, which he managed to do in less than an hour. Not an impressive feat for someone his calibre, but at least he got you home in one piece—and without Cor or Aranea even knowing.

What fuels your sheer determination to drive him off his wits, Ignis does not know. The only thing he knows for sure is that you’re one bloody piece of work.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn ya, Specs,” Gladio reminds Ignis one sordid afternoon back in the Lucian Security Bureau HQ. In the saintly cleanliness that is his cubicle, he finds Gladio lounging on his seat together with Nyx, as if they had been expecting his unlikely visit. The air-conditioned hustle remains the same, the glass panels and all the white walls still as stark bright as Ignis remembers it to be. He really has been away for far too long that he finds himself missing that familiar scent of ink and paper, and even the faces of these two troublemakers.

“So how’s your new post treatin’ you?” Nyx breezily asks. His tone is not of concern, but a knowing amusement that Ignis can easily recognize. “The look on your face says you’re either in need of a stiff drink or to get laid.”

“Or could be both,” Gladio adds.

Actively ignoring the smug looks on his friends’ faces, Ignis does not answer them, but instead, he asks: “Aren’t the both of you supposed to be somewhere else?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” Gladio snaps back. He picks up Ignis’s tin of mints on his table and pops one on his mouth.

Nyx loops an arm around Ignis. “Y’know, celebrities can be a pain, so if you’re here to request Clarus for a reassignment, we promise not to judge.”

Ignis looks at Nyx for a brief moment. A reassignment. How come he never thought of that? Sure, you can be annoying and a menace to his daily routine, but Ignis suddenly finds it strange that he has never considered the prospect of requesting for a change in client. Maybe he has his brand of patience to thank for, or his unworldly forbearance in the years that he has spent in this profession.

But then—as if by seeing Nyx and Gladio after such a long time of being away—he realizes that maybe, you’re not that bad. Even in your reckless and determined attempts of making his life a living hell, you also make an effort to make conversation. Not that it’s anything special. He has been wired to being strictly on someone’s beck and call that most of his past clients do not even bother to look at him in the eye. Most of them see him as a weapon, a blade to be wielded against their enemies. Small wonder Ignis himself often forgets that he is a living and breathing person. He can barely remember having a life outside this job. He can barely remember the last time someone apart from Gladio and Nyx asking him anything about his hobbies or other interests or even about his family.

But you do. You try. Even on the first few days when Ignis didn’t know how to respond. It’s just that he doesn’t know how to. He fears that you might have interpreted that as indifference, and he regrets to have responded to you as such. He thought you would have given up by now, seeing how he had acted so callously, but you have the persistence of a honey badger that you use on him to get him to talk, or to even to smile a little.

Nyx looks at Ignis, this time with a genuine hint of concern. Ignis has not realized that he had been quiet for some time.

But he has realized that you have grown so much on him, which is such an disturbing thought to entertain.

“I think a reassignment is highly unnecessary,” Ignis says finally—almost to himself and not to Nyx and Gladio—as he takes his leave.

By his second week, you finally understand how Ignis can be so predictable.

There’s the matter of his morning routine. He follows it too religiously that you start to notice the little things. He wakes up as early as six a.m.—on the dot, not even a minute late—to work out at the back of your trailer. Three sets of push ups, squats, crunches, all in that order. Seven-thirty a.m., he wraps up, takes a shower, grabs a nice cup of coffee with some of the film crew. He likes his coffee strong and black, no sugar. How you know all of this like the same way you know all of your lines is beyond you.

But maybe he’s not too predictable. Not entirely.

You still have not seen him smile, despite the significant progress in the conversation department. And by significant, you mean that his answers have finally upgraded from one-word responses to lengthy sentences. Considering all the stupid shit you pulled on him, it’s almost a wonder that he even indulges you from time to time by answering any of your random questions.

Though in the process, you have learned a handful of tidbits about his life. For one, you find out that he happens to be an excellent cook. Once, he has shared with you how he wanted to build a restaurant of his own, and that it is only a matter of time before he could pursue that dream. Hearing him confide something that personal throws you off guard, but somehow, you feel quite relieved. You also learn that he has never seen any of your films, nor is he even aware of your awards and accolades—which, frankly, is the most gratifying thing you have ever heard in your life. You have also learned that he has not forgiven you for making him chase you all throughout the city. Which is fair. If that had happened with any of your previous bodyguards, they would not even bother sparing you another word even if you are the last person on this planet, and they would most certainly quit their job the next day.

But Ignis is different. A good kind of different.

Nevertheless, what you now find unfair is that you have never seen him smile. Unfair because he has seen yours a countless times at this point—fake ones on set included. He even gets a bonus because he has also seen you laugh at the most ridiculous things. Ignis, however, seems to be programmed with a limited range of emotions. You have not seen his face look anything but blank or bored, too surly or too serious.

It is only when you suddenly fall sick in the middle of filming that you find a new expression on his face.

Right after the director screams “Cut!” you wobble outside the set, past the cameramen, past the make up artists, past Aranea who’s probably busy handling your next schedule. When Ignis hurries by your side, you could barely focus your eyes. Your mouth tastes like acid. The world is spinning out of control.

Ignis presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up. I’m calling a doctor—”

“No, don’t.” You weakly wave a hand. “I’ll be fine by morning. Don’t tell Aranea. I just need to sleep, that’s all.”

Ignis walks you back to your trailer, looping your arm around his neck, and his around your waist. Your cheek momentarily rests against his chest, and you can feel his warm breath fanning over your head. You try your best not to retch on his shirt. Perhaps it’s the fever talking, but all you could think about is how this shirt looks perfect on him and you do not want to ruin it with your vomit.

Which is why out of your delirious haze, you say out of the blue: “Have I ever told you that you look so good in black?”

Ignis tilts his head. He hesitates for a moment, and then says, “I’m afraid not.”

“Well, now you know. I like your black dress shirt. You look so dapper in it.” And there goes your filter straight out the window.

“Thank you. It’s… nothing special.” He sounds unsure. Or is that embarrassment? Either way, you’re too sick to even look at his face to see his reaction.

Ignis guides you straight to your bed. You toss yourself so gracelessly against the mattress, and you gather the sheets to bundle up for warmth. A wave of nausea threatens to lurch out of your mouth. As far as you’re concerned, the inside of your trailer should not be this freezing cold.

“I’ll get you something to eat,” Ignis says, and as he prepares to drift to the kitchen, you grab for his hand.

“Please stay for a minute. Tell me a story.” You sound like a five-year-old.

He sits on the edge of the bed. “What kind of story?” His voice is gentler than usual. It is jarring, to say the least.

You pull yourself up, your arm brushing against his. “Like, is it possible that you’re a gremlin? ‘Cause how come it’s so hard to—” you thumb the corners of his mouth to make him smile— “see you do this?”

You can feel his face tremble a little in your touch. He looks at you strangely. You know he’s about to say something, but you are ill-prepared to what happens next.

Ignis starts to laugh.

You can’t believe this is what you have been missing for the last couple of days. What you have been missing your entire life. You have only known him for two weeks, but now, it’s like looking at a completely different person. He’s all lit up, his laughter radiating like the sun, bright and warm and blinding. His eyes disappear behind his smile lines, and his mouth curves to exhibit his perfect teeth and that illegally gorgeous smile. Your heart is pounding and you are certain that this is not your fever doing the talking anymore.

“I can assure you, I’m not a gremlin,” he says, wiping his eye with his hand.

“Good to know,” you say, sinking back to your pillows. “But I swear—I will make you laugh like that again when I get better,” you say confidently. And as you drift to deep sleep, the sound of his laughter is the last thing you hear.

The third month arrives and Ignis sees you a little differently.

Different in a way that your smile is now a bullet to his heart. Your laughter, a drug. Your kiss, a secret he would forever keep. Not only have you grown on him, but you have made a home inside his body. His mind, your temple. You have seduced his empty heart, and now it is beating only for you.

But if there’s anything Ignis knows by now, it’s that good things always come to an end. They always do. And he knows better. He knows you aren’t for him, and he isn’t for you.

The third month sweeps you off your feet as Aranea enters your trailer with a new man in tow. At first, you think he is one of the new actors with the way he carries himself with an air of confidence, but you immediately recognize the logo on his jacket.

The first thing that leaves your mouth is: “Where’s Ignis?”

Aranea’s mouth twists. She hesitates, then says, “Ignis quit. Told me he found a new job. Nyx here would be his replacement.”

Your heart plummets. The expression on your face might have been so fucking obvious because Aranea casts you a worried glance, and so does this Nyx. He looks slightly uncomfortable with the way you skate your narrowed eyes at him, as if he has no right to be in your breathing space. As if he has no right at all to ever replace Ignis.

“I can see that you’re upset with this change,” Nyx begins to say, quickly regaining his charming composure, “but by 'quit,' it means he has left to pursue a different career path. Doesn’t mean he left you—I mean, for another client, that is.”

A simmering silence. Aranea and Nyx are watching you with growing alarm. You don’t know why, but something in you breaks.

You force yourself to smile, but it’s not very convincing. Some actor you are. And in the most modulated voice you could muster, you say, “Good for him then.” To Nyx, you say, “Do send him my regards when you see him around.”

As soon as Ignis pulls over your apartment building, you climb out of his car, weaving past another throng of paparazzi. Someone yells “Congrats on another blockbuster! Is this your new boyfriend?” and a couple of other things that only grates your ears. Ignis is quick to follow, and he shields you with his body as he leads you inside the lobby. Probably his force of habit, but it only unearths a memory of a good time that has already hollowed you out.

When the two of you reach the front door of your apartment, he finally breaks the silence. “I’m assuming you have Nyx trapped in some dark alley?”

“No, not really,” you say flatly. “He actually let me go on my own. Cooler than my previous bodyguard, if you ask me.”

“How convenient.”

“So, sous chef to the illustrious Weskham Armaugh, huh.”

“Indeed.”

“Now, care to explain to me why you really left without even saying a word? Especially to me?” There is a tremor that breaks your voice, and his smile slowly creases to a frown. “Is that it? Was that your grand plan? Make me fall in love with you and then just go up and leave—”

“I beg your pardon?” Ignis looks mystified, as if you have said something completely ludicrous. He stares at you for a long, scalding moment. “What did you just say?”

You scoff. “Are you kidding me right now? I said…”

The realization dawns on you in a slow unravel. Before you can even formulate an explanation, Ignis steals your breath away with a kiss. You have done this before in the confines of your trailer, but this time is different. This time, the feeling is no longer secret.

“You have absolutely no idea how I’ve wanted to do that this time around,” he says with a smile. And when he tells you I love you, he does not mean I love you regardless of or I love you despite, but rather I love you just because I do.

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #fanfic #ignis scientia #older!ignis scientia #ignis x reader #older!ignis x reader #my writing #good things come in threes and on this one i've made myself a favourite new trio

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lindsaystravelblogs · 2 years

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Toronto

Friday

After such a long and exhausting day, we slept a bit later than usual and spent most of the day just lazing around in the hotel room. We had quite good Internet access so we caught up with a few tasks online, but we also went out twice for a walk around the local area. There are a few festivals in town this weekend and the city seemed very crowded (and almost frantic with excitement), including with a lot of very elaborately made-up people - quite a few Star Wars characters, but a Rapunzel, some witches, Vikings, and so on. The streets were fair hopping!

We bought some noodles (just add hot water) and ate them in our room, supplemented with some hot chips and a biscuit or two - and of course a glass or two of red wine.

We even watched an hour or two of TV at night. Heather found a channel that ran repeats of Bones and we watched two episodes - perhaps our first realtime TV for 2 or 3 years.

Saturday

Heather went downstairs to one of the food outlets in the foyer and bought some breakfast that we ate in our room and then met up with Robert and Richard (from the Greenland leg) and walked to a display of Inuit art in a big commercial building a few blocks away. It was quite interesting with a few big paintings, but mainly sculptures on the ground and mezzanine floors. Most of the works seemed to my untutored eye to carry some modern Western influence but the one that really intrigued me most was a mask-like construction using only numerous pairs of sneakers, cut down the centre and opened up to fit other smaller pairs inside. Very creative, but it made me wonder how the artist conceived of such a complex piece in complete abstract before going out and spending $5000 on sneakers simply to destroy them.

We spent an hour or so there before crossing the road to the very posh Royal York Hotel where we enjoyed a very decadent lunch in almost ‘speakeasy’ surrounds with a piano tinkling delightfully behind us. It was a bit like a 30s venue with 50s music with a bit of 80s piano bar to confuse (and enhance) it all. Not the sort of thing we have indulged in before, but absolutely wonderful - maybe the introduction of a trend for the future.

We then took the streetcar (a tram) to the foreshore of Lake Ontario where we walked along the pier and through some lovely gardens. I saw a few new birds and photographed some to identify later. Some were swallows flying around above me and I later used my Merlin app to confirm my identifications from my photos. One of the swallows was confusing, but I eventually concluded that it was a Tree Swallow - later confirmed. But another photo of one of the swallows could not be identified by Merlin - or by me. More on that tomorrow and Monday.

We really enjoyed a lazy stroll along the sunny marina and eventually back to the streetcar before parting company with R&R a couple of blocks from our hotel. It had been a really lovely day, enjoyed with good friends who showed us a very attractive side of their favourite city - and changed our poor impression from our previous visit. Thanks Robert and Richard!

We ate in our room again but gave up trying to find anything watchable in the sixty channels of TV.

Sunday

We bought brekky from the foyer again and set off to walk to the Museum of Ontario a couple of clicks away. It was another perfect day, warm and bright all day. We passed some very interesting buildings, including the Hospital area, the Legislative Building and parts of the University. We also saw some wonderful black squirrels. They are normally regarded as pests here but I love them. They are adorably cute, absolutely fluid in their movement and cheeky as they come. Simply wonderful. I also saw some American Robins and several hundreds of sparrows. The latter were in flocks of fifty or more and they simply lose themselves in two centimetres of grass and flutter away a second before you step on them. They are all just ordinary House Sparrows, but almost all of them seem to be females or young birds, almost none were adult males.

The museum was quite interesting although we only went into the free exhibits on the ground floor: a couple of dinosaurs, a very large display of Chinese artefacts and buildings, a biggish area for First Nations - Inuit and ‘American Indian’ items, and, quite strangely, an extensive display of designer Covid masks (and a smaller display of related ‘pandemic survival’ artefacts). This was all mildly interesting but after some time, we needed a drink so sat and enjoyed a cold lemon drink.

Shortly after we arrived at the museum, a concert by the Campus Symphony started playing. It was mainly fairly well known classical music but very pleasant as a backdrop to our musical museumical meanderings.

We then set off to walk to the Art Gallery of Ontario where we had seen an elephant sculpture by the same artist who created the sneaker mask we saw yesterday.

En route, we needed to have lunch so called into a bar/diner where we had a refreshing drink and lunch while watching the News channel and some baseball on another screen. It felt very US-like even though we were in Canada. A very comfortable and entertaining hour or so. Then on to the Art Gallery.

The life-sized elephant installation was funded by the Canadian Government and was constructed of hundreds of leather(?) settee cushions. It was very effective, but currently fenced off, allegedly due to some invisible work overhead.

We went into the Gallery but only explored the extensive shop area - it was probably too late in the day to spend the $50-odd to view their collection. We walked back to our hotel, pretty exhausted by then, with almost 8 kilometres recorded in out Fitbits for our wandering.

I was still keen to identify the bird I had photographed and spent a couple of hours trying all sorts of searches before finally emailing the Toronto Ornithological Club. That generated an 18-hour series of emails with the Secretary who referred my photos to several other knowledgeable members for ideas. In due course, I had my answer - my Tree Swallow was confirmed and the more problematic one was a juvenile Barn Swallow yet to grow its long outer tail feathers. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t that hard, but even Merlin was unable to suggest any possible species so I was glad of the local knowledge.

We decided to eat out at night and wandered the nearby streets looking for a good restaurant before finally settling on a Thai place next door to the hotel. The servings were enormous and neither of us could finish ours. All very tasty though.

Monday and heading home

We are not sure why, but we really enjoyed Toronto this time after not liking it much last time. Maybe it was the area our hotel was in, or the fact that Robert and Richard looked after us a bit. Maybe it was just our attitude or the places we decided to visit. We had a great day at Niagara last time, but felt no need to venture there again, but this visit was probably more relaxed than last time and we were looking forward to going home. Whatever………

We bought breakfast downstairs again and ate it in the room. We packed up as much as we could, had showers and donned clean clothes, locked up our bags and checked out of the hotel. We sat near the front door until it was nearly time for our transfer to the airport then waited outside for five minutes until our limo arrived - thanks Bev. Once in the airport, we tried to check our bags in only to be told it was too early. Our flight was delayed 35 minutes (soon stretched to 65 minutes) so we had to sit around for an hour and a half to get rid of our two big bags.

Security was as chaotic and offensive as usual, but we eventually got through in time to stand in line for an hour and three-quarters for a pre-entry examination to get into the US - remembering that we would only be in the transit area for an hour and three- quarters at most. This was stated to be necessary to save time going through the same process (clearly unnecessarily) in LA.

There were about 50 to 70 US citizens in one line serviced by two, sometimes three, dedicated processors - and at least 400 in our queue being serviced by one officer. A few others came and went but until five minutes before our turn finally arrived, the most we had processing our line was two and then only for a few minutes. After almost two hours of total chaos, they put four people in and our turn arrived almost immediately. Then we had to explain why we had US visas in our passports and it took some time to figure out that we had to have visas three years ago because we had previously been in Iran. It was pretty confronting - why did we have something in our passports that would normally be mandatory? We had seen one guy taken away by the Law and we were envisaging a longer uncomfortable stay in Canada for a while but we were released at last and collapsed into a restaurant for a calming drink and a sandwich. At last, we made it to the gate and stood for another half hour before our turn came to board. Alas, 'Boarding Denied’ for both of us. The guy at the gate tried to help but finally referred us to a supervisor who eventually tracked down some problem with our Passport numbers. We still don’t know what it was, but she had to delete everything for both of us and re-enter all our details and at last we we able to board. Six and a half hours from hotel to airline seat - no wonder I hate flying. I had the usual selfish guy in front of me who thought he was entitled to the space I had paid for and laid his seat back . Fortunately, there was another aisle seat just ahead of us so Heather moved there and I took her seat. Fortunately, I had no claustrophobic feelings at all on this flight. The woman in front of me (after I had moved) then tipped her seat back but I asked her not to and she obliged in seeming good grace.

Our next little challenge was in LA. After we landed, there was nobody to tell us where we needed to go and we appeared to be in a domestic flight area. We eventually teamed up with some Kiwis who were going our way so we trudged off following very conflicting signage to TBIT that turned out to be the Tom Bradley International Terminal, at least a kilometre away down some pretty dingey passages up and down numerous stairs and on and on, just hoping that we were heading in the right direction. We asked a few cleaners along the way and they encouraged us to keep on. We eventually reached the terminal and found a Departures board at last that told us that our gate was number 152, less than a kilometre further on. By the time we got there, we were exhausted - only 18 or so hours to go!

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yeslordmyking · 2 years

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July, 19 (Evening) Devotion

“A bruised reed shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench.”

Matthew 12:20

What is weaker than the bruised reed or the smoking flax? A reed that groweth in the fen or marsh, let but the wild duck light upon it, and it snaps; let but the foot of man brush against it, and it is bruised and broken; every wind that flits across the river moves it to and fro. You can conceive of nothing more frail or brittle, or whose existence is more in jeopardy, than a bruised reed. Then look at the smoking flax—what is it? It has a spark within it, it is true, but it is almost smothered; an infant’s breath might blow it out; nothing has a more precarious existence than its flame. Weak things are here described, yet Jesus says of them, “The smoking flax I will not quench; the bruised reed I will not break.” Some of God’s children are made strong to do mighty works for him; God has his Samsons here and there who can pull up Gaza’s gates, and carry them to the top of the hill; he has a few mighties who are lion-like men, but the majority of his people are a timid, trembling race. They are like starlings, frightened at every passer by; a little fearful flock. If temptation comes, they are taken like birds in a snare; if trial threatens, they are ready to faint; their frail skiff is tossed up and down by every wave, they are drifted along like a sea bird on the crest of the billows—weak things, without strength, without wisdom, without foresight. Yet, weak as they are, and because they are so weak, they have this promise made specially to them. Herein is grace and graciousness! Herein is love and lovingkindness! How it opens to us the compassion of Jesus—so gentle, tender, considerate! We need never shrink back from his touch. We need never fear a harsh word from him; though he might well chide us for our weakness, he rebuketh not. Bruised reeds shall have no blows from him, and the smoking flax no damping frowns.

Daily Bible and Devotional for Women - http://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=daily.bible.for.woman

#God #Jesus #christianity #faith #God's children #weakness #God's gentleness #God is gentle #God is loving #do not fear God #God will not rebuke you #strength in weakness #blessed are the weak #God's promise #devotional #bible verse

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lesbianweedqueen · 2 years

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[to the tune of london bridge] prolapsed tissue's falling out, falling out, falling out

A prolapsed vent often looks extremely terrifying to someone who has never seen one before.

The first time I saw a prolapsed vent on one of my hens was about four weeks ago, and I panicked at first. I’d never even seen a picture of a prolapsed vent so…I was entirely unprepared. Luckily, though, I did what I do best:

I guessed and improvised.

The following story should not be taken as advice on what to do if you’re dealing with a prolapsed vent, because I’m not a vet, and although this worked for me and a few others, there’s no promise it’ll work every time.

During Maple and Pancake’s isolation from the flock, Maple ended up with a prolapsed vent. Let’s first talk about what the hell that even means:

A prolapsed vent is simply a term to refer when a bird’s cloaca is inverted and the tissue inside is pushed outside of the body. The tissue that comes out looks red and angry and can be worrying just by its intimidating appearance.

Don’t worry, though! It’s usually quite easy to treat a prolapsed vent.

When Maple’s vent was prolapsed, I kept it moist by applying a little bit of olive oil and antibiotic cream to the tissue. I kept her isolated from Pancake—this is important, because quail fucking love to peck the shit out of each other, and picking at a prolapsed vent is the last thing you want to happen in this situation.

Her vent didn’t look, like—I don’t even know how to explain this, because I’m talking strictly about my own first experience, and at the time I had no knowledge of what prolapsed vents were supposed to look like.

I didn’t think it looked that bad, on the imaginary scale of prolapsed vents that I wasn’t even yet aware of. So, I kept her on a layer of newspaper in a small cage that I have specifically for isolating injured quail.

Yeah, these idiots hurt themselves a lot.

Anyway, I kept the tissue moist (after first rinsing it with warm water and then very delicately patting dry with clean paper towel), and very gently pressed the tissue back inside of her. Some of it began to protrude out as soon as I released it, but a little tiny bit stayed inside. I repeated this once every thirty minutes (I literally had no idea how often I was supposed to), and within a few hours, the vent was finally completely inside of Maple and was staying in place.

The next morning, she was good as new—no swelling, no angry red tissue staring at me, just a normal quail cloaca.

In all of the generations of quail I’ve raised, that was the first (and so far the last) time I ever dealt with a prolapsed vent in person.

A week or so later, I had the idea to write a post about it, and lo and behold—when I went to mindlessly scroll through the reddit app on my phone, someone had posted a picture of a prolapsed quail vent asking for help!

I told them exactly what I’ve told you: I’m not an expert. If you choose to repeat any actions described in this post, that’s on you. I am not responsible for however your quail turn out.

Back to that post—this person’s quail had been among her flock when her vent became prolapsed, and her flock-mates pecked the fuck out of it until it was a raw, bloody mess. It wasn’t what I wanted to see as soon as I had woken up from a nap, but oh well.

With all of my warnings in place, I explained what I would have done if that was my hen’s prolapsed vent. Instead of immediately applying olive oil, I would have gently rinsed the quail’s vent off with warm water to wash the excess blood and dirt off.

Then, I would’ve placed clean paper towel on the bottom of the isolation cage, along with food and water, obviously. Some people like to provide extra supplements or vitamins or treats to their injured birds; again, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing half the time, so I didn’t do any of that.

I would’ve waited for the swollen, bloody tissue to heal a bit, perhaps for a day to three days depending on severity (based on this person’s picture, it would’ve been one day). After the swelling went down, I then would’ve applied my previous method of keeping the tissue moist and gently guiding it back inside the hen.

Voila.

An idiot’s guide to prolapsed quail vents.

Note that I did not say the idiot’s guide. This is just one of them. And probably not even the best to follow.

Good luck!

#kushandquail #originalcontent #quail #birds #animals

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wherespaulo · 3 years

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Hiking in Hawaii

Dec 8 – 22, 2021

I’d already visited Hawaii two previous times. In 2016 I’d spent three days exploring Ohahu and ten days hiking in Kauai – the famous Nepali Coast trail, out and back in a day, had been the highlight. Then in 2020 I’d spent one night in quarantine in a Waikiki Beach hotel before flying straight back to NYC. On account of mixed messages, I’d arrived with a negative PCR test result from the wrong place. Should’ve been from a drive through Walgreens in outer Texas rather than a reputable NYC hospital which had carried out thousands of tests since March 2020 at the birth of the Covid pandemic in the US.

Well, here I was again, this time to hike one week in Maui followed by one week on the Big Island, and was really the trip I’d planned to do in 2020 before my unceremonious early departure. First thing I noticed about this trip was that the accommodation and car rentals were at elevated post-pandemic prices compared to 2016 – a problem that’s always magnified with my solo traveling! I alone take the hit as opposed to it being spread out over several people.

Maui

Although my condo in Maui was five miles north of the bars and restaurants of Lahaina, I was close to Java Jazz, a local’s hangout with great food and live music and which became my go-too place for breakfast and dinner. The unconventional Iranian owner, clearly a creative type, had adorned the walls with his own excellent artwork and regularly played a mean classical guitar in the evenings. Graffiti was allowed from customers to accompany the owners artwork -- I added my own mark.

It also turned out to be a perfect source of insider information on the must-see places of Maui.

I drove to the trails most days – the Kapalua Coastal and Village Walking Trail (8 miles), the Waihe’e Ridge Trail (4 miles) and the Kahakapao Loop Trail (6.6 miles) were nothing special but the Mahana Ridge Trail (12 miles) and the Heleakala Crater Trails (13 miles) were something else!

The Mahana Ridge Trail, 6 miles straight uphill from sea level to the Maunalei Arboretum at 1,800 feet and then 6 miles back down, was a very pleasant workout through a woodland of enormous Cook pines and banyan trees where flocks of colorful red-billed leiothrix, apparently an import from Asia, mocked me from the bushes.

On my many hikes around the globe I’ve been frequently reminded that we’re all connected to something much more far reaching – usually through the warning cries of birds or dogs whenever I took a wrong turn. While hiking the Nepali Coast trail in Kauai in 2016 it had been the birds going crazy in the trees around me that had warned me of the 1000 foot drop into the ocean that I was heading for after missing a turning. On the Mahana Trail the universe whispered to me through an orange and black kaleidoscope of butterflies which mobbed me when I missed my turning in the woods – randomly flitting, silently, on unseen updrafts. So stay tuned to those hidden signs, not just the more tangible AllTrails app!

The Heleakala Crater Trail is a point-to-point hike connected by a road, so I parked my car at end of the trail (8,000 ft elevation) and started hitch hiking along the road to start of the trail (10,000 ft elevation) – I figured the worse-case scenario would be that no-one would pick me up because of COVID, so I’d have to walk the whole seven miles along the road before even starting the actual trail. In the event I was picked up after about a mile by locals Kelly and Reis (Kelly’s 20 something son) and Johnny (Reis’s surfer mate from New Jersey).

They invited me to hike with them across the bare, rocky crater which Reis had much knowledge of, including a little-known lava tube which we gladly explored.

Occasionally heading off the beaten track, our total mileage for the trail turned out to be more like 13 miles than the standard 11.2.

It was the sighting of the rare and endangered nene goose, just as we reached our cars at end of trail, and just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, that forewarned of the danger to come.

At such a high elevation (8,000 ft) the plummeting temperature, already below freezing, had caused my below par car key battery to be completely flat so my car door was completely unresponsive. I had visions of freezing to death on this remote volcano, or at the very least having to walk 20 miles to a main road to hitch a lift back to Lahaina. With a near flat phone battery too and all other hikers having left the car park hours ago I was so glad I managed to flag down my hiking comrades just before they left me alone in the car park.

Johnny knew exactly what to do and set to work (I didn’t have a clue), pulling off a piece of the door handle that was hiding the physical key hole and using the physical key in the key fob to open the door. But then how to start the car with no key hole? He found the special slot in the center console to place the key and start the engine. Together with the lift at the start they’d now saved my life twice! I was grateful for Johnny’s life experiences that had enabled him to get me on my way – life experiences that I’d somehow missed out on.

And of course the nene goose had stayed close to me throughout the whole experience, sometimes pecking at my legs, clearly feeling my anxiety.

Big Island

This time my condo was smack in middle of the bars and restaurants of Kona. I preferred Kona’s more down to earth, edgy vibe than Lahaina’s pleasant twee tourist trappings. I headed straight to Sam’s Hideaway, a local’s dive bar where I’d been informed I was sure to have a good laugh while getting some insider information on the island – this would become my go-to bar for my week on the Big Island.

Again, I’d planned to hike a number of trails on the island:

The Mauna Kea-Humu’ula Trail was a 13.4 mile total straight up and down from 9,000 ft up to 14,000 ft elevation. Before I set off the rangers at the visitor information station checked that I felt ok at this high altitude (with its accompanying low oxygen level) – also no-doubt checking my sanity!

With few people insane enough to do this hike the only sounds echoing across the thin air were the rustle of shoe on grit and tinkle of rock on rock. The bare grey stone started to give gave way to white snowy ground cover around 13,000ft so that the Mauna Kea summit was completely covered in snow, and solid ice forced me to find an alternative less treacherous route to the top.

When I arrived back at the visitor information station seven hours later the ranger again enquired about any ill effects of altitude and how far I’d got – when I answered he looked at me as if to say ‘wow, he really is insane’.

The Muliwai & Waimanu Valley Trail was my favorite hike of this Hawaii trip. I started with a steep descent of the southern slope of Muliwai Valley, then traversed the valley bottom along a beautiful secluded black beach with a river crossing, ascended the steep northern slope of Muliwai Valley, then hiked through beautiful woodland of the Kohala Forest Reserve which sits atop the coastal cliffs. The full out-and-back trail of 20 miles total eventually reaches the Waimanu Valley but due to a shortage of time I needed to turn around before that so only completed 12.2 miles in total.

The Pu’u Wa’awa’a Cinder Cone Trail, 7.6 miles total for an uphill and back, started off as a tarmac track but then turned into a really interesting footpath spiraling around the back of the cinder cone while accompanied by flocks of beautiful orange cheeked waxbill’s. With a large green grassy top, replete with grazing cows, it felt more like north western Europe than the middle of the Pacific. .

I hiked the Captain Cook Trail, 4 miles total downhill to the coast and back through pleasant woodland, to pay my respects at the fellow Yorkshireman and explorer’s monument. The story is that he’d made the mistake of revisiting the Big Island in 1779 after his crew had spread deadly syphilis around the Hawaiian population during his previous visit in 1778. The locals were waiting for him this time and held him to account.

As well as the hiking, I’d been informed that night snorkeling with the manta rays was not to be missed, so I booked a trip with Manta Ray Dives of Hawaii. I was not disappointed. Plankton attracted by our lights shining downwards into the water, in-turn attracted the manta rays. Black and white majestic creatures soaring up from the depths, I stared down through massive mouths agape directly into gullets, then white belly up as they approached the surface, gills shimmering, almost skimming my face, one after the other in continuous succession. Great white slabs more than 10 feet across. One of THE most magical things I’ve EVER experienced!

Although a tad on the pricey side, I’d thoroughly enjoyed my two weeks in Hawaii, and looked forward to coming back soon to check out any substantial hikes that I’d missed.

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ichliebdich · 6 years

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Lost

Fandom: Historical Hetalia / Historia Characters: Arthur Elliot Harland (England), Alfred Harland (America, Thirteen Colonies) Rating: General Audience Genre: Drama

Summary: After discovering that his son is lost in the woods, Arthur goes through an immense stage of panic and stress that triggers an unwanted memory. He promised to better himself so it wouldn't be repeated again, but it's proven inevitable. Has he failed as a father? He's made many mistakes in his past, but this is one of the greater ones that he will never forget and forgive himself for.

Note: this is a birthday gift 🎁 for a fragile pearl 👶🏼 @casiks . merry christmas 🎅🏻, happy halloween 🎃, and gesundheit 🙊. i started this about a week ago, but I just finished it yesterday (the stress i went through was unbelievable 😵). this has been done with the help of my sister, who edited and read through this.

please be gentle, this is my very first time writing a fanfiction (after 84 years), so i’m not that well experienced ;( but i’m pretty proud of it, so i hope you enjoy!

Bone App the Teeth, Moan Cherries (happy reading, my dudes) and again, merry birthanukkah day, chastity ♥︎

you can also read this on ao3 (please do)

additional notes:

historia is what i call the historical hetalia fandom cause i wanted it to be short and fancy and cause why not lol

in case anyone was wondering, i changed arthur's surname to harland because i personally don't like kirkland; i didn't find it fitting at all. as for elliot, his middle name, you'll find out in this story.

"Alfred!"

The booming of Arthur's shout burst through the woods as he runs past the trees in much haste, causing a few birds to flock off and squirrels scurrying off in a startled fright. Out of breath, he stumbles to a halt, leaning his hand on the tree next to him. He looks around his surroundings as he panted for air.

There isn't a situation more nerve-wracking than this. His son had gone missing. He was supposed to be home, waiting for his father, but according to Alfred's nursemaid (who takes care of the boy while Arthur is absent and/or busy), she had made the mistake of giving in to his pleas of playing outside in the morning after she was told specifically to keep him inside the house. Although she kept an eye on him and made sure that he didn't go past the fence that bordered the house and out of her sight, it only took her a moment of distraction until she all of sudden caught the boy running outside the fence, chasing a young hare that ran towards the woods. Ever since then, he hasn't come back, and it is well past noon. She couldn't exactly go after him, or more like, she couldn't bring herself to go after him because she had an irrational fear of the woods, so she regretfully stayed behind. She had no choice but to wait for Arthur to return to tell him what had happened.

As angry as he was with the nursemaid, he's far too worried for his son to deal with her at the moment. All he cared about was finding Alfred and bring him home, so he immediately ran for the woods. In all honesty, he didn't think he'd have to go through this.

And yet here he is, looking for Alfred Harland, his most precious son. He's merely a boy of six years—physically, at least.

Yes, his son is a curious child, and adventurous, but that isn't something Arthur, as his parent, could control. It's in a child's nature to be curious and to explore, but having a child like that, anyone is guaranteed to go under all levels of stress and anxiety. It will suck the life out of you, even if you're a thriving empire such as England. He should have known that this could happen—he should have been more strict and more careful.

Continuing his search for the boy in much distress, Arthur travels further into the woods, shouting his name every few minutes in hopes for a response of any sort. No words could describe how painfully worried he is for Alfred. The amount of stress he's in right now is unimaginable. What if his son is in danger right at this moment? The Indians could ambush him, doing God knows what to him, or he could be hunted and mauled by hungry wolves! Anything could happen that would be out of Arthur's control if he were not there to protect him! Why can't his son understand? Why can't he listen for once? Does he want to be in danger? He's been told many times before not to go out into the woods or past the fences at all and he hasn't gone there - until now. The knots in his stomach are growing tighter every second England treads amongst the empty woods helplessly.

He wished he had a troop of men searching along with him, but he doesn't have time to go back and send for them, with all the possibilities on what could happen to Alfred are crawling in his head.

"ALFRED! Damn it all, where are you!" The frustration is growing stronger in Arthur's chest as he looks from left to right, straining his eyes to look as far as he could see. He's so close to being panic-driven. His heart is pounding faster than normal; his ears are throbbing and his breath is short. The anxiety is creeping and growing inside him, ever so slowly. If this takes any longer, then he just might be on the brink of losing it.

Oh, God, please let him be all right. I cannot lose him—not again—not like last time. His voice begged internally. I will not allow it. He's my son; he's all I have.

But this is already taking him to a very bad place in his memory—a memory he thought he had locked away, but it always manages to come back to him somehow. He can't go back to it now—not while he's searching for his son, but being in a situation like this, it's impossible not to think back on it. It's the one thing that grew his fear and made him more protective and possessive of Alfred. He only wished it was a nightmare, but it wasn't. It was one of the worst times of his life.

"Elliot!"

A hoarse and panicked shout came from Arthur as he paced around the seemingly abandoned settlement in the Roanoke Island. Three years, he has been kept from visiting his first colony, his only son, in the Americas—no thanks to Spain from the Spanish Armada and the Anglo-Spanish war. But that didn't stop him and his fellow men (John White, Walter Raleigh, and few others) from reaching their destination after they raided the Spanish in the Caribbean.

However, when they had arrived at the fort where the colonists had lived, they didn't exactly expect it to be empty. Everyone was gone. One hundred and seventeen colonists, including the children and Arthur's son, were nowhere to be found.

There were no signs of a struggle or violence at all. Everything is practically in order—almost, at least.

This unsettled Arthur to no end. What happened? It's no mistake that this must have occurred when they were being held back by the Spanish, but how could this have happened is the big question. Were they threatened by anyone that resulted in them evacuating the fort and traveled somewhere else? But where would they have gone?

So many questions (many of which John had asked aloud in confusion) were building up in his head the more he thought about it. But there's one thing he's mostly concerned about aside from the Colonists.

Elliot.

He's a fragile boy, barely even a child at two years old, physically—since he's still a young colony of only five years. He would get sick quite often from all the struggles the colonists had gone through the five years in the Island (as a personified nation/colony's state are mostly determined by their people, land, economy, and such). And now he's gone missing with the others. There is a chance that he's out there with the colonists. Arthur refuses to believe that he's gone for good—he won't allow such a thing to happen.

"Sirs," called out Walter in an uncertain tone, "come, have a look. There is a carving on the palisade."

When everyone (including the Privateers) gathered around to look in curiosity, Arthur hastily approached in hopes of seeing some clue that might lead to answers, or maybe they had carved the Maltese cross as instructed by White if they had been forced to evacuate... But a clue is what they got.

On the wooden post of the fence was a word etched on it: CROATOAN.

This only led to more questions than answers. Everyone stared at each other in confusion while muttering baffled questions, mostly to themselves or to few others. Arthur, his lips pursed, stared at White questioningly.

"Well? What do you suppose this means?" He asked urgently, "Croatoan. Is that not one of the islands near here?"

"Well, yes—" White started, but he was soon cut off by the English nation. "Then the natives who live there must have something to do with this, correct? There may have been no sign of any resistance or any of the sort, but something happened, and it's most likely the cause of them." Arthur was getting quite aggravated over this, the anger building up in his chest. He may be acting irrational, but rightfully so, from having lost his only child. However, Arthur's not the only one to have "lost" a family member of his—White's daughter and granddaughter are missing with the colonists as well and one can only imagine how terribly worried he is for them, just as much as Arthur is for his son.

Carefully inspecting the carving, John White looks back at the English nation in the eyes—he had an idea of what it means. "This could be a message. Perhaps they moved to Croatoan Island, for whatever the reason may be." Otherwise, what else could it mean?

Arthur frowned unsurely. "There is only one way of confirming that. We must go to the Island, see if they are settled there, or if it means anything at all."

And so, they had made to travel to the adjacent islands by ship, in great hopes of finding what they were looking for.

However, as time passed, many of the Privateers have noticed something growing. Large looming clouds were gathering together quickly—darkening to a deep grey that almost appeared black. It was coming rather fast, almost as if an invasion were coming upon them. The rumbling of the thunder could be heard from a far distance; the atmosphere becomes gloomy from the upcoming storm as the ship swayed back and forth in the sea.

This worried White immensely. A part of him was convinced that they might not be able to make it through this, but another is persisting to continue the search, no matter what happens.

Arthur had no sense of worry in his mind whatsoever, though. He cared only for the Lost Colony, his son, and nothing else, nothing more. He won't stop until he has his answers—if it meant the ship would go down in the process, then so be it, he doesn't care. It means nothing to him.

But, as the weather grew fouler and fouler by the hour, it has proven to be a greater challenge than any would have ever believed it to be.

The Captain of the ship stumbled as he approached both White and Harland in little to no hesitation and shouted over the roaring seas. "I am afraid we can't go on any longer with the search! The storm is growing stronger by the minute!"

White pursed his lips, staring at the Captain disappointingly. He thought long and hard about this and when he had finally given in to his internal arguments, he opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur took over.

"No! We will continue the search!" He exclaimed indignantly. The rain was pouring harder than ever; everyone was getting drenched from it and cold as the wind howled against the sails, but Arthur ignored it—he almost felt nothing, not a shiver was coming from him. "We can make it through just a little longer!"

This boosted White's stubborn side, so he took part with Arthur. "Yes! If anything, we will go to the nearest land, take shelter, and wait until the storm clears!"

"We cannot," bellowed the captain, still shouting over the storm, "We have already lost three anchors, we cannot and will not risk the loss of another!" He stops his shouting and proceeds to talk in a somewhat apologetic tone in consideration of what he's going to say next, though he still makes an attempt to sound clear. "I am afraid we will have to return to England. I give you my condolences."

"What?" Arthur said in bewilderment. "Go back? Are you mad? There are women and children out there, possibly in danger—my son is out there! For God's sake, I will not lose the colony, I will not allow it!" He argued furiously. "As your nation, I command you take us to the blasted Croatoan Island, or rest assured, I will have your head!"

The Captain gawked at Arthur incredulously. White himself was also taken aback by the English nation's behavior. All the men on the ship were watching from where they were standing in silence, while some walked by to hear more clearly, though they didn't get any closer to them.

Only the wind, waves, and the rain drowned the silence between the three men who stared at each other. After some consideration and hesitation, John White broke the voiceless silence, speaking in a loud tone, yet he did not shout.

"Very well. We will abandon the search and go back to England."

Arthur's head snapped towards White in disbelief. "What?" The cold he nearly felt went away. It was replaced by the rage growing in his chest, his ears pulsating and hot as he glared at the man. "What about your family, then!" He spat spitefully, "You are willing to leave them behind when they could be out there, possibly in danger?" He looked at White in a very cynical way. He's honestly disappointed that he has to go through this nonsense—all he wanted to do was find his son. That was all. After glancing at the two, he tried his best to look and behave more coolly this time. "Look, we are nearly there—we must go, and we WILL go!”

White winced at the remarks on his family, deep remorse pouring over his features. If he could defend himself at that moment, he would have said that he didn't really have a choice in the matter, and no one could search for the colony dead, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything as the image of his daughter and granddaughter were creeping in his head. The Captain could only stare at the English nation for a moment of silence before he tries to reason with him. “I truly apolo-"

“WE WILL GO!”

Arthur's voice bellowed across the ship for everyone to hear, even in the thundering storm and the splashing of the waves. His face was scrunched up in anger. The Captain sighs as he stared into angry forest green eyes. Then he turns around and raises his voice to a shout, directing it at the crew. "Turnabout! We're headed for England!"

A huge sensation of fury has taken over the English nation; it was even stronger than before. He dangerously glared at the back of the Captain's head and growled a curse under his breath. All sense of rationality has left his being when he reached for the hilt of his sword and drew it out his scabbard, ignoring the scraping sound it made. If they're going to defy against him and ignore his orders, then he will make him pay.

But it was two of the Privateers who managed to stop Arthur from his crude intentions. They immediately took hold of him before he could reach the Captain; few more men came over to help hold the English nation down more securely when he started thrashing and struggling against them as he shouted in frustration (he had dropped his sword from the few men stopping him before he had gone berserk). His eyes flashed darkly at the Captain who now looked at him cautiously.

It wasn't until a few moments when Arthur had released himself from their hold after yelling at them to let him go from the top of his lungs. He fell on his hands and knees after stumbling away from them. He remained there in shame, letting the heavy rain pour on his back. He lowered his head to hide his pitiful face. His shoulders quivered visibly as a shaky sob left his trembling lips. Tears rolled down his nose and plopped to the wooden floor along with the raindrops.

This is the lowest he's been in his life. He wanted to disappear. More tears came, but it was hidden from the rain. He let out another sob as the image of his son crept into his head. He'll never see him again. The Roanoke Colony is long gone, and he is mourning his Lost Colony.

"...Elliot..."

Arthur was pulled back into reality with a gasp when a loud snapping sound emitted from out of nowhere. He quickly looked up, his eyes glinting in anticipation, and around to see if Alfred had returned to him or was nearby. But when he looked down, he saw a branch split in half and a hare running long past it. He let out a long, shuddered sigh, after having held his breath in high hopes; he leaned his forehead over his hand that was planted on the tree next to him for a moment.

His face was a mess from the tears he had shed, and he's still fresh of it. So many things are running in his head, though he couldn't comprehend most of it —he felt disoriented and hollow.

Back when he returned to his homeland after abandoning the search of the Roanoke Colony, he had decided to make an addition to his name. Arthur Elliot Harland. He bore Elliot as his middle name in memorial of him and he wanted it to be a reminder to him. He's been haunted by his past for so long and he's been trying to cope with it as best he could. He spent a majority of the years sulking and being miserable from how poor a father he was to his first son.

Even so, he's still convinced that he isn't any better of a father. When he first had Alfred, the Thirteen Colonies, he had been so hesitant in raising him because he feared he would lose him like he lost Elliot; he thought he wasn't worthy of a person to raise a child anymore, but he did so anyway because he wanted to. He wanted to better himself as a father and provide for the boy as much as he can.

And he will. He will not give up until he finds his boy, no matter what. No one can stop him now.

So, what is he doing still standing here?

"...Papa..."

Arthur's head snapped up when he heard something from a distance. He didn't know if he was hearing things, but he could have sworn he heard a familiar voice crying for him. Could it really be?

Another faint shout and it made Arthur's stomach leap. It has to be!

He immediately wipes away his tears and wastes no more time standing there, gawking like a fool and moping about any longer. He starts powerwalking through the woods.

"ALFRED!"

His voice was croaky from crying, but he made sure to sound loud and clear for his son to hear. He continues in the direction of where he heard Alfred's cry. He only hoped to find him unharmed. He would never forgive himself if he was. Arthur waited to hear his cry again so that he could have a better understanding of how far away his son is from him.

"...Papa!"

He was getting close, but he's still quite a ways away. This time he goes to a sprint as he shouted his son's name again, hoping he would follow his voice as well. The boy must be so scared. He can't wait to hold him in his arms.

He ran for what seemed like an eternity. The breeze hit his face as he ran past trees, bushes, and twigs. He ran until his lungs and legs burned, but he didn't care. Not even a thousand men could stop him—he needed to get to his son.

"PAPA!"

His voice seemed closer. It was as if he was within arm's reach. He kept running and scanned the area for any sign of him. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears when he finally caught sight of him standing a few yards away after he looking to his right. He skidded to a stop—almost tripping in the process—and stood there, catching his breath. His chest was heaving, his lungs begging for air. A few moments later, he blinked and stared at the boy to make sure that his eyes weren't deceiving him—that his son is actually standing before him

And there he really was. He was covered in dirt, for the most part, but it's still him. A huge sense of relief washed over him.

"B-Baba...!" Alfred blubbered incoherently as tears started pouring down his face, blinding him of his vision. He stumbled while he ran towards him, his arms reaching out for his father.

Arthur felt his legs moving as he muttered his son's name, running towards his son until he dropped to his knees and collided against him in a tight embrace. No words could describe how overjoyed he was to have found him and to finally have him in his arms where he is most safe. He lifted his son off the ground and held him close, keeping his arms locked around him in a loving hold, one hand over Alfred's head and the other holding him securely. The boy leaned into Arthur's shoulder, his wailing partially muffled and his tears soaking his father's shirt. Arthur didn't care though. He was too busy silently crying into his son's shoulder as well.

"P-Papa, I'm... S-so sor-ry!" Alfred sniveled through hitched breaths. He knew he was wrong to have run off into the woods, chasing the bunny rabbit that he wanted to play with. Moments after he lost sight of it, he tried to find the way back, but he realized didn't know the way. He was lost. He had gone too far into the unfamiliar woods and he didn't know what to do. Alfred had cried a lot then. He cried as he called for his papa, hoping he would find him, but he also cried over the thought that he might not find him and he'll be lost forever. He cried because he was hungry and because his hands and knees hurt after he tripped over a tree's root. But now he's crying because he's happy that his papa found him.

In an attempt to calm the boy of his crying, Arthur caressed Alfred's hair in a soothing manner as he softly hushed in his ear. "There, there," he whispered, "No more tears, poppet, I am here; you do not have to worry any longer." From here on forth, he's going to make sure never to let this happen again. When he was searching for his boy, he had planned to give him a strict lecture, but he had forgotten the moment he first saw him—he’ll make sure to do that once they get home.

A few moments have passed as Arthur stood silently in the midst of the woods, holding his precious son, who leaned his head against his father’s shoulder. He was just about to start walking the way back home until all of a sudden, a growl rumbled from the deep pits of Alfred’s stomach, breaking the silence between the two, aside from the boy’s sniffling and the chirping of the birds.

Pulling himself up and looking sheepishly up at his father, the young colony sniffled before saying, “Papa… ‘m hungry…”

Arthur smiled at the boy. “Are you now? Well, don’t you worry, we are headed home, poppet. As soon as we get there, you will have your favorite meal.” Alfred’s eyes light up in delight at the sound of that; his lips curved to a big smile. “Cake!”

“No, no, that will be for desert,” the English nation chuckled at the slight disappointment his son was giving off, “For dinner, we will have meat pie. Is that not your favorite?” He asked, tilting his head curiously. Alfred puffed his lips as he nodded, which made his father hum appreciatively. It was his favorite, but he really wanted cake; it was his most favorite food to eat.

And so, Arthur walks forward in fast pace towards direction of his home, with Alfred still in his arms. Although there are many times where he is required to travel back and forth from the Thirteen Colonies to his homeland, no place ever feels like home without his son.

🎊👏🏻👏🏻BONUS SCENE👏🏻👏🏻🎊

“Papa, papa, no! Please don’t take Merry away!” Alfred cried, pulling at his father’s sleeve desperately.

Arthur had promised himself that he would let Alfred’s nursemaid go after everything that happened. If she hadn’t been so reckless as to let her guards down and not pay attention to his son when she was expected to as his nursemaid—or if she hadn’t been so incompetent and went after him before he could go any farther—then Alfred would not have been lost in the woods after chasing a blasted hare.

Meredith, the nursemaid, clasped her hands together with her head hung low. She felt greatly ashamed of failing her master. She knew better than to stay behind in the mansion and wait for Arthur to tell him about Alfred’s escape, rather than going after him regardless of her fears of the woods. She wouldn’t dare blame him for letting her go because of the poor actions she made regrettably. If only she had been braver, maybe then she wouldn’t have put herself in this terrible situation.

Alfred continued to pull on Arthur’s sleeve, trying to get his attention. “Please, it was my fault! I chased the bunny rabbit!” He whined, dragging his feet on the floor; tears were already threatening to spill. He really didn’t want his nursemaid to go.

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed through his nostrils impatiently. “Alfred. Stop.” He had already given Alfred his lecture after dinner, though he didn’t sound as strict as he does now, because of how worried he had been for his son. He even made an exception not to give him a proper spanking after the trouble he’s caused.

The nursemaid’s lips trembled as he listened and watched Alfred begging his father not to let her go. It pained her to see him like this because she didn’t want to go either. So, she built up the courage to finally speak. “M-Master Arthur, um…” Meredith started with her hand raising in an attempt to grab his attention, though her calling was enough.

When he looked at her expectantly with a frown, she slightly held her breath. A part of her regretted grabbing his attention, but she has to do this. “Ah… F-Forgive me for intruding, sir, but...” she lowered her hands nervously and looked down at the end of her dress, “I... would very much like If you would give me one… one more chance…” Meredith bit the inside of her lower lip, her heart beating faster than she’d like. After one moment of silence, she realized that she had forgotten to include to her plea, so on impulse, she looked up at him and sputtered; “I-If you please, sir… I-I promise not to be so careless anymore. I care for the boy—I truly do, with all my heart.”

Forest green eyes stare at the nursemaid in uncertainty. Looking down at Alfred’s pleading eyes and back at the girl—who again, lowered her head in shame—Arthur pursed his lips. A lot of things were going in his head. Part of him was considering her and Alfred’s plea, but then another part of him is trying to convince him to send her way, that she has proven herself to be useless to the household.

Alfred squeezed his father’s hand in persistence; he would do anything to have Meredith stay.

A sigh left Arthur’s nostrils, his impatience going lower and lower by the minute, but he ignored Alfred’s distracting behavior for a moment. It took him a while for his thoughts to finally come to a conclusion and making a decision. So, as Meredith bashfully looked up, Arthur looked her in the eye in a stern manner, with only a hint of a pompous look to him.

“… Very well.” The nursemaid let in a sharp intake of breath and immediately let out a shuddered sigh of disbelief and relief, covering her face with both her shaking hands as tears started trickling down her cheeks and a gentle sob left her lips; her shoulders quivered with every sob. “I will give you one more chance, nothing more. So, I suggest you see to it that you do your best in not making any more reckless mishaps, whatsoever. Do you understand?” Meredith immediately nodded her head and eagerly mumbling “yes, sir, thank you, sir, you have my word,” as she wiped her tears with the tips of her fingers, another sob slipping out.

Alfred let out a cheer and leapt delightedly in the air. He was so happy that his favorite nursemaid was given another chance; he got on his tippy toes and wrapped his arms around Arthur’s waist. “Thank you, Papa, thank you!” He nuzzled his head on his father’s stomach and then looked up at him. “I love you, Papa!”

Arthur couldn’t help but smile back at his son. He stroked the back of his head and lowered himself to give him a peck on his little forehead after holding the strands of his hair back. “I love you too, poppet,” he said lovingly, “now go, run along. You will be having your bath soon, so you best prepare, yes?” Alfred nodded and hummed, but before he would go, he immediately went to Meredith and hugged her as well. She happily returned the embrace with a gentle laugh; she bent over and rubbed his back softly. It lasted for a few seconds until the nursemaid parted herself from the hug and kindly instructed him to do as he was told by his father.

And with the pitter-patter of his feet, Alfred went upstairs, but little did Arthur know that he will soon be dealing with a hyper little boy running around the house in a rebellious act against taking a bath.

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and there you have it! i hope you enjoyed, more so the birth girl (if u dont, then too bad, ur taking it and thanking me anyways cause u dont know the amount of stress i went through making this, so you better love it)

ok now, let me break some stuff down for those that may be wondering about the whole concept with the roanoke/lost colony and such: cas pretty much came up with the headcanon that the roanoke colony was england's first son and i thought it was pretty interesting, so i went with it. in a way, it sort of explains why england would be so protective and pretty possessive of america (apart from the fact that england becomes way more obsessive and controlling by the time america grew up to be in his teenage years with him and the colonists getting more defiant and all) and the thought of england losing his first son brings out the drama in me lmao (and i don't even like drama)

also i think there's some foreshadowing when england promised himself again that he wouldn't let alfred get himself in trouble again because that little boy will go off into the woods again at some point lmfao

i tried to be as historically accurate as i could, so if there are any errors regarding the history of the Roanoke Colony or anything in this story in general that probably doesn't make sense, then it's my bad (cause i feel like there are). i tried my best and i did my research for the most part, but honestly, i'm not gonna worry too much about it since this is more for entertainment than education.

anyways, catch ya later. hit me up if you got any questions or leave your thoughts (again, BE GENTLE, im a virgin)

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lindoig8 · 3 years

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Friday to Monday, 13-16 August

Friday

Black Friday – but we never realised it until at least a week later.

Another day of basically driving up the highway – 300 kilometres yesterday, 370 today – it’s a Big Country. But every little ‘town’ (tiny settlement) has its own claim to fame and they are very proud of it. Aileron has some giant statues – anatomically correct male and female aboriginal figures set several hundred metres apart. Wycliffe Well claims to be the Australian Capital for UFOs and has a few cheesy models of a flying saucer, an alien and so on along the road.

More believable are the Devil’s Marbles (has he lost his marbles?), a few kilometres of huge rounded boulders that really are impressive – although in my opinion, they are rivalled by those at Tower Hill that we visited out of Gemtree a few months ago. At least Tower Hill wasn’t crawling with tourists – literally hundreds at the Devil’s Marbles. We gave up trying to find a place to stop for just a few minutes in the massive carpark so had to take our long-range photos from the main road.

We had another bush camp off the side of the highway, just far enough away not to be bothered by the traffic barrelling past. In the past few days, I have managed to inflict numerous cuts and nicks on my hands and the dry dusty conditions have created several cracks in my skin too and it is becoming painful, if not too difficult, to do a lot of our daily tasks. I am moisturising my hands and we must have used a full packet of Bandaids trying to protect my poor hands but we still have to do things and the Bandaids keep coming off and needing replacement. Just holding onto the steering wheel has been a minor challenge, much worse all the things necessary to set up the van and do the dishes and all the other things that require dexterous fingers and thumbs. But I am sure that I will be back to normal in a few days.

Saturday – Monday

We continued north on the Highway but stopped at Tennant Creek for at least an hour to complete all the BS required for our WA border passes. It was further complicated because you have to tell them where you will self-isolate in WA and it took numerous phone calls to make a booking and pay the required deposit to enable us to complete our applications. The amount of data we had to provide on the app was simply gross overkill – and access to their site is terrible. (For the first time, I understood how the conspiracy theorists might have come up with the idea that governments are using Covid to capture huge swathes of data about us that they couldn't get by other means.)

We continued on to Dunmarra where we stopped briefly to download our email and send a few others – and found that our border passes had been rejected. We eventually figured out why (there is no possible way to contact the authorities to ask anything – you just have to use their app and wait to see what happens). The whole process is designed to make it as hard as possible to comply. Heather submitted a new application and got approved, but mine was much more difficult. Every time (at least 6 times) I completed all the information they demand, I got to the end of the process only for the Captcha box to fail to appear – and you can’t submit it until it does. Another wasted hour or so, but it eventually appeared and mine was approved as well.

We also got an email advising that our Exmouth/Ningaloo adventure was cancelled because the tour organisers were unable to get out of the Northern Territory due to the sudden lockdown up here. We heard that our originally-planned Fossil Dig in Lightning Ridge did not go ahead due to the regional spread in New South Wales so that confirmed the wisdom of our decision to pull out of that a few weeks ago – but now our remaining anchor for this trip has gone up in smoke. All the routes we have taken, the activities we have done or not done, the decisions we have taken, the things that we have manipulated over the past several months to ensure we would be able to do the Exmouth expedition have gone for nought and we have to start from scratch in planning the rest of our travels. We will continue to enjoy our travels, but Plan Z disappeared into the ether weeks ago and I am not sure how to code our future travel plans.

We then headed a short distance further up the highway to the junction with the iconic Buchanan Highway that we intended taking to Top Springs and Timber Creek. But at Dunmarra, we had learned of yet another lockdown, restricted to Darwin and Katherine (so more than 400 kilometres from us), but occasioning a change to our entry permit to Western Australia. Immediately we cross the order, we have to get tested and self-isolate until we get the results, and we felt there was a risk of an extension to the lockdown or further restrictions to entering WA if the virus spread in the Northern Territory. We decided we had to stay away from any town – not even stop for fuel – and we would probably need at least 3 bush camps before we could cross the border. This meant we needed more generator fuel than we were carrying so after 20-odd kilometres, we turned around and back-tracked to Dunmarra for more petrol. Then we decided that, despite the need to avoid people, we would spend the night at Dunmarra – and as it turned out, we stayed there three nights. It was a really lovely place and I enjoyed the many birds surrounding us, perhaps the most surprising species being the Red-tailed Black-Cockatoos – I reckon there were at least 150 in the flock.

I enjoyed the birds, Heather enjoyed the pool – small but refreshing, just a bit too cold for me. On Monday, we ate dinner in the Roadhouse – we shared a seafood basket and some rissoles, both with lots of sides – easily enough for 4 people, but we made the sacrifice and consumed most of it.

It was a very relaxing and enjoyable stopover, pretty hot, but a good opportunity to catch up on a few things (Heather cooked four of her delectable tins of fruit cake!)

One thing that fascinates (and annoys) me is the number of people travelling with dogs – and very often, not just one – there were four big brutes in one car at Dunmarra, and I think they were travelling with another car with three dogs. They are often off-leash just roaming the camp-ground, sniffing around and doing their business on other people’s sites and nobody seems to try to quieten their mutts’ incessant yapping. I know I am seen essentially as an evil person because I am not a dog-lover, but even if I was, there are still limits to one’s patience.

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exxar1 · 4 years

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Chapter 12: “The Solitary In Families”

3/9/2021

- 1 -

Last week, one of my Facebook friends posted a Lent devotional that was centered around Psalm 68. The title caught my eye as I scrolled through my feed. “God Sets The Lonely In Families.” That phrase grabbed me, and, after reading the short devotional (which was quite good), I opened my Bible app and looked up Psalm 68. Verses 5 & 6 made me pause.

“A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation. God sets the solitary in families; He brings out those who are bound into prosperity; but the rebellious dwell in a dry land.” (NKJV)

The verse that my friend quoted was from the NIV, and it had substituted the word ‘lonely’ for ‘solitary’. God sets the lonely in families.

As I announced in my New Year’s resolutions back in December, one of my goals for 2021 was to join a church. Unfortunately, due to the current pandemic restrictions still in place in this blue communist state of Nevada, my Google search only turned up the larger churches with congregations of more than a thousand. Thanks to a recent battle with the Nevada supreme court, COVID restrictions were eased in December to allow group meetings of no larger than 250 or 25% of the allowed legal capacity of any one place. (Or something to that effect. All I remember from the headlines was that this was a victory for local churches.)

However, the two Baptist churches that Pastor Sjostrom and I thought might be a good fit for me – based solely on the info from their websites – were only offering the live stream option. Their auditoriums were – and are – still closed for in-person services. So, for all of January, I contented myself with enjoying Grace Baptist’s live stream from Twin Falls, Idaho, every Sunday morning in my pajamas, with my coffee and my Bible close at hand.

But then, one Saturday morning, as I unlocked my front door, I saw a small flyer tucked into the bars of my outer screen door. It was from a small Baptist church right in my neighborhood. From the brief outlines of introductory info on the card, it appeared to be exactly what I was looking for! I immediately plopped on the couch, woke up my MacBook, and pulled up the church’s website. The info there was even more encouraging, so I emailed the pastor. I introduced myself, asked him if he was holding in-person services, and if so, I would love to come visit.

I didn’t hear back from him. The first week of February passed, and every day I would check my junk mail folder several times to make sure I hadn’t accidently missed his reply. So I emailed him again, and this time I caught his response the following morning. This church was indeed holding in-person services, and the pastor said he would love to see me that following Sunday. I emailed him back with a couple other questions based on the info from his website, and he responded later that day. His answers were what I had been hoping to hear, so I told him I would see him on Sunday!

Now, I’m going to pause here, and tell you something you already know about me – both from my previous blog entries and those of you who know me in real life. But, for those who don’t know me, or haven’t read my previous posts (and why wouldn’t you? My journey started back in September of last year. You should start there as well, or a lot of this isn’t going to make sense. Why would you start a book in the middle anyway?), let me tell you something important about me.

I’m an introvert of the highest order. My current rank is Grand Admiral. I really don’t like people, especially when I’m forced to meet and interact with total strangers in anything more than the cursory “Hi, how are you, how can I help you?” part of my daily job. My work doesn’t require me to actually get to know strangers and befriend them. Nor do I really want to. At least, I didn’t used to want to. (Again, read my previous posts on being born again and God’s changing of my old attitudes.) And yes, I have been more cordial and polite with the people that have crossed my path every day in the last few months, and there are a small number of them that I have chatted with enough to get to know them somewhat. Turns out not everyone is as annoying or uninteresting as I used to think.

But (and this is a big ‘BUT’), there’s a HUGE difference between helping a customer at work and strolling into a totally strange place with a strange crowd on Sunday morning and having no idea whom I will meet or what I’ll find there. Forget butterflies. I get a damn fleet of moths, lizards, birds – basically a whole frakkin’ jungle of nerves in my stomach – just thinking of doing something so extroverted as that! And that’s not much of an exaggeration. I’m like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory. I have my customary spot on the couch that no one else is allowed to sit on, and I don’t like large, unknowable social situations or interactions.

But, unlike my old life, I had no choice here. God was giving me my first real test. Hey, son, I know you don’t like this, but this is necessary, and I’ll be with you the whole time. You know that.

“Yeah, God, I know. But do I really have to? I can just keep watching Grace Baptist’s live stream every Sunday, and I don’t have to leave the comfort of my house. I don’t even have to get out of my pajamas! I’ll just wait until one of those larger churches opens up, and then I’ll go. I promise!”

Umm…no. You need to do this. Now, go.

“Ugh! Fine.”

So I did. And, truth be told, I was looking forward to it, but I was so, SO nervous and anxious that second Sunday in February. (Which was, by coincidence, Valentine’s Day.) And, of course, it turned out to be better than I had been expecting. The pastor was quite warm and welcoming, and he gave me a short tour of the cozy, one story building. (He wasn’t kidding in his email. This church was indeed small – both in physical size and in congregation.) The service went great, the preaching was rather good, and I left for work afterwards feeling very excited, hopeful, and spiritually nourished.

See? God said. I told you you would be fine. And this will get even better as you keep putting yourself out there until I let you know if this is the right family for you.

I replied with a short prayer of thanks and then ordered my usual iced coffee from the Dunkin app on my phone while waiting at the red light.

He was right, as usual. In the last three weeks, as I’ve spent more time with the pastor, and as I’ve gotten to know his small flock, I have felt even more keenly the working of the Holy Spirit within me. God wasn’t kidding when he commanded his believers in the New Testament to gather themselves together in order to spiritually nourish and sustain one another. It’s also been nice to get out of my introverted shell and meet new people. It’s not enough yet to change my ranking in that highest order of introverts – I’m still calling myself Grand Admiral of the Lonely yet Happy Brigade – but it’s a start. I will be probably be demoted to captain in the near future.

Which brings me back around to Psalm 68. Yes, I’ve been keenly aware of my loneliness for the past several weeks. Or rather, God has made me feel keenly aware of my loneliness. I have had a strong desire to be placed within a new family, and, until just a few days ago, I had hoped that this pastor and his very young church would be the family that I was seeking.

It turns out that God may have a different, better family in mind for me.

- 2 -

There’s a couple reasons I haven’t told you the name of the pastor or his church. Those of you that follow me on Facebook will know, and I was probably premature in my post a couple weeks ago about the one night I joined this pastor and some of his congregation for an hour of street preaching. But since this blog is probably going to reach a wider audience than just my family and friends on Facebook, I’m now reluctant to give specific names here because of what I’m about to say next.

The other reason that I’m not naming names is because I will probably not be staying with this church (hereto after referred to as Church #1). The main reason for that is because, as I have listened to the pastor’s preaching (hereto after referred to as Pastor #1) for the last three Sundays, I’ve heard some points and/or comments that have caused a few warning blips on my spiritual radar. Pastor #1 asked us during his sermon a couple weeks ago where in Genesis did we think that Lucifer’s fall occurred. The general consensus from the congregation was in the first chapter. The pastor confirmed this by saying that it happened between Genesis 1:1 and 1:2.

“Does God make anything that is not perfect?”

Well, no, of course not.

“So then why does verse 1 state that God created the heaven and the earth, and then verse 2 says the earth was without form and void?”

Wait. Say what again?

Yeah. Apparently, Pastor and Church #1 believe that God had created a perfect earth and heaven, and then Lucifer’s fall destroyed that first paradise and God had to start all over again.

Ummmmm. Yeah, that’s not how I read verses 1 and 2, nor was that what I was taught at Grace Baptist Church when I was a kid. Although God does not say specifically anywhere in the Bible, it is believed by most theologians and pastors that Lucifer’s fall occurred between chapters 2 and 3 of Genesis. The proper way to read Genesis 1:1 and 2 is that verse 1 is a statement of the end result, and verse 2 begins the story of how God created that end result stated in verse 1.

That’s the biggest warning blip thus far. Some examples of minor blips:

1) Pastor #1 used the verse of 1 Kings 18:28, which talks about the prophets of Baal, “And they cried aloud, and cut themselves after their manner with knives and lancets, till the blood gushed out upon them”, as proof that God does not approve of Christians getting tattoos. Doesn’t matter what kind of tattoo, they’re all a sin. (You’ve all seen the pic on my Facebook page of the tattoo of the cross and date that I had done last month as a way to commemorate my salvation.)

2) Pastor #1 is not a fan of C.S. Lewis or The Chronicles of Narnia. In his opinion, the fact that Lewis used the half-goat, half-man creature as one of the main Narnian characters proves that Lewis was not a true Christian. The faun – who was named Pan in Greek mythology – is actually one of the many symbols of Satan. (And, apparently, the English word ‘panic’ comes from the Greek root word of the name of that mythological character.) Also, for that matter, is the symbol of the fish that many people put on the bumpers and rear windows of their car. That symbol is actually connected to the pagan god Dagon. (No, I promise I’m not making any of this up.)

3) Pastor #1 believes that Hell is actually at the center of the earth. This was from a sermon three weeks ago, and it was mentioned in passing with no specific scriptural passage to back up such a claim. I’m fairly certain, however, that there is no Biblical proof for such a bold statement.

4) This pastor is also a vehement opponent of ‘Christian rock’. Now, this isn’t a big deal to me, as there are many Baptist denominations that believe Christian music should be separate from anything that sounds like secular rock music, so I wasn’t surprised when this comment came up in a sermon two weeks ago. (Also, Grace Baptist is a church that has always held this view. I had many, many arguments with my parents about my love for Amy Grant, Michael W. Smith and Steven Curtis Chapman when I was in high school.) I only bring this point up here to show how dogmatic Pastor #1 is turning out to be.

I should also note here that Pastor and Church #1 believe that the ONLY acceptable translation of the Bible is the 1611 King James version. All other translations (NKJV, NIV, NLT, etc.) are false and pervert the true Word of God. This belief is something new to me, and I asked Pastor #1 about this stance in my second email to him after he responded to my introductory email to let me know that his church was hold in-person services. He listed and quoted a few verses from both the Old and New Testaments, including Revelation 22:18-19 where God says no one shall add or take away from the scriptures, lest their names be removed from the Book of Life. (Which is what all other translations, especially newer ones supposedly do when they substitute specific words or phrases in order to match modern English in order to make the Bible more readable and accessible for today’s generation.)

I’m not sure that I totally agree with this belief. I was raised on the King James version, and, therefore, those words are what have stuck in my memory all these years from the verses that I had to memorize in Sunday School and the various other youth programs that I was involved in throughout my childhood. And, now, as I have begun to re-read the Bible, I really love the poetic beauty and the formality of the old English.

However, I am also reading the MacArthur Study Bible which is published in the New King James version, and it is a little easier to read, especially the Old Testament, where specific phrases and idioms have been updated to be a little more closer to modern English. In his introduction of that Bible, John MacArthur states that when the NKJV Bible was first being produced in the late seventies (it was first published in 1982 by Thomas Nelson), all translators had to sign a statement of integrity, faith and belief, saying essentially that they would remain faithful to the true Word of God, and that they would not change or omit any part of the scriptures that would in any way, no matter how small, alter the spirit and message of that Holy Word.

In my reading of the NKJV, I have not seen any huge difference between it and the KJV, other than that the former is a bit more readable, mainly because it doesn’t have a lot of the ‘thee’, ‘thou’, ‘begat’, and so on, that the KJV has. It’s only minor details like that that have been changed. Also, the translators of the NKJV used the same original, preserved Hebrew and Greek manuscripts that were used by the translators under the reign of King James in the first decade of the 1600s.

So, to claim that ALL other translations except the original KJV are absolutely false and perverted is a bit of a stretch for me. It’s a little too dogmatic, but if that’s the only issue here, then I have no problem being part of a church family that holds this view. Unfortunately, due to the some of the other concerns I listed above, I feel that God is leading me away from Church #1. It appears that family is not where he wants to set me.

- 3 -

This past Sunday, as I drove home from Church #1, I felt very discouraged and, frankly, emotional. Why in the world would God lead me to this church only to tell me a month later that this wasn’t where He wanted me? I felt disappointed and despondent, and I called Dad as soon as I got home, unloading all of this on him in what he must have thought was some kind of breakdown. (And, in fact, I was near tears. That’s another thing about this whole sanctification process. My emotions lately have been living very close to the surface, and I never know what will set them off. Some days, all it takes is a cat food commercial or a particularly poetic verse in Psalms. Go figure.)

My dad, to his immense credit, was able to talk me down from the ledge, and I felt much better after hanging up the phone. I took a nap, and then, as I was fixing a late lunch, I remembered something that Pastor #1 had mentioned to me when we were on the street corner a couple weeks ago. I was asking him about his church, specifically how he knew God was calling him to form his own church. He replied that he and his congregation separated from a church (hereto after referred to as Church #2) about six years ago after that church’s elderly pastor had passed away. Though Pastor #1 didn’t give a lot of details – and our conversation was constantly being interrupted as we handed out tracks to passers-by – it sounded to me like the separation was caused by the congregation’s vote to have someone else besides Pastor #1 lead them.

After lunch, I Googled the name of Church #2. Their website looked promising (yes, they too believe that the KJV is the only acceptable translation of the Bible, as well as all the other typical Baptist beliefs – i.e., Pro-life, the traditional Biblical views of marriage & sexuality, etc.), so I immediately emailed the pastor (hereto after referred to as Pastor #2) to ask if he was holding in-person services. He responded almost right away that his doors were indeed open, and the evening service was at 6. I told him I would be there.

Once again, that whole jungle of critters and nerves was back in full force as I pulled into the parking lot of Church #2 (which was also in the same general of area of North Las Vegas as Church #1.) This church building was much larger than that of Church #1, and the congregation was very warm and welcoming. Within just a few minutes of chatting with Pastor #2, I learned that he was originally from Nampa, Idaho, and an alumni of Boise State University. Wow! Talk about a small world. When I told him that I, too, was a former BSU Bronco, he immediately called his wife over to introduce her and pass on the good news.

My visit only got better from there. By the end of the night – which concluded with an ice cream social in the fellowship hall behind the auditorium – I had met, shook hands, and chatted at great length with no less than a dozen fellow believers, all around my age. From what I could estimate during the worship service, the size of the congregation appeared to be about a hundred and fifty, and there was a good mix of old, young and in between. (There was also a good number of elementary and high school age kids.) In many ways, this church reminded me of Grace Baptist back home, and I drove away feeling much more excited and spiritually refreshed. I said a quick prayer of thanks to God, and I really can’t wait for this upcoming Sunday morning service!

- 4 -

All of this church scouting has only intensified my homesickness for Grace Baptist Church back in Twin Falls. Ever since Aaron’s passing a few months ago, my mind has been wallowing in memories of my childhood within the halls of that church and its school there. What I had once upon a time despised in my adolescence and couldn’t wait to get away from I now yearn for with all my heart and soul.

As a kid, there were two places I spent the majority of my time: home and church/school. If I wasn’t at one, I was at the other. My parents were married in Grace Baptist on June 18, 1977, and I arrived on the scene a year later. My earliest memory of Grace Baptist was the hideous shade of orange that was the carpet in the auditorium. It was a burnt orange that was most assuredly made only in the 1970s, and there were no pews at that time either. Instead, we all sat in plastic, yellow chairs that, to my amazement, are STILL being used in the gym for special events. (I sat in one at Aaron’s funeral, and boy, those things are NOT very comfortable after a half hour or so.)

I have many fond recollections of me and my brothers tearing up and down the main hall of the church building, racing one another while waiting for our parents after evening church on Sundays. More often than not, we were scolded by one of the older ladies (I will not name names here, either, mainly just for privacy’s sake, not because I resent them now) who would order us to go find our parents. At one end of that hall is the nursery, and back then the door was separated in two so that the lower half could be closed while the upper half could remain open. In junior high, my friends and I would try to run and jump that door when just the lower half was closed. Again, one of the adults would scold us as they walked by.

More often than not, my brothers, friends and I would be out on the school playground during Sunday afternoons when dad had choir practice before evening church. On one particular Sunday, my brother Jeremy and I were playing tag with a couple other boys, and Jeremy ran headlong into a steel bar at one end of the playground. He had been glancing behind him to see how close his opponent was, and he turned his head back around just in time to slam it into the bar which was at just the right height for his forehead. To this day, I can close my eyes and hear, as clearly as if it had happened only a few minutes ago, that sound of flesh, bone and steel. I was on the other side of the playground, and that THRANG! resonated like the peal from a steeple bell. It’s also the only time in my life that I have seen that much blood at once. Needless to say, mom and Jeremy spent that evening in the ER instead of church service.

(Come to think of it, that was not Jeremy’s last bloody incident. He was around eight or nine, I believe, and during the remainder of his youth he would go on to experience the following: tearing up his face when he crashed headlong into the gravel of the alley behind our house while trying to jump a poorly constructed ramp on his dirt bike; shooting himself in the leg with a gun that one of his friends borrowed from the dad’s unlocked cabinet; breaking that same leg a year or so later during a soccer game – due, in part, to the way the gunshot wound had healed around the bone; and, finally, having his right foot shattered when the third baseman jumped to catch the ball and then landed on Jeremy’s foot with just right angle and weight as Jeremy slid into base. That incident occurred just last year, in fact. My brother has never been one to shy away from living life to the fullest, amen!)

There were numerous weddings, funerals, high school graduations, afternoon potlucks, and other such events held within the halls of that church over the course of my childhood. When my second grade teacher, Miss Sherri Bohne (pronounced ‘Bonny’), was married, I asked her for a picture of her in her wedding dress. I thought it was the most beautiful gown ever, and I’m sure I still have that photo somewhere in an album in one of my closets. (Once again, it shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone when I emerged from the proverbial closet roughly twelve years later.) There were grade school plays, piano recitals, and high school choir performances that make up the bulk of both my fondest and cringiest memories. (I absolutely HATED the glasses that I had to wear for all of junior high and most of high school. I was never so happy as when my parents’ medical insurance finally allowed me to get contacts halfway through my sophomore year.)

My dad believed that our family should be in church anytime the doors were open. Sunday morning, Sunday evening, Wednesday night youth group, Cubbies, Sparks, Awana, Vacation Bible School in the summers, week long special revival meetings throughout the year – you name it, we were there, front and center for every service and/or event. The only exceptions were if we happened to be out of town on our annual summer vacations. When I was a kid, I didn’t resent all this church attendance that much. Everything that was church – all the services, songs, rituals, preaching, teaching, Bible verse memorization, family devotionals every night before bedtime – it was normal life for me and my brothers. It was in my teen years that I really started to resent and dread all the weekly services and activities. And, especially, when I started to realize I was gay and I had to keep that a secret it was even harder to find a good reason for all this religious nonsense. I was never happier than when I left high school (no, never graduated, see previous posts), and I could finally be free of all that hogwash.

Now, twenty-four years later, I feel much differently. I believe that, if we are truly lucky, the places where we grow up become part of us. Their essence weaves itself into the DNA of our very souls through the lifetime of memories and experiences that we carry with us, no matter where or how far we walk in the world. In 1998, when I was in the army and stationed in Hanau, Germany, there was a knock on the door of my barracks room one weekday evening. When I answered it, I found two gentlemen who were from a local non-denominational church. Their congregation was primarily U.S. service members from the base, and they invited me to their upcoming Sunday service. I agreed, though at the time, I couldn’t say exactly why. Looking back now, I know why. I was halfway around the world, very far from home and from almost anything familiar, and I was lonely. I had only just arrived at my posting, so I hadn’t yet become acquainted with my fellow soldiers.

I attended that little church for only a few weeks. It was a taste of home that I had been desperately craving, and I sang along with the traditional hymns, allowing my childhood memories of Grace Baptist to comfort me. But, once I got settled into my new life on base, I no longer needed the weekly church service. I was fine without God once more, and I quit attending. I had better things to do on the weekends. A year later, after my courts-martial, when I arrived back home in Twin Falls, I continued my life without God or religion. Eventually, I found a place of my own, and I lived my life as I wanted. I finally came out to my friends and family, and charted my own course. I would occasionally attend Grace Baptist as a courtesy to my parents, but I hated every time that I had to cross that threshold. It dredged up nothing but bitter memories from high school, and I had to force a smile and a handshake whenever one of the older folks was happy to see me.

You all know the rest of the story. While 2020 was the year that the world fell apart and went off the rails, it was the year that God woke me up and saved me. Back in January, when I started to watch the weekly service from GBC via the live stream on their Facebook page, I felt like I had come back home. The orange carpet and yellow chairs have been replaced by a lovely gray-blue flooring and more comfortable pews, but the spiritual essence is the same. For the last couple weeks, as I’ve attended church services here in Las Vegas, my homesickness has only intensified. I have been fortunate to reconnect with many of you from GBC through these blog posts, and I feel so blessed because of that. That’s what I miss most about Grace Baptist. My brothers and I weren’t reared by just our parents. We were brought up by a godly village of people who believed in Proverbs 22:6: “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old he will not depart from it.” Boy, ain’t that the truth??? (This also, unfortunately, meant that it was a rare victory for me, my brothers, and my friends whenever we actually got away with some form of mischief or trouble.) Many of those ‘godparents’ have long since moved away from Twin Falls to serve the Lord in other ministries in other states, but their impact on my life is being felt anew. Others are still there, now teaching their grandchildren the same way they taught and nurtured me.

I miss that church family terribly, and I yearn more than ever to find a family of that caliber here in Las Vegas. I sincerely hope that church #2 is it. But, if not, I know that God will eventually lead me where he wants to place me. It’s not His desire that anyone should be solitary for very long.

Until then, I’m content to be Grand Admiral of the Lonely yet Happy in Christ Brigade.

Okay, maybe just captain.

#Christian #personal growth #God #church #family

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dansnaturepictures · 4 years

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26/02/2021-A sunny spring Friday at home and Lakeside: 10 different pictures in this photoset to those I tweeted tonight

What a difference a fortnight makes. Two weeks ago we were in the midst of probably the coldest part of the winter so far, on a sunny Friday shown most prominently by the lakes of Lakeside Country Park remaining mostly frozen. I had a brilliant walk that day at the end of an amazing week for birds especially and wildlife and photography in my lunch time exercise walks at Lakeside which I posted about here: https://dansnaturepictures.tumblr.com/post/642999621638029313/12022021-another-icy-day-of-birds-at-lakeside

But today the working week of spring signs I’ve had culminated in an anticipated sunny day when spring my favourite time of year bloomed for me. Ice and hard mud was replaced by the first flourishing blossom and delicate and pretty early season wildflowers. Spring you might say is here. And I must admit I did wonder whether (as often happens for me in nature with years mimicking the one two years prior) early 2021 would become a bit like early 2019 with a symbolic of these times with the issue of climate change you could say really cold start to February it was snow that time and there was some that time two weeks ago but not as much as a January bout this year then by the end of the month being plunged into spring with very high temperatures and lots of sun for the time of year stimulating butterflies and flowers etc. And I think I’ve been proved right for now. And to underline that, I was very nearly really proved right about something else when I made an outlandish prediction that I’d see my first butterfly of the year at some point this week especially as it went on. My Mum saw butterflies today but I couldn’t quite do what I did in 2019 on these dates two years ago in fact, but it seems from looking at social media quite a few butterflies were seen today by people so I wasn’t far off the mark. All this made me feel amazing, energetic and hopeful for what’s for me one of the most wonderful times of the year. I hope you are all keeping safe and well and enjoying the early parts of spring too.

I took the first picture in this photoset of a Woodpigeon in the garden making the most of the sunshine for the photo which I so looked forward to doing this week and I took the second in this photoset of the flower patch in the garden before I went to Lakeside to walk. When there I took the third and fourth pictures in this photoset two of many nice views today at this place I took so many photos and was happy with so many.

This was soon followed by the fifth picture in this photoset one of a few I took I tweeted the others on Dans_Pictures of one of the star species of my week one of the stunning crocuses in a glorious little patch of these very colourful flowers white and purple that I loved noticing on Wednesday and have really enjoyed seeing since. Today was the moment to do something I wanted to with my macro lens on me instead of just my big lens as I did on most days leading up to this lunch time this week get a photo with this lens which is designed for things like this and not only that to photograph the flowers in bright sunshine having seen them in overcast parts of the day before. I so enjoyed and got a lot from doing this. I loved noticing two bees on the crocuses again as I tweeted picture of including probably my first bumble bee of the year. I noticed thanks largely to my macro lens’ detail that they were drenched in pollen which was just wonderful to see. This made me really feel so spring like and I was pleased to see another important flying insect whilst I didn’t see a butterfly. Sometimes I have walks where I see bees a lot before I get a sniff of a butterfly. I took the sixth picture in this photoset walking on and another landscape I took and tweeted showed just that you can see the crocuses from a great distance due to their unique colour as I said yesterday which is fascinating.

I walked on taking in the bright blue lakes due to the sky. Then I had another mission with my macro lens on the walk as I walked the reverse of yesterday’s route going south to north on the grassy area between the lakes. Here yesterday I had seen some delightful little dark purple flowers scattered on the grass. They were too small and it would have been too dark to try anything with my big lens here yesterday for a photo, so I said I’ll try when I have the macro the specialist lens for this. And today I came across them taking both a close up pictures and one of the smashing scene of them with the green grass and it felt great to photograph them. I found out via my PlantNet app that these are violets which was amazing I don’t recall seeing one before but I had heard of them. Showing once again how I was consumed by nature . Another really beautiful flower. I also took the seventh picture in this photoset of another of the amazing and dominate flowers for me this week daffodils near to the bench that was decorated with festive decorations its weird that Christmas and the start of the year feel like yesterday.

After watching a Lesser Black-backed Gull again on a buoy and enjoying some great Wren views once more I have had a good week for them here I took the eighth and ninth pictures in this photoset. Also in trees north of the lake I was delighted to see a Long-tailed Tit pecking some lichen. I had read ages ago the Bird Life magazine when I was a member of the RSPB Wildlife Explorers (junior membership) a key part of my early birdwatching and nature days and paving the hobby and pure passion it is now so it was nice to see this in action. I took the tenth picture in this photoset when home showing some nice pink blossom visible from my room which I noticed last year and is quite pretty.

After work today I went to an internal Peregrine Falcon talk from an expert which was eyeopening, great to listen to and very informative. A good chance to reflect on this bird and how popular and amazing it is. Especially a welcome topic as if it wasn’t for working from home I would be walking past Winchester Cathedral every day to catch glimpses of the adults and at St. Thomas Church ahead of the nesting season as I did the last two years at this time some of my most memorable times. Where I can I will go to more of the talks its so great to have a community at work of like-minded people I discovered this through the Yammer groups I enjoy sharing photos with colleagues on a photography and wildlife group and have for a few years. In the early hours of 27th February I loved seeing and taking a picture which I tweeted of the snow moon full moon it was great to be a part of that.

Wildlife Sightings Summary: Lesser Black-backed Gull, Black-headed Gull, Mallard, great Moorhen views today, Canada and Greylag Geese, Wren, Robin with them singing so nicely too helping the spring vibes, Long-tailed Tit, lots of Goldfinches about at Lakeside as well as at home there have been so many at Lakeside this week which is nice, Starling, House Sparrow, Woodpigeon, Collared Dove, Jackdaw and Magpie I tweeted picture of both of these Jackdaws in a nice little flock at Lakeside and Magpie on our garden fences both looking great in the sun a memorable crow day and bees.

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