#christmas lights in East Hills

[monstersandmaw]

Holy moly, folks, this one was supposed to be a 3k word story, ready to post in the middle of the month, and (a bit like the last one which was 12k) it morphed into nearly 15k of feels and fun... oof. Thank you so much to those who reassured me on Discord that it was ok to take a few extra days to make sure it was something I was happy to post. I hope you enjoy Celann the grumpy werebear...

Let me also just briefly take this opportunity to thank you for returning to Patreon to support me and for joining up since I relaunched in October. It means the world to me that you value and enjoy my writing enough to pay to have access to it once a month. Really, I cannot tell you what it means to me for you to give me this income and independence. I tear up just trying to explain it, even in words.

Anyway, apologies for the delay! I wish you a very merry festive season, and hopefully there'll be another little Christmas bonus for you too, as per the poll from a while ago. May 2024 bring you every happiness and blessing, folks. And here's to many more stories and characters to share and enjoy.

Content: gender and body neutral reader who is a healer/surgeon, a thinly-disguised Roman Empire/Iron Age Britain setting, a secondary character is seriously injured (no super-gory descriptions, only a brief catalogue of her injuries), a big, gruff and reserved loner werebear, brief brush with hypothermia from the reader, some good old 'cuddling for warmth', and some penetrative sex later on too.

Wordcount: a whopping 14,585!

Castle Rise Outpost, in the extreme, northernmost reaches of the Republic’s ever-expanding territories, was hardly the most illustrious or auspicious posting you could have hoped for.

As you and your tired horse plodded along the sandy track over the region’s high, wind-blasted heath, your heart ached for every last mile that stretched between there and your warmer homeland. It all seemed so far behind you now, but this was a new start and a new adventure as the surgeon and healer attached to one of the Republic’s vast network of military outposts, and you were determined to make a good life of it.

Gods though, this place really was desolate.

On your right, away to the east where the light was fast fading, a dense forest of gnarled and mossy oak trees looked as though it was spilling down from the rolling hills and tumbling inexorably down into the valley in a wild, green tangle, and below the treeline, a fast-flowing river cut through the landscape in a dark and sinuous ribbon. The water was rich with tannins from the falling leaves in the forest, and as the ebbing light caught it, you thought ominously of the colour of blood. Behind the forest, as the afternoon darkened towards the deeper hue of an early autumn evening, the far off shape of the snow-capped Highlands lurked on the horizon; their shape now black and foreboding as the stage background of a mummer’s drama.

The commiserations of your fellow graduates from the medical academy in the capital now rang in your ears as the wind picked up and you tugged the thick, woollen cloak further up around your neck to keep the damned weather out. The chestnut mare, your only constant companion for the hundred or so miles since the last major city, tossed her head and trudged on with her long, damp forelock dangling into her eyes and obscuring the white, asymmetrical blaze that dribbled down her ginger face towards her nose. She seemed half asleep on her feet, and you weren’t far off that yourself either.

A flock of rooks erupted out of a patch of dark elm and tall sycamore in the valley below on your right, tugging your mind back to the present. Your gaze tracked them as they sailed away like flakes of dark ash on the wind. Both you and the rangy mare shifted nervously, and you couldn’t help but remind yourself that the locals weren’t always friendly to the Republic’s advances further and further north. Stories of skirmishes and wild tales of shapeshifters and sacrificial magic swirled through the ranks of soldiers, but they were largely dismissed by those who had lived a comfortable life in the Republic’s neatly-planned towns and cities, with their hot bath complexes, intricate mosaics, and heated floors.

“Not long now, Copper,” you said, petting the horse’s mud-encrusted neck as much for your own reassurance as for hers. You’d named her for the vibrant colour of her coat, reminiscent too of beech leaves at the height of the season, but you’d been made to feel foolishly sentimental for giving such an ordinary horse a name like ‘Copper’ by the progressively rougher soldiers at the staging posts on the journey north.

The mare didn’t even flick her ear in your direction at the sound of your voice, and you sighed and pushed yourself back up into a better position in the saddle, shifting uncomfortably as your bruised seat-bones protested yet another day of riding. How the Messenger Corps managed, living almost their entire life in the saddle, you had no idea.

The fort itself came into view on the next rise in the road, and Copper’s ears finally pricked up at the break in the relative monotony of heather and sand and occasional rowan tree. Your own attention was caught, however, by the fact that ‘Castle Rise’ outpost was not, in fact, a castle at all. From that distance, it looked like little more than a grubby wooden palisade with a watch tower over the gateway, and a ditch running around it. Torches bobbed along the walls at regular intervals though, marking the sentries’ routes within, and when you reached the gate and drew rein, a woman’s rough alto yelled down at you.

“Announce yourself!”

You did, adding, “Healer and surgeon assigned to the outpost, until relieved of my duties by a replacement next year.”

“If you even survive up here that long!” she crowed back at you.

Read the whole thing now over on Patreon! For $3 you can have access to all my previous (pre-2023) stories, and for $5 you can have access to all that, plus all the new monthly exclusives.

[tagsecretsanta]

From @gaviiadastra

From @gaviiadastra to @womble1

Hello to my wonderful gift recipient! I’m certain this was a gift to me; I got to write my all time favorites. Thank you! I hope you have a wonderful holiday and that you enjoy this story, and special thanks to TAGSS for organizing the exchange this year.

My prompts were: 

1. FishTank (Virgil & Gordon) and woodland dappled light.

2. Alan having to deal with life outside the island.

3. Anything christmassy. Who am I kidding, I'll be happy with anything. 😁

___

Along Country Roads

Summary: a place can hold unique memories for different people - sometimes it’s the same one, just different.A/N: I promise, it’s a balanced level of sappiness and brother time with some light h/c. For exact warnings: references to depression and avalanche aftermath, in which I headcanon Virgil was present with Lucille. Gordon’s hydrofoil accident is always in the background. But there’s laughs too, aaaand  I’ve continued to use crafty!FishTank as a plot device.  

~*~

For as much as Scott fought the GDF for them to have a family holiday, the IR commander sure managed to make himself scarce, Virgil thought bitterly. It was the first time they’d managed to take International Rescue offline for a full week without there being an excuse of a serious injury prompting the decision – a fact that hurt his heart to think about. Still, Virgil awoke to a mostly empty household despite the homely comfort of coffee still warmed and the gentle brush of heat throughout the cabin from the controlled flames stoked in the fireplace.

But, no, that wasn’t necessarily fair to Scott either, and Virgil recognized his sleepiness taking control of his thoughts. He’d known his older brother would need to take some time in DC, and it wasn’t actually all that far to the Capitol. All would be well, as long as Scott’s business was concluded by Christmas, like he’d promised them. It still felt strange to be offline; not knowing what was happening in the rest of the world left an uncomfortable itch that ran through his blood, which was only eased with the knowledge that Eos was still watching, listening, and would alert them if they were needed. 

The distance away was exactly why they'd chosen here in the first place - a remote location for the full step back and reset they needed after months of running on exhaustion. 

These days, the mountain cabin and its surrounding property belonged to Virgil, even if he still thought of it as one of their family’s winter homes. It was only after their mother’s death that they started vacationing here in Appalachia. The hills of Shenandoah were different enough from the ski lodge, so he’d been able to form new cozy Christmas memories within its walls, comforted by the East Coast’s gentler, wiser mountains. The Blue Ridge Mountains to the east and the Alleghenies to the west and were among the oldest on the planet. They knew loss.

The ache in his soul then had been raw and bare, and certainly it had taken a few winters for him to heal enough to step foot into the snow. But he'd wept with the song of the ancients and walked stronger for it.

Home, through country roads, indeed.

That morning, though his heart rang with the distant echo of the constant activity of their childhood, he’d walked in instead on just Gordon cozied by the fireplace, wearing more layers than his usual attire and with a blanket thrown across his feet. Virgil recognized the hank of heathered blue and dusky grey, now spun into a usable yarn cake, that Gordon had selected for a pair of fingerless mittens for Scott. And it was that which had reminded Virgil of their brother’s planned departure that morning; Scott’s absence had given Gordon some privacy to finish his Christmas gift.

In lieu of a greeting, Gordon finessed his foot from beneath the blanket to waggle his toes at him, while continuing to crochet the stitches in the round.  “Do NOT tell him how close I cut it.”

“Ugh, gross. Good morning to you too.” Virgil parked himself in the adjacent recliner, far enough from potentially stinky feet and near enough to a side table for him to comfortably drink his coffee while watching the flames flicker within earthen stone. “And I would never.” It was the curse of the homemade gift - always the best of intentions and never enough time.

The fireplace mantle he usually kept bare save for a large, framed painting of a creek running through a grove of autumn red oak trees. The brush strokes were ones he knew as well as his own. He’d studied from them, committed them to memory. And though their mother never knew the cabin home, the scene could’ve easily been something right outside their door, albeit in a different season. The deciduous trees were spectacular in the height of color-changing foliage, and he’d had the pleasure of seeing them many times in their travels as children for their father’s business, then again with International Rescue through which he’d seen many of the world’s marvels as well as its strifes.

When they arrived, the first thing they did together was pull out the old holiday decorations, and so for the first time in a long while the artwork shone from a podium of garland, the green of blue spruce with wine-red bows interspersed in the artificial branches.

 “What are you thinking about?”

Virgil flicked his eyes away from the painting where Gordon had pulled his earbud away, his yarn work resting in his lap while he rotated his wrists to stretch.

“Mom,” Virgil  answered, glancing back to the landscape captured in time.

“Oh, I always thought that was one of yours.”

Virgil shook his head. Coughed. “Where is everyone else off to?”  

Gordon rambled in answer, but Virgil was versed enough to catch the key points: that Scott was, of course, in Washington; John was in the office on a conference call with his editor in New York; Grandma had gone into town for supplies – “I would’ve gone with her had I known” – and Alan was still asleep.

Virgil glanced down at his watch.

“He was up until four modding for one of Brandon’s livestreams,” Gordon defended on their youngest brother’s behalf.

“I’m going to pretend I know what that means.”

“It means let the kid sleep.”

Virgil knew he’d have to trust Gordon on that one. Besides, he wasn’t one to argue over late mornings; he’d done his fair share of staying up late to catch the sunless sky for this art project or that over the years. He nodded in acknowledgement and took another sip from his coffee as Gordon settled back into his project, replacing the ear bud.

It had been rare, in their childhood, for Virgil to enjoy spending time with Gordon like this, not because of the age difference between them though that certainly played a small part, but because they existed on different schedules. Even more so than his space-faring siblings, Virgil was like the moon to Gordon’s sun. His late nights, however, were not a product of scientific interest, but rather an overactive imagination and trauma-based insomnia, and later - as he got older - the artistic outlets to alleviate the worst parts of them both.

When they were younger, Gordon would be the first awake and the first to wake everyone else with his volume and exuberance. He didn’t really like Gordon for that back then, but it was also something that he didn’t realize he missed until it was gone. That was something that had changed drastically over the years between Gordon developing a discipline for a morning routine with his swimming and then his subsequent military experience. And though the vivacity came back after the accident, there was a time Gordon understood Virgil’s own mind more than Virgil ever wanted his younger brother to.

The Gordon he knew now was plenty more considerate than his younger self, among the most carefree spirits he knew despite the scars on his heart, and still the most resilient, most tenacious person he’d ever met.

They made a good team. His light was good for him.

“You’re thinking so hard, V.” Startled, Virgil tried to regain control of the remaining coffee in his mug so it wouldn’t spill. “Honestly,” Gordon added, laughing, “I can’t even focus on my stitches.”

Virgil watched as Gordon stabbed his hook in the top of the stitches from the row before, grabbed his working yarn with the hook, then struggled to wiggle it back through the loops. It budged eventually, but mid row, Gordon stopped and had to stretch again.

Virgil gently placed his drink down on a coaster to protect the wood of the side table. “You should take a break,” he suggested.

Gordon shook his head. “I have to finish these by tonight.”

“Scott’s out the whole day, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but - ”

“So come for a walk with me?” He glanced out the window. Outside it was a clear day, deceptive in how bright the sun was, dappled through the branches of the trees. “I’ve been meaning to check the markings along the trails. Make sure they are clear or if they need a new coat of paint. Come with me?”

Gordon hesitated, squinting at his progress. “You know the cold isn’t my thing.” Suddenly, frustration cut through his concentration as his brow furrowed. “My stitch count is off! For fu-”

“Ooookay, you definitely need a break.” Virgil hopped out of the recliner and pried the work out of a grumbling Gordon’s hands before he could unravel the whole thing unnecessarily, gently placing the hook, yarn, and partly-finished mitt on the adjacent table. “Come on. The air will be good for you. It doesn’t have to be for long, and we’ll be walking the whole way, which’ll help with the cold.”

“And walking for the whole time?” he pressed, eyeing Virgil warily, like he knew better in trusting Virgil’s word when it came to the wonders of natural beauty. He had to hand that one to Gordon; there was some truth to that lack of faith.

“For the whole time,” Virgil promised. “I won’t even bring a sketchpad, scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t ever a scout,” Gordon countered.  

“Still.” Virgil beamed.

~*~

They met back in the lounge after Gordon changed and located a hoodie to slide over his long sleeve, and after Virgil had poked his head in the office to check on John, realized he was still on his call, then slid a note for him under the door. He handed Gordon his sherpa-lined puffer jacket, then donned his own hooded flannel with fleece interior. They each had their own preferences for winter accessories – so Gordon grabbed his pair of grey fingerless mitts and a matching knit hat from the closet, while Virgil wrapped a wide scarf in ivory white loosely around his neck.

Virgil’s core body temperature always ran a bit warmer than his siblings’. There had been many a winter growing up with one (or both) of the terrible two tucked into his side.

With the additional layers on, Virgil’s skin crawled with the heat from inside the cabin stifling him, so he didn’t linger in the entryway while Gordon tied up his hiking boots. Outside in the crisp chill he breathed deeply, his nose finding the gentle tickle of pine and woodchips, before he exhaled a cloud of breath that warmed his cheeks.  He stepped down from the porch, and the frozen patches of amber grass and earth crunched under the heel of his boot.

“Ugh, it’s so cold out here!” Gordon exclaimed in the clamor of him joining Virgil in the great outdoors. “My hands are going to get so dry.”

Virgil fondly rolled his eyes and started to reach for the top of Gordon’s head before he remembered he would be blocked by the hat. “That’s what hand lotion is for,” he said instead, further loosening the knot of his scarf.

From the front porch, the road curved past a line of bare trees before it disappeared down the mountain. The drive there was treacherous enough it sat comfortably on Scott’s favorites list between testing hot sauces and bungee jumping. Despite the drop close to the road, deceptive with the blanket of trees, Virgil trusted his older brother behind the wheel.  The cabin was only midway up the mountain, and it really was only one large stretch of hill that was particularly touch and go. Scott was plenty capable, and the lack of land rover was an indicator that Scott had driven himself into the nation’s Capitol. He might be back a little later than expected, but Scott thrived in his time behind the wheel. Relaxed even. Those hours to decompress would be beneficial for him – plenty of time to mentally leave work behind so he could fully and completely join the family for the holiday.

“So, up or down?”

Gordon, his covered hands tucked into his jacket pockets, twisted toward him then glanced at the two paths as he shifted onto toes to stretch his back. With a sigh, “Let’s get uphill over with. As long as you promise not to linger at the look out.” Virgil held his hands up, palms out, to prove he was without his art supplies as promised.

As they walked, Gordon excitedly shared the latest on his co-written article for Marine Science Daily, which Virgil knew was the exact reason Gordon’s Christmas project plans had been derailed. He nodded along at the appropriate talking points, having read the article but always more engaged when hearing it from the aquanaut directly. Meanwhile, Gordon subconsciously kept moving closer to Virgil’s side. Eventually Virgil untied the scarf completely, letting its length fall unsecured down the front of his jacket. Like a tie at the end of a long, wild night. Not that he would ever admit to having those. What happened at college stayed at college. 

“Do you know my favorite Christmas?” Gordon asked, pulling Virgil from his fond memories of theater afterparties and post-concert celebrations. But Gordon hadn’t waited for Virgil to answer, his eyes unusually bright against the reddening of his cheeks with the bite of the wind. “I used to hate the cabin when we first started coming here. I was too young to remember – uhh – before, but I remember how it felt against all that change and you were so different and always so sad all the time. The first time it snowed, I remember you running back inside like it burned you, and Scott ran in after, leaving John to help Al and I with our snowman.”

The lump in Virgil’s throat grew.

“But then one year, it actually snowed on the holiday. A for real white Christmas! And I remember thinking – this is it, this is what we’ve been coming here for. It wasn’t a massive snow; just enough to cover the grass – definitely not enough for a snowman, but we made our fun anyway. I had just made the perfect snowball out of what little was there. And any moment, you would come join us. I just knew it. And then I saw you watching us from the window, and it didn’t look like you were going to come.

“It was just enough time distracted for John to launch his freezing projectile at me. He hit me square in the face and I dropped my perfect snowball. And as I cleared the snow off my face, I caught you actually laughing about the snow. You did eventually come out that Christmas. Scott encouraged you to sit with him on the porch stoop first, and then you walked out on your own. I know you leaned a lot on Scott in those days, but there was just something about that laugh – it made me feel like I helped you take those steps, even if I wasn’t the one at your elbow to keep you steady.”

Virgil swallowed hard. He remembered that year, and Gordon had only been a child. “You did plenty.”

Their breaths expelled in little huffs as they continued the climb, where Virgil noticed, as he figured might be the case, certain spots where the red paint had faded on the trees. It could use a refresh to make sure the trails were clearly marked. If he didn’t get to it this season, he’d be sure to prepare for next time he visited his cabin. Beside him, Gordon trampled over fallen branches, grumbling about the temperature between curse words, especially as they reached what had seemed like the top of the last hill only to see another awaiting them.

Virgil chuckled as he waited for them both to catch their breath at the top of the hill before they continued to the lookout just a few more steps up the final hill.  His mountain was not among the tallest nor the smallest of the range, and so the top was a vision of both the valley below and the neighboring peaks. He loved the view; when it was cold enough, the mountains were sometimes snowcapped, the trees blanketed in white as soft as the cumulus through which he’d often soared.

So far, the sky had yet to open. But, oh, how she teased. Nimbostratus in neutral grey with a cobalt undertone approaching from the east, mottling the sunlight.

Beside him, Gordon took advantage of the flatter land and Virgil’s brief examination of the sky to stretch. Virgil recognized the movements in his periphery, and when he glanced back over, Gordon’s hands were placed purposefully on the small of his back as he twisted both directions.

The sway of the wind had been absent of Gordon’s familiar idle chatter for a while, he realized, and there was an unusual balance to his stance that hinted at stiffness in his joints.

“Are you okay?”

Gordon didn’t answer, but rather smirked at him and gestured with a flourish for Virgil to lead the way.

Virgil was barely two steps forward when he felt a weight launch onto his back. Squid arms quickly slung around his neck, squeezing, and Virgil leaned forward, his hands instinctively moving to catch his younger sibling before he fell off his back.

“Help me, Virgil-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope!”

 “Oh my GOD,” Virgil grunted, already shifting him into a better position. “You’re fine.”

“I am, mostly,” Gordon laughed at the back of his head. “Carry me anyway.”

An arm around his neck loosened as Gordon lifted it to point one finger onward up the mountain.

“Don’t you dare say it.”

“I’m going to say it.”

“Gord-!”

“Thunderbros are go!” His laughter echoed, past tree and stream and along the paths they’d traveled.

Virgil couldn’t let him go if he tried.

He carried Gordon piggyback the rest of the way, a short sprint upward that had his calves straining, but the ache was minor compared to some of the training they did at Grand Roca. Only once they reached the lookout did Gordon hop down, giggling, while Virgil worked on calming his heart rate.  

“Thanks!” Gordon skipped past him.

Virgil was tempted to throw something. In fact…

He tugged his scarf the rest of the way off his neck, scrunched it into a ball, and sent it sailing at the back of Gordon’s head. It unfurled some, but Gordon hadn’t gotten too far ahead, so he definitely felt it hit before the rest of it dropped to the ground.

“That’s no way to treat your accessories. I’m offended.” Gordon snorted. He retrieved the scarf, gave it a shake that sent a few leaves in Virgil’s direction, and then wrapped it around his own neck. “You don’t get to have this back now.”

Feeling light despite the burn in his legs, excited to witness the lookout once again, and without any real anger towards his brother’s antics, Virgil joined him at the bench nearer the view and positioned safely away from the edge. He hadn’t known how to respond to his brother’s sudden introspection about their childhood, though his own version of the memory lingered with him.

He hadn’t known that year mattered so much to Gordon. Nor was he able to recall the events leading up to him walking in the snow. Those details were fuzzy for him, but he remembered the warmth. He remembered the laughter. He should’ve realized the mark his sadness had left on his family, and before he could think any further about it, Virgil was apologizing. For dragging Gordon out in the cold, for all the years he couldn’t help the littles with their snowmen, for not doing more to make sure they had the Christmases they deserved without the weight of loss.

“Sorry? Whatever do you need to apologize for?” Gordon interrupted. He shook his head. “No, Virgil. Don’t do that.” He stared out to the mountainscape, his lips thin, as slowly he raised his palm to catch the first snowflakes in the center of his hand. One, two, then they melted into the knit fabric. “I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

Virgil gaped at him. “For what?”

Gordon lifted his gaze from his clenched fist to meet Virgil’s baffled expression, fiery resolve softened into humility. “I told myself, if Virgil could learn to re-love the snow – I don’t think you understand how important that was for me to keep carrying forward. I know I can get so stuck in my own head sometimes, but your support has always been incredibly grounding. You’re like… having a sturdy shore to return to for when the tide ebbs too far.  I can’t imagine having another co-pilot as good for me as you are.”

It was too much.

His own words, his own thoughts about Gordon, mirrored back to him, about him.

“Well,” he rasped, clearing his throat of the overwhelm of emotion, “we are Tracy’s after all.” It didn’t say nearly enough, but it also said exactly what it needed to. Perseverance ran through their blood, after all, and they’d both been through the unimaginable. 

Virgil turned his head towards the sky, the feather fall of snow catching in his lashes, and in his hair, and on his flannel. 

“It’s also entirely your fault my project’s not finished.” 

“My fault?”

“You promised no lingering for art purposes, and I definitely heard a whispered phthalo earlier.” 

“Cobalt,” he corrected. 

“Same thing.” 

“It’s not at all -” 

“Soooo, do you think John’s done his meeting yet? Maybe he’ll make us hot chocolate?” Gordon hopped off the bench, clapped his hands together resolutely, and started walking back towards the trail and away from Virgil’s disputes. 

“Gordon! They aren’t the same color. They don’t even sound the same!” 

Smiling, Virgil had no choice but to follow. 

[v4mpgutz]

ABOUT ME ! ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

⤷ my name is river but people call me riv for short! i go by she/her and they/them — please use both sets of pronouns when mentioning me if you can :). i live on the east coast of australia ( NO, WE DON'T RIDE KANGAROOS ) so i go by aest: australian eastern standard time. i'm autistic. i'm born in march, autumn babyyy <3

my sun/moon/rising (for anyone who is interested) is aries/leo/cancer. i'm not necessarily pagan, i don't follow any specific religion but i have been taught divination through tarot since i was young and know lots about crystals n things!

my favourite colours are pink, light brown, powder blue and sage green!! i really love fashion and modelling, i study fashion design <3

games i like —

call of duty: black ops 3, call of duty: modern warfare (all of them), resident evil, genshin impact, animal crossing, dead by daylight, fatal frame (also known as project zero), silent hill, hogwarts legacy, zelda: oot + tp + botw + totk, fnaf (mainly 2 + sister location and sb)

music artists i like —

taylor swift, beabadoobee, gracie abrams, sabrina carpenter, conan gray, olivia rodrigo, glaive, dominic fike, lana del rey, the weeknd (ONLY his music, not him), coco and clairclair, steve lacy, kali uchis, sza, lunar vacation, radiohead, pyro, corpse, suki waterhouse, muna, cigarettes after sex, phoebe bridgers, tomorrow x together, stray kids, ive + more !

movies / shows i like —

the corpse bride, the nightmare before christmas, scream + 2 + 5 + 6, the conjuring franchise, miss peregrine's home for peculiar children, bee and puppycat, the junji ito collection, harry potter and the chamber of secrets, harry potter and the half-blood prince, the outsiders, the karate kid (1984), bleach, spiderman: into the spiderverse + across the spiderverse, tokyo revengers, smile precure, hello kitty and friends, ben10, monster high + wayyy more !!

SPECIAL MENTIONS — 💌:

i have certain hyperfixations / emotional attachments to certain characters and things! these include:

tom riddle, dallas winston, cats, simon "ghost" riley, my little fairy sculpture collection, ethan landry, taylor swift, slasher films, vintage furniture and decor, sanrio ( my sweet piano + my melo + hello kitty + chococat ), spiderman.

thanks for reading! <3

[victusinveritas]

A Christmas Childhood by Patrick Kavanagh

One side of the potato-pits was white with frost

How wonderful that was, how wonderful!

And when we put our ears to the paling-post

The music that came out was magical

The light between the ricks of hay and straw

Was a hole in Heaven’s gable. An apple tree

With its December-glinting fruit we saw

O you, Eve, were the world that tempted me

To eat the knowledge that grew in clay

And death the germ within it! Now and then

I can remember something of the gay

Garden that was childhood’s. Again

The tracks of cattle to a drinking-place,

A green stone lying sideways in a ditch,

Or any common sight, the transfigured face

Of a beauty that the world did not touch.

My father played the melodion

Outside at our gate;

There were stars in the morning east

And they danced to his music

Across the wild bogs his melodion called

To Lennons and Callans.

As I pulled on my trousers in a hurry

I knew some strange thing had happened

Outside in the cow-house my mother

Made the music of milking;

The light of her stable-lamp was a star

And the frost of Bethlehem made it twinkle

A water-hen screeched in the bog,

Mass-going feet

Crunched the wafer-ice on the pot-holes,

Somebody wistfully twisted the bellows wheel

My child poet picked out the letters

On the grey stone,

In silver the wonder of a Christmas townland,

The winking glitter of a frosty dawn

Cassiopeia was over

Cassidy’s hanging hill,

I looked and three whin bushes rode across

The horizon — the Three Wise Kings

And old man passing said:

‘Can’t he make it talk –

The melodion.’ I hid in the doorway

And tightened the belt of my box-pleated coat

I nicked six nicks on the door-post

With my penknife’s big blade –

There was a little one for cutting tobacco.

And I was six Christmases of age

My father played the melodion,

My mother milked the cows,

And I had a prayer like a white rose pinned

On the Virgin Mary’s blouse

Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967)

[icarus-suraki]

I had a dream last night that it was Christmas and my dad was driving my brother and me to Christmas Eve church that evening just after sunset in a little red car (or maybe my dad's old white Toyota from the 80s). My brother and I were little kids again and wearing winter coats. My mom was already at the church because she had altar guild.

We were theoretically "home" but there were these low mountains west of us and pretty close--more Blue Ridge than Alps. There are no mountains here IRL (just hills).

It had been snowing earlier but that had stopped and the sky was all dark blue and some stars were coming out (very bright!) as we drove along (the whole landscape seemed kind of European, actually). And my dad pointed out that now that the snow had stopped, the setting sun (behind the mountains, just a gold glow coming up from behind them) "was warming up the zenith," and we looked out the front windshield and from north horizon to south horizon, directly overhead, was this band like a rainbow, except it was pink and green (aurora colors), with pink on the west side and green on the east side. Like, literally it looked like a rainbow-like band of aurora lights, very narrow, half pink and half green. We kept driving and it faded after a while.

We started driving through a forest on a really narrow road with all these trees on either side and a little bit of snow on the ground--though it was still surprisingly bright, like there was a full moon, so everything was more blue than black. Now there were lots of stars out, but not in any pattern. Just scattershot all over the sky.

I was looking out of my window and I'm suddenly like "I just saw a shooting star!" And my dad is like "Nooo..." in this way he does when he wants to believe but it seems too good to be true but he still hopes it’s true. A couple of very low airplanes fly silently overhead with their lights on and I think maybe it wasn't a shooting star--but then I see another. Then my brother sees one, then my dad. So we're all watching these meteors flying around the sky in all directions, crossing over each other and everything--and lots of them too. And I'm in the backseat saying "It must be a meteor shower! What one happens in December, though?"

Anyway, the meteors seemed really close, more like firework sparks than meteors. Like they were falling down to the tops of the trees but they were only little sparks and they'd disappear in little puffs of smoke. And soon they were zipping around through the trees like lightning bugs but still that white-blue-green meteor color. One got really close to my side of the car and I could see that it was more like a cluster of little lights surrounded by a cloud. I told my dad there was one right beside the car, but it was slower than the car and I really wanted to see it blink out before we pulled away. It was close, but I did--and it was like a lightbulb filament burning out: the lights went out with a few small sparks but there was a glow that lasted for a minute more, and then there was just this little gray cloud that we left behind as we kept driving through the trees.

[coffeebleeds]

Truck tires crunched over gravel, slipping off the road slightly as he took a turn too quickly. Thick woods pressed in on every side, branches weighed down by Spanish moss that hung like cobwebs over his head. America glanced down at the map on his phone again, his stomach twisting in knots. Like anywhere else in his home, he knew the streets, the roads, the hills and valleys. He didn't fear getting lost.

He dreaded what he would find at the end of it.

Woods gave way to homes, tucked into the slightly higher ground. Palmetto trees dotted well-landscaped gardens. Spaced acres apart, each home seemed to outshine the last, tall and broad. Though every one was different, some painted pastel over wood, some stone, some brick, they all bore distinctive, bright blue porch ceilings. He wasn't sure how many people still believed in haints, and how many painted their porches blue out of habit rather than superstition. But, in a place like this, the line between culture and mystery blurred into the swamp fog.

His heart thundered against the inside of his ribs as he approached his destination: a modest (comparatively) two-story home, wooden paneling painted pastel blue, white columns surrounding a wrap-around porch. The remains of Christmas lights still dangled from the eaves. Blue-bottle trees caught the sunlight. The cream driveway had been recently pressure-washed, given the sweeping strokes that criss-crossed underneath his truck when he dared to step out.

The air smelled of salt and swamp, of fish and vegetation and distant ocean. Though not freezing, the cold humidity skipped his skin and layers, burrowing straight into the marrow of his bones. He sucked a breath in through his teeth.

He'd had plenty of time to rehearse what he wanted to say. There were dozens of possibilities, ranging from "are you in on this joke too?" to "hey, saw your nudes, they look fantastic." Though, as he mounted the steps and approached her door, noticing the mirror on the wall and the horseshoe nailed above the frame, all of those thoughts flew out of his head.

What was he doing here? What compelled him to seek out this person, this random woman? Just because someone (several someones) said he was married to her? That was ridiculous. Him, married to anyone. What would he marry anyone for? Their kind only married for politics and- well, if she was Dixie, maybe it was politics. Still, he would have thought killing her would have been a more logical solution. It's not like the Confederate States were a concern in his daily life as a na-

The door opened.

He hadn't knocked yet.

His breath caught.

Gray eyes blinked up at him from a tanned face, framed by chocolate brown curls that fell like gleaming rivers down to her shoulders. A fluffed, clip-bound cascade of curls flowed down her back. A red headband, tied into a bow, held it all in place. Her lips parted, saying something he didn't quite catch immediately. But when she cocked her head to one side, he was sure she had asked him a question. Her lips were as red as blood.

"I- I'm sorry, I shouldn't be here." America said quickly, a blush creeping over his cheeks. He moved to turn back, to climb back into the truck he'd been driving for hours. "Have a good day, Miss Montgomery."

"North." Her voice finally reached him, along with her hand on his wrist. Her touch sent sparks skittering across his skin, freezing him in place, like paralysis from an overflow of electricity. "Stay, North. Please."

North. It wasn't his name. He'd never been called that. The German brothers called each other East and West. It was a term of endearment, of intimacy greater than that experienced by any other of their kind. A way of saying "I am you, you are me, we are separate only in body." For those brothers, it was a bond that went far beyond mere political connection. Very few among them could boast true family, true intimacy with another of their kind. That this woman, this stranger, would use a name for him that not even his twin would dare-

"Who are you?" He breathed, turning back around.

She took a step toward him, leaving her home and the small dog that bounced around her ankles. Her hand left his, both coming up to cup his face. Her gaze scrutinized him deeply, searching him for something he couldn't hope to ascertain. Whether she found it, he didn't know. But her eyes welled up with sparkling tears that shattered his heart to witness. "Is this your way of returning the favor?" She almost laughed, breathless, a tear rolling down her rouge-dusted cheek. "Well, honey, I won't lie to you. I'm not your wife."

Why did it sting so much more coming from her voice, unknown until a few seconds ago, than it did from that of a friend he thought he could trust?

"But I'd really like to be."

Before he could process her confession any further, she pulled him down. Her quick glance at his lips were his only warning. Soft as butter and sweet as Tupelo honey, her lips met his. Fireworks burst in his chest, the air stolen from his lungs as she kissed him. He could taste her lipgloss, berry-sweet, when she pulled away.

Though he chased her, desperate for another spark, another taste of her, she evaded him. A ghost of a whine threatened to rise in his throat. "I'd like you to be, too."

A grief unlike any he'd ever witnessed flashed across her face as she shook her head, a bitter smile on her too-far lips. "You're not my North."

"I could be!" America insisted, taking her hands. "I could be your North! Out of everything weird and strange and frankly extremely concerning that's been going on for the past several days, you're the first new thing I've liked. More than liked. Something about you just feels right."

A true, natural blush swept over her cheeks, the corners of her mouth turned up shyly. "No, I don't want that. We've had that before, one of us lying to the other, pretending to be something we're not so we can fake being happy for as long as possible. I've learned my lesson." She brushed her hand over his cheek again, combing his hair behind his ear. "Neither of us should be something we're not for the sake of a lie. Go home, North."

That whine wouldn't stay down any longer, manifesting as a pout. "But I came all the way here! I don't want to drive all the way back to DC!"

She shook her head again. "Not DC, honey. Your real home. You ain't from 'round here. You need to go home. And my not-quite-husband needs to come back. Come here." She bid him to lean down, to which he quickly complied. Her lips brushed against his forehead. "There's magic in these hollers. Enough to bridge the gap."

His eyes fluttered closed as she pressed one last, lingering kiss to his forehead.

When he opened them again, he still felt the ghost of her lips on his skin, even as he awoke in his bed back home, glow-in-the-dark stuck on stars staring down at him from the ceiling.

From the other room, he heard Tony's string of muffled cursing and the pop of the toaster, followed by louder cursing as the freezer waffles scared the poor guy again.

America took in a breath, pushing down the ache in his chest. He tucked his hands behind his head, smiling up at the silly plastic stars Canada sent him for his last birthday. "Wherever you are, other America, you better not screw this up. Marry her for the both of us."

[berena-winter-event]

The Official a (not so) Silent Night Playlist

As this is a song-inspired event, we felt some accompanying music was in order! Enjoy this collection of songs nominated by your fellow Berena fans

Tracklist:

Auld Lang Syne Ingrid Michaelson // @daystarsearcher

Baby It’s Cold Outside Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Jordan // @choreomanic

Back to December Taylor Swift // @lilolilyr

Both Sides Now Joni Mitchell // @sapphicdbc

Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) Darlene Love // @doctorjameswatson

Christmas Lights Yellowcard // @lilolilyr

Count Your Blessings (Instead of Sheep) Diana Krall // @batnbreakfast

Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy Tchaikovsky // @bonnissance

December 1963 Franki Valli & The Four Seasons // @slightlyintimidating

December Will Be Magic Again Kate Bush // @veganpepsibaby

Happy XMas (War is Over) John Lennon & Yoko Ono // @slbrigzi19

Hazy Shade of Winter Simon & Garfunkel // @tebarambles

He's Stuck in the Chimney Again Ana Gasteyer // @seahorsepencils

I Wish it Could be Christmas Everyday Wizzard // @sapphicdbc

I'll Be Home For Christmas The Carpenters // @shippingsincebeforeyouwereborn

I’m Gonna Be Warm This Winter Connie Francis // @doctorjameswatson

Imperfect Christmas Malinda // @imagebender

In the Bleak Midwinter Julie Andrews // @lapalfruity

Just for Now Imogen Heap // @ktlsyrtis

Last Christmas Wham! // @choreomanic

Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Dean Martin // @ktlsyrtis

Let the Bells Ring Kate Rusby // @doctorjameswatson

Men of Snow Ingrid Michaelson // @seahorsepencils

Once Upon a December David Newman // @starfleetwitch

One Toy Soldier Enya // @starfleetwitch

River Robert Downey Jr // @batnbreakfast

Santa Baby Eartha Kitt // @lapalfruity

Sleigh Ride The Ronettes // @ariverandasong

Snowfall Ingrid Michaelson // @tebarambles

Someday At Christmas Stevie Wonder // @danceswithcows01

Song for a Winter's Night Gordon Lightfoot // @pers-books

Stay Another Day East 17 // @akaanonymouth

Step Into Christmas Elton John // @veganpepsibaby

The Christmas Song The Raveonettes // @slightlyintimidating

The Heartache Can Wait Brandi Carlile // @seahorsepencils

The Longest Night of the Year Mary Chapin Carpenter // @shippingsincebeforeyouwereborn

The Power Of Love Frankie Goes To Hollywood // @slightlyintimidating

Underneath the Tree Kelly Clarkson // @ktlsyrtis

Valley Winter Song Fountains of Wayne // @akaanonymouth

What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve? Ella Fitzgerald // @batnbreakfast

Where Are You Christmas Faith Hill // @danceswithcows01

White Christmas Bing Crosby // @coldblizzardqueen

White Winter Hymnal Fleet Foxes // @akaanonymouth

Winter Song Ingrid Michaelson & Sara Bareilles // @tebarambles

[doctorbrown]

The last place Clarissa expected to be spending her Christmas season was stuck in 1980s America, Earth. If she had her way, the holiday would have come and gone without her having even noticed its passing before all the cheesy lights and corny commercialised holo-ads—designed to tug on easy hearts to encourage the careless opening of wallets—were disappearing into far away pricks on the Thunderbird’s rear viewing screens.

Speaking of the Thunderbird, Clarissa still has yet to locate her missing mech. Its whereabouts still a mystery, since the day a fierce slipstream dragged her machine off of its Voidspace trajectory...shoved both it and its pilot through time and space. As physics crumpled and haemorrhaged around them, Clarissa doesn't know when or where that it was that she had phase shifted through her cockpit like a bad video game collision glitch, falling through the sickening rainbow slick of the void and waking in a ditch beneath the glow of Earth's moon. No Thunderbird in sight. One would think that a 12-metre-tall shining metal bird falling onto Eighties California would cause a bit of a public panic and/or media sensation, making the silence on the airwaves and the era's primitive, skeletal internet, deafening in the same sick manner as waking up from an accident unable to feel one of your limbs.

Until she tracks down her machine, figures out how to make any needed repairs in this backwater century, and figures out how to get the thing back into Voidspace, and from Voidspace, back to the future, Clarissa is fucking stuck here. She’s an outlier here in this little time capsule of retro Americana. Her mere out-of-townness, the unplaceable accent, her otherness as an East Asian in this blindingly white little town, her avant-garde mode of dress (her pilot suit)...oh and, of course, her long deep natural blue hair, which loud and nosy onlookers have concluded amongst themselves to be some kind of garish fashion statement (definitely some manner of party wig. To go with her fancy dress outfit, obviously). The only person not to look at her with boggling eyes like she’s some kind of mutated animal that wandered into their peaceful little town is the one other person Hill Valley seems to have condemned as some kind of freak. The very person whom one of the first people bold enough to actually strike up some excuse for a conversation with her, asked if she were a visiting friend of his. Of course Clarissa had sought such a person out.

Doctor Brown has been a valuable aid in her situation…with no mech, no money, and no roof over her head to speak of. Clarissa is wary to receive help, however needed—yet the older man’s assistance had been easy to accept, perhaps because she recognised the scientific vigour in his eyes once he realised she were more than just the sort of wandering vagabond her ripped clothing might suggest.

She’s less sold on the hypothesis of his younger acquaintance who periodically stops by, that falling in step with the current holiday will help her stick out any less. Perhaps there was at least a point to be had about her wandering around in the snow with her jacket hung wide open and a wide-necked shirt that exposes her collar beneath. Clarissa finds herself in an itchy old sweater, a hand me down that she’s uncertain whether it was Brown’s originally, sitting cross legged on the cold garage floor while gingerly pulling knots out of strings of Christmas lights. As unenthusiastic Clarissa feels to be stranded, she’s at least eager to do something with her hands. Aiding Brown on his own scientific tinkering, tidying the garage space, detangling lights, sure. Whatever. Anything to keep her from wanting to rip her kindly host’s entire place apart. Her chest hurts and her head starts spinning any time she stops working on the Thunderbird Problem and spirals instead into fretting over what might have become of her prized machine…to think of Thunderbird lost out there, who knows where in America or even the world, perhaps smashed in the desert or sunk into the Atlantic.

The wall plug to the Christmas lights lays visibly, conspicuously, un-plugged at the centre of the floor, yet the bundle of lights strewn about the concrete, threading through Clarissa’s fingers and draped across her knees begin to glow, each shining in their colourful rainbow hues. Clarissa looks not to notice, her brows furrowed as she works at a particularly stubborn collision of bulbs that have become twisted together. She thinks of Thunderbird’s onboard AI sending distress messages nobody will be able to hear. Wonders whether the on-board computer is panicking to realise that its pilot is missing from its locked cockpit. The bulbs glow to an eye-searing brightness that burns the retina.

“Gh—!” There’s a tight, hot little popping noise. Clarissa flinches as shards of green glass spray over her face and the backs of her hands. As the string of lights all fade out. “Shit. Say that this crapped out old box has a couple spare bulbs...”

He'd promised Marty that this year, he would have the garage decorated in a timely fashion. Last year, he'd only missed Christmas by two days, and when Marty commented that the lights were supposed to be up well before this, he had to make the apparently blasphemous confession that he hadn't owned any lights, prompting an almost immediate trip into town and a very enthusiastic explanation as to why he needed them.

Rather than argue, he'd acquiesced, and even let the kid pick out the lights he preferred most.

Colours bounce off every available surface, and he whips around just in time for the lights to get so blindingly bright that he's forced to screw his eyes shut. He expects a much more violent blast, a string of bulbs to blow in quick succession from that surge of energy, not just a single pop there and gone in the span it takes him to breathe.

Einstein bolts up off the couch, hackles raised, looking around for an intruder that doesn't exist. Emmett shuffles over to his companion, patting him thrice on the head comfortingly. ❝There, there, Einie. It's just a blown bulb, nothing to worry about. You should be used to these sudden loud noises by now.❞

Einstein looks sceptically between his master and his master's new friend but seems to accept that. As he sits down, still watching the pair, Emmett walks over to Clarissa.

It doesn't escape his notice that the lights, each glowing like miniature suns only a moment ago, are not plugged into anything. They're lying in a mostly untangled heap across her legs, and when he follows them back to the plug, it's there, three feet away from her, forgotten in the centre of the room.

No power. No outlet whose wiring may have been damaged and caused a surge that overloaded the lights.

Just her.

That's something he can tackle later.

❝How's your face? Your hand?❞ Emmett asks, sweeping his gaze across the broken glass strewn about around her. There are shards caught in the fabric of that old sweater and he presses his lips together, running through a quick inventory of spare clothes he can offer rather than concern himself with whether or not she'll cut herself on the small shards still caught in there.

❝There should be spares. These lights may be relatively new compared to a lot of other things in the lab❞—and he has Marty to thank for their existence here at all—❝but that isn't the first time they've broken. They're in the box over there.❞ He gestures toward a box that has seen better days.

❝I'll get a broom, too, hold on.❞

[rickie-the-storyteller]

Happy Worldbuilding Wednesday!!! What are the most popular traditions in the world of your story (or at least the ones in your character's lives)? What are the ones your characters love the most? If any, what are the most interesting local foods of your regions? What are the cultural aspects you’re most proud of in your works?

Thanks for the ask!

Ok, sorry for the late response. I’ve been a bit busy lately with school stuff. Plus, I needed to really think about this one lol.

You see, my story is set primarily in northern part of London in 2010. I have an idea of what London is like now (I don’t currently live there, but I’ve been there enough times), but it would be different back then, you know? Slightly.

There are of course plenty of great things to see and do and go to in a bustling city like London, and this is partially the reason I chose it to be the main setting for my story. That being said, I didn’t properly think about any particular places that my characters would like…

So this is quite a good question! Let me think…

Some really great events/places/cultural aspects of London include:

Notting Hill Carnival (this vibrant celebration of Caribbean culture, featuring colorful parades, music, and dance)

Guy Fawkes Night/Bonfire Night (not just a London thing lol. On November 5th, people across the UK, celebrate Guy Fawkes Night - a tradition that involves fireworks displays and the burning of effigies representing Guy Fawkes, who famously attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605)

Christmas Markets (during the holiday season, various Christmas markets pop up around North London, offering festive foods, gifts, and entertainment)

Regent Street Decorations (During festive seasons like Christmas, Regent Street, which leads into Oxford Circus, is adorned with dazzling decorations and festive lights. London really knows how to Xmas lol… these decorations are always STUNNING)

Fish and chip shops lol

Sunday Roast (popular British tradition)

Brick Lane curry (Brick Lane is in East London. It’s famous for its vibrant curry houses offering a variety of Indian, Bangladeshi, and Pakistani dishes)

Oxford Circus (renowned for being a major shopping district, with a wide range of shops and department stores like Zara, and H&M, as well as smaller boutiques and specialty shops)

Those are just a few examples. I could go on and on lol.

I feel like I need to think a little deeper about how these things might affect my characters and overall storyline (I mean, I haven’t really thought about this stuff before… like I’ve said before, my main focus with my stories is to really expand on characters, not so much on the setting. But it’s ok - this question really made me think deeper about other aspects of my story. So thanks!)

[josiebelladonna]

kinkmas // prologue

kinkmas, titled “black moon” | prologue

pairing: alex skolnick x fem!oc

tags: loneliness at the holiday season, setting the mood, wine-drinking

ao3 link | kinktober/sister piece “eclipse”

minors dni, or so help me ❄️💋❄️💋

“I was hoping you’d make it.”

Alex showed me that sweet little smile as I walked on up to him through the darkness. It was nearly midnight and he had asked me to join him for a little something special. Something “immersive” as he called it, just in time for the world of Christmas. No snow had begun to fall in the Hollywood hills behind us as of yet, but I knew it was coming up there in the meantime. One wouldn’t think of Los Angeles as being all that festive, especially since he toured with the East Coast wing, but he and I were both adamant about it when I had met him back in New York City.

He took out a small, brass key from his pocket and he unlocked the back door to the concert hall for me. When I emerged into the patch of dim light courtesy of the street lamp off to the side there, I noticed the soft reddish sheen to his jacket: a deep red wine shade of velvet for a luxurious evening. Though neither he nor I had a lot of money on hand at the moment, we would make do of it all.

He then held the door for me with a thoughtful look plastered on his handsome face.

I bowed my head and showed him a shy smile as I walked in through the door there. He closed it right behind us and then he turned to me, still with the thoughtful expression on his face.

“What’d you say your name was again?” he asked me: given we were inside, he needn’t have to speak so loudly; his voice was so gentle and warm, like a pouring of wild fresh honey on freshly crisp toast on a cold morning.

“Didn’t. It’s Chris. Short for Christine.”

“Okay,” he said with a slight nod and a little smile to accompany it, “Chris, short for Christine—come with me.” He was so adorable with the way that he talked, almost out of one side of his mouth like he was about to crack me a really bad joke somewhere along the way. He reached behind me and flipped a couple of switches there on the wall by the door, one for the backstage area as well as the actual concert hall itself beyond there.

Alex led me along the backstage area until we reached a spot of brighter light, right before a heavy black curtain with sparkles embedded within, and once he turned to me, I was better able to look into his face and those deep-set soulful eyes of his. Though he was approaching forty, I never would have believed it from the smooth silkiness of his skin. I had the strangest desire to suddenly kiss him on the neck, right underneath his chin, just to feel the softness there, to see if he really was in fact that tender and soft.

He had brushed his shaggy rag mop of jet-black hair, which had grown out to where the ends caressed his shoulders. Though I absolutely went ape shit over his long lush curls as a young buck, he looked rather cute with scruffy hair. He also reminded me of Sweeney Todd with that little sole plume of gray at the front of his head.

I took a glimpse down to his body, to the crushed deep red velvet that encapsulated his slim body, the black vest underneath as well as the white silk button-up shirt. I spotted the delicate little silver Star of David about the size of a dime around his neck, as light as freshly fallen snow.

He turned to me, still with that smile on his face: he had prominent dimples that only made me want to kiss him more. He set his hands on the lapels of his coat and I noticed the fine, narrow light spot on his left ring finger. Recently divorced, and a sight that gave me a whole manner of questions no less.

“Ready?” he asked me.

“Ready.”

He reached to the right and pushed the curtain back, which in turn revealed the concert hall to me. Rows upon rows of seats extended back into the shadows at the far side of the vast room, as if it went on for an eternity. I glanced up to the ceiling and the chandelier right at the center of it all: the color and the shape of the whole thing reminded me of the anatomically correct shape of a human heart. I lowered my gaze to the stage right next to him, big enough for the whole entire performance, the orchestra as it awaited for their turn in the coming nights, and yet we had the time to have the building all to ourselves.

“Ta-da,” he declared.

“Beautiful,” I muttered. “I almost feel like I’m at the North Pole.”

“You should see the snow when it comes down during some songs,” he assured me as he led me out to the middle of the stage, right next to the stools where the bassist and one of the guitarists were directed to. “Especially during ‘Wizards of Winter.’ The snow just comes down in a vortex while I’m soloing.”

I turned my head again, that time for a better look at the four V.I.P. seats right before the stage and the orchestra pit. The plush upholstery of the seats made me yearn for a mug full of hot chocolate with those little marshmallows inside.

Alex knelt down to a cabinet right next to the platform for one of the drum kits and he took out a big green bottle of dark red wine, an old-fashioned corkscrew, and a pair of crystalline glasses. He set them both down atop the cabinet and he undid the cork with a flick of his wrist.

Soft skin and he was very strong as well.

“A little Porto to set the tone for us,” he proclaimed as he poured the wine into the glasses, one right after the other. The wine was in fact the same color as his jacket, and he was eager to hand me the glass.

I cradled the glass in the palm of my hand as I would a glass of brandy in anticipation of his being ready for a little toast of sorts. He returned to me with a slight rosiness to his face and the collar of his shirt undone to show me some skin.

“I notice you have a tan line on your ring finger,” I told him, to which he raised his left hand at me. The thoughtful expression returned to his face and I could only put two and two together.

“Oh, you poor man,” was all I could say, but he shrugged his narrow shoulders at that.

“The fire is alive and well, my little snow bunny,” he vowed to me with a raise of his glass to me.

“I hope this isn’t a rebound,” I confessed to him as I held the glass of wine out before me,

“I promise you, Chris—it isn’t. The feelings have been water under the bridge for quite a while now.” He tipped the glass back onto his full, sensual lips and took a hearty swig. I followed suit: though it wasn’t hot chocolate, it was sweet and lush, and it did feel quite warm within me. The taste of the grapes washed over me, and I held it down to my waist.

He gestured to the seats right at the edge of the stage.

“Have a seat,” he coaxed me.

I doubled back towards the rail where I spotted the walkway down to the aisle down in front, and ultimately, the step up to the small but cozy V.I.P. section. I took my spot in the one closest to the stage all so I could put my feet up in the seat to my right. I swirled the wine in the glass and I watched him.

He was like a dark prince with the way that he moved about before me on that stage, a ghost with the shadows at his back and the great wide unknown right before him, a thief in the night. He sipped on his wine and gazed up at the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, and I noticed that the bottom of his vest was pushing his silk shirt up his body a bit. The soft white light in the hall washed over him and his milky skin to the point it softened the sharp prominence of his brow and brought those deep blues forth out of the shadows of his face. The plume of gray shone as if it was made of glitter and garland: the black of his curls reminded me of the blackness of night eternal.

He was snowy and ghostly at the same time; and when he closed his eyes and arched his back a bit so as to relax himself a bit more, I caught a little glimpse of his bare waist. Snowy, ghostly, and childlike all at the same time. Young and ancient at the same time. Slim and yet so shapely, and the caress of the wine only made him all the more lush and opulent, even with the presence of humility.

Another sip of wine and then he turned and set it down on the stool next to him.

He picked up the beautiful cherry red acoustic guitar from the rack on the side of the stage next to him and he slung it over his shoulder. Without sparing another moment, he strode over to the very front of the stage, a mere few feet away from me. I nestled down in the seat and I awaited him for his solo performance.

“So, what’s on the menu for tonight, my prince?” I asked him. He showed me a playful little smirk and ran his fingers through his black curls: all the while, I caught a quick glimpse of his silver streak by the roots.

He bowed his head for a brief moment, and then he raised it up at a slow pace so the light could cross over him and nourish every curve and soft smooth contour of his face and neck.

“A desire to leave the world behind,” he announced in a fuller tone of voice. “Christmas is everywhere we turn and to the heart of the deepest shadows, we retreat and find solace from it all.” He turned towards me and he locked eyes with me for a moment: a few feet away from him and I could feel his power.

“An escape,” I followed along.

“An escape while sharing our time together in the universe,” he added. “I am Jewish and I’m by myself on Christmas. I know that you, too, are alone.”

“Indeed, I am,” I confessed to him. He turned to the stool right behind him and took his seat with that red guitar plunked across right his lap.

“I wish to take you for a little ride, my dear,” he told me as he adjusted the seat of the stool. “A ride of the mind through the heart and soul of the holidays. May I take you into the corners of your mind where the holiday cheer meets with the feelings you didn’t know you had. The season, the darkness, every last part of it—everything you can imagine and then some. Allow me to indulge in you, and I shall allow you to indulge in me.”

Those eyes, as deep and hypnotic as the clear night sky that followed a day’s worth of hefty snowfall, gazed right back at me in all of their rich royal blue glory. I sank down into the plush seat and I brought my knees up to my chest as if I would at a roaring fire’s edge.

The tales of Christmas, like I had never witnessed before, as vast as Siberia itself.

[awalnutshell]

June 15th

saturday

last night i got to hear paul play at bar bayeux. it started to rain as i was on my way over and i found myself sprinting several blocks down nostrand avenue to beat the torrential summer thunderstorm. i arrived damp and out of breath but the bar was warm and dry and full. its a nice spot, ill go back today and ask for a job. its a small bar, with a stage at the back, adorned in dark red velvet curtains and christmas lights. dim little lamps with stained glass shades line the tables and bar, like the kind david used to collect.

the music was excellent, both pauls band and the one after. lots of friendly faces, people i knew. matei and robby and gervis, the big black bass player. when we finally left the torrential downpour had ceased, and we decided to get jerk chicken from my father's place, the jamaican spot on the corner. i cooked up some greens to go with our chicken and rice n peas. it was another perfect end to an evening, curled up on the couch, with a spliff and jamaican food, watching a couple episodes of avatar. we had watermelon for dessert and fucked before falling asleep.

ive been unemployed too long for my liking, but life is sweet nonetheless. i am happy and spoiled rotten, i am beautiful and healthy. i eat good food and have good sex everyday, let me not forget the luxury i am living in. i am flat broke but not for long, that will change. i am rich in other things. one is only as abundant as their mindset allows them to be, phoebe.

here is the plan for today:

gym

laundry

eat

layout?

shower & get ready

walk around the neighborhood and drop resumes

go to cobble hill/dumbo looking for work

pauls gig at 8.30 in lower east side

emmas birthday party

xx

[businessclassflightdealstosydney]

Witness Japan’s top tourist attractions- Winter Illuminations

If you have already started planning for your Christmas holiday vacations then despite the famous Caribbean beaches, Yellowstone National Park or Dubai, visit Japan to witness their famous Winter Illuminations. Visit an online OTA or aggregator site to book one of the best premium economy flights UK to Far East or a business class flight to Japan.

Also, pre-book tickets for round-trip premium economy flights to Memphis or wherever you are from to avoid the last-moment rush of tourists heading to Japan.

Usually, there is no fee, which is scheduled to see this phenomenal winter charisma in Japan. Besides the locals, Japan witnesses the footfalls of international tourists flying here to get the essence of this incredible winter illuminations.

 The locations of these illuminations are enlisted in the following discussion: 

Sapporo: this is the capital famous for hosting snow festivals. Every year this event attracts near about two million people from the corners of the country and abroad. The scenic beauty of this location is no less than a Disney Land Fairytale land. This mesmerizing location is ascending its position among the top Japanese tourist attractions chart. 

Roppongi Hills: A 30-foot Christmas tree is set up at 66 Plaza, which is eye candy for travellers. Despite planning to book tickets for premium economy flights to Montego Bay book flights heading to Tokyo instead to witness these jaw-dropping Christmas lights.

Shirakawa-go: This is a world heritage site accredited by UNESCO. This location is famous for its snow-clad thatched roof houses. The white chain of lights covers the houses creating an enigmatic atmosphere. The best time to visit this heritage site is from mid-January to mid-February. 

Like any smart tourist, pre-plan your next trip to Japan. The agency that helps you book tickets for premium economy flights UK to Banjul, USA, Australia or elsewhere can also arrange a packaged tour to your next Far East venture.

[memorylang]

Thanksgiving and Chinggis Khaan’s Birthday | #67 | November 2022

This holiday double-feature takes us through the collaboration between the Peace Corps, KOICA and JICA, development agencies of the U.S., Korea and Japan, respectively. Following the project, I continue with the next day’s stories, as networks grew and relationships built. We also saw an opera for Chinggis Khaan’s birthday! So that was exciting. From these, we reach the beginning of Advent. 

Chinggis Khaan’s Birthday

On Thanksgiving Day, November 24, I joined a group of about a dozen of our Peace Corps Trainees on a trip out of town, to a modern ger camp in Terelj. Our journey began before dawn, in the cold outside the pink Socialist-era Drama Theatre. The temperature was -25°C (-13°F). A bus would collect us from outside the green Grand Irish Pub. 

While we waited, we had a chance to warm up inside the office of KOICA (Korea International Cooperation Agency). Their organization had sponsored the mentoring project for youths living in the Chingeltei District of Ulaanbaatar (UB). I recalled having just been in Chingeltei earlier that week for school visits that Monday. The joint project with us Peace Corps Volunteers was to “provide opportunities for cultural exchange with other countries for underprivileged youth, [...] promote KOICA in relation to the resumption of the dispatch of KOICA volunteers in Mongolia and raise positive awareness of volunteer activities.” 

The students would have the day off because Mongolia observes Chinggis Khaan’s birthday as a national holiday. It’s been celebrated since 2OI2 according to the lunar calendar on the first day of the first winter month. It typically lands around American Thanksgiving, celebrated on November’s fourth Thursday. That said, they don’t always align. 

After the wait, we PCVs hopped aboard the coach bus with KOICA staff for the journey. Along the way, my M3I friend Rowan and I got to talk to KOICA staff, whose roles were equivalent to our American Peace Corps staff. I enjoyed meeting fellow development workers and hearing their perspectives on life in Mongolia from Korea. To my surprise, they had plenty of opportunities to speak Korean because so many Mongols study the language! 

Along the ride from the city center, the windows frosted over as they tend to. We used the practice of taking a credit card or ID to the window to scrape aside such frost to see out. After leaving the city, driving east, we eventually descended a large, winding hill past an ovoo and crossed a bridge. I’d often treat this area as the entrance into Terelj, though it wasn’t a formal one. 

An International Holiday Venue

We arrived to the Terelj site. After everyone had disembarked, we got a group photo of all the volunteers. Then we ascended the hill and steps to enter a massive ger-shaped building.

The buildling remind me of the dining hall in Chinggisiin Khuree, where my Peace Corps cohort and I had first arrived in Mongolia. In this building though, we PCVs were setting up among folks from many nations. International Volunteer Day was coming up, too, on December 5. KOICA brought in us Peace Corps folks alongside JICA (Japan International Cooperation Agency) to make the day. 

A Peace Corps staff member came to help with language facilitation. It was the recent Mongolian instructor of M3O Eric and me, Sumya! Sumya mentioned to us how the cloud-like decorations hanging above us were like those of her childhood in preparation for New Year’s, decorated much like Christmas from the socialist period onward. It was nice to have context behind the light blue and white crafted puffs above us.

Shortly after we arrived, our groups from the U.S., Korea, Japan and Mongolia together received matching grey KOICA hoodies. KOICA always had that drip, I remembered from IST 2OI9. So cool to be part of the action, too! Then I wandered the floor to meet folks and help out. It turns out Eric and I weren’t alone among evacuated returned volunteers, either. An older JICA gentleman was among us!

Day of Service

Before long, the children who’d participate arrived. The table group with which I was paired had a kind JICA nurse, a bubbly KOICA volunteer and half a dozen adorable kids. It turns out that the KOICA in our group was the same eager gal who’d served me hot cocoa shortly after I arrived. It was “No Brand,” the same simple yellow products I saw throughout the huge Emart. Eventually I’d adjust to the fact that Emart is a Korean chain with Korean brands. 

I enjoyed how despite just meeting my fellow volunteers, we worked together to bring joy to the kids. At some points, since the JICA volunteer only knew Japanese and Mongolian, she would say something to me in Mongolian that I would then translate to our KOICA volunteer in English. Fun teamwork! 

Each delegation had something to present. The JICA volunteers taught us to fold origami sumos then how to make them do battle. After demarcating the ‘ring,’ competitors simply tap their fingers against the surface to cause their combatants to waddle at each other. The fight reminded me of how Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots seem to fight. The KOICA volunteers taught us to make weighted hacky-sacks from paper, stones and rubber bands. 

We Americans hosted a little dance party amid our regional presentations, including my bit about the Southwest. The Northeastern presentations reminded me of Boston, the Red Sox and New York, too. We Americans really pumped out the energy! Our colleagues complimented me and my friends for our moves. It was a good vibe! 

Around lunchtime, we enjoyed a tasty meal like those of Terelj’s Red Rock Resort, where my fellow PCVs and I had IST 2OI9. Afterward, our groups headed outside into the snow for a photo competition. My co-volunteers were much more creative than me with staging cool squad poses. Nonetheless, I enjoyed our gleeful grins. Our team hadn’t won the prize this year, but we’d won the joy of a good day. 

Before the event’s end, students heard motivational life advice from a presenter who walked people through the past decade or so of autobiography and testimonials. I hope the presentation helped kids to see some directions where they could go in life. As for us volunteers, we got to know each other better and resolved to hang out sometime. It was a good day. 

I don’t recall much from the bus ride back probably because I was asleep. I needed that. We rode back from Terelj across the bridge, back up the winding hill and surely hours later back into downtown UB. Traffic was as rough as usual, but at least we had each other. 

Thanksgiving 2O22

Unlike my last Peace Corps Thanksgiving, during which staff had sent all our sites turkeys, we celebrated in UB this year. That evening, we Peace Corps folks reconvened at the Star’s community center, where we’d celebrated Hallowe’en. Since we were all in UB, staff had generously chosen to throw us a Thanksgiving dinner alongside a committee of Trainees. They gave us good vibes!

We each received cool standing nametags welcoming us to the event and noting where to sit. Those of us from the KOICA event still had our hoodies, easily identifying us. I enjoyed getting to spend more time with the new Trainees since M3O Eric and I had split off to resume our service. 

While there wasn’t turkey, the chicken equivalent was great. And my, the pies were wonderful! At the night’s end, Peace Corps staff sent us home with plenty of trays of leftovers. So nice to have salads, too. 

Fourth Peace Corps Anniversary

The next day was Black Friday 2O22 and thus marked the fourth anniversary since in 2OI8 when I accepted my invitation to serve in the Peace Corps. Admittedly I hadn’t expected much to occur. I had a meeting scheduled with my local children’s speaking club counterpart, a Mongolian language lesson with my tutor and a sports evening then show afterward. Yet the day had surprises in store! 

My counterpart from the children’s speaking club indeed came to visit my office to co-plan our afternoon’s session. When we were walking from the library after that club session, we chatted a bit. At some point she slipped into Mongolian, and we chatted about my trip to Övörhangai. (She was from its neighboring Arhangai.) She also asked if I’d seen “Wakanda.” I felt amused. I felt like she asked me if I’d seen a country. I’m used to calling the film “Black Panther,” though that was indeed “Wakanda Forever.” I saw it, yeah—highly recommend. 

Afterward, I headed to my language lesson in the tower west of the Square. Afterward, my tutor Adonis helped me to find where I could get my first UB haircut. (After I’d moved to Erdenet, fall 2OI9, I simply got my cuts done by a community member after my first barber visit.) We’d mentioned the word “paradise,” which I remembered from Sunday translates to “divaajin.” It sounded to me like the word “divine!” 

The haircut cost more than my friend foretold, but he helped pick up the difference. Afterward, I continued on from there to visit the nearby Secondary School #21. The department of education was having our sports night. So my friend pointed me in the right direction. 

Unexpected

When I reached the school, a young woman who seemed to be the designated door guard asked something like, “Хашаа агаа?” when I approached. I fumbled through some words to explain I came to play sports with my colleagues. I also mimed bumping a volleyball. “Өө, заал, гэх юм уу?” she replied. Yup, that where I was trying to remember. Anyway, she let me by. 

I reached the gym without issue. Then I found my colleages weren’t there. So I sent a photo in our English group chat to confirm I showed up. I also implied I got a haircut, hehe. I checked my other messages while I waited and felt pleased to see an Honors College Student Council officer offered to fill my Community Advisory Board’s secretary vacancy. That left me hopeful! Still, it seemed like my colleagues weren’t coming to the gym that night. 

On a grim note, I also read the news that our cohort’s first Early Termination (ET) would occur. ETs always feel painful, for they mean the loss of a Peace Corps community member. I thought about this for some time on my walk home. I returned to my apartment for a nap. 

Adventure

I awoke to “Lush Life” by Zara Larsson, followed not long after by “Sunday Morning” (Maroon 5) and “Stardust” (New Politics) as I got ready. Turns out the person I was supposed to meet ahead of the night’s event came early to the restaurant where we’d meet. So, leaving behind my backpack and armoring up with my coat for -17°C (1°F), I bolted from the apartment. 

The eager KOICA intern with whom I served the kids on Chinggis Khaan’s birthday had invited me to come to see a concert with her at the cool Fat Cat Jazz Club. The headliner was Carole Alston, an American. So we’d grab dinner before the show. That was the plan. 

Rushing down streets against the clock, I felt as though the male lead of some drama. I pictured a scene of having to catch someone before that person catches a train, perhaps never to be seen again. I hustled. I skipped across the broken sidewalks and navigated past even a great mound of dirt across a sidestreet. 

On the run, I saw pleasantly that the sidewalk ice cleared by local workers had largely melted. Still, I recalled that Safety & Security emailed us colder weather was coming. (Earlier that day, I felt surprised that we hadn’t gotten emails about such things until that very day we got such an email.)

Arrival

By the time I arrived, my friend and I found that apparently the café closed early that evening. So we would try elsewhere. Apparently her apartment was nearby. Its interior reminded me of the digs an undergrad in nice parts of America might have. The direct nighttime view of Sukhbaatar Square was phenomenal. 

Hanging out for a bit, my friend treated me to homemade Korean foods I hadn't had before. They were cute and so good. The intern mentioned she too came from a comms background. I shared some about my recent time in New York, as I'd shared in my blog earlier that day. I feel a bit bashful that she said she’d already read it, given that not even 24 hours had passed since I shared it. Still, I feel grateful that someone had read it. 

We chatted a little about churches, too. She mentioned attending a Korean one sometimes! Adonis had mentioned Korean churches when I was first in Mongolia, but I never had a chance to visit one. An outing to one would be a future adventure, then. 

Jazz

We stepped underground into the brick jazz club. I felt surprised to see KOICA staff members with whom I’d been chatting within the past 24 hours. People who were strangers no less than a day before were fellow concert-goers. Their table was too small for the two of us to join, though, so we retreated to a high table along the back wall. 

The concert kicked off with the tune “Route 66.” Music brings back memories. The tune mentioned such places as St. Louis, where I was during my last month in America. The performances also reminded me of a few more experiences. I remembered watching the evening performance of my professor of the MUS 122R honors survey of jazz class. I’d taken that during my first semester of college, fall 2OI5. I even remembered that pandemic experience when my fraternity brothers and I took a friend out to midtown Reno jazz bars. That marked his belated 21st birthday and my belated 24th, a couple nights after our shared day, July 6, 2O2I. 

My friend ordered a cherry Coca-Cola to share between us. We got these quaint little jar-looking cups with bright plastic straws. Pop tasted sweet. I liked it. I didn’t feel like ordering anything else. She was so generous. I’d pick up our bill. 

As the jazz night progressed, I remembered too scenes from “La La Land,” that favorite film of mine. I considered how quite a lot of its plot happened during concerts in jazz clubs like this one. I felt glad to experience another part of that “La La Land” tour from—to my surprise—a year and a half before. The film captured the intimacy of such spaces well. 

Next Quest

During the intermission, a friend from KOICA staff came by our table and said hi. She was surprised to find out I’m Christian, since I remember on the bus we talked about Christian roots. My name’s “Daniel” after all. I guess I hadn’t brought up my personal story. 

The person I sat with mentioned I would be joining her at the Korean church in a couple days. The staff member, amazed, and said something to her in Korean. Their nonverbals gave me the impression she said something joking, like that my pal was recruiting me into her community when I didn’t speak Korean. Plenty of people in Mongolia had encouraged me to study Korean, anyway. 

The waiters came by at some point to announce the last call for drinks. Like the last call for food, we said we were fine. Indeed we were. We kept chatting after the show till the venue’s closing. 

During our stroll back in the cold outside, I recognized the great mound of dirt I’d skirted by earlier and realized that I’d hustled right past this place on my way to the nearby café. We joked that I could run home to stay warm. But I opted instead for the brisk walk. One dash across town was enough for the night! 

As I walked home, I remembered how my dad would often do as I did, picking up the bill. He did that especially in front of my stepmom unless she snatched the bill first. I felt glad I could do something in thanks for the fun time that Friday night. 

Advent of Advent

The next day, Saturday, November 26, I came by the cathedral again for choir practice and the Mass. After I sang with the music ministry, a younger participant said, “гал, гал.” It translates literally to “fire, fire,” or, as I would say, “lit, lit.” I felt touched by their praise. 

My peers complimented me too on, “Christ, Be Our Light,” even though I kicked myself a little for my harmony fading during the refrain’s back half. Still, I felt glad too to get to sing Mongolian Mass parts during the children’s service. Singing really was a great way to practice languages. 

After Mass, I reunited with the Peace Corps Trainees downtown for an evening at the opera. Our Trainee Chris W. found a show commemorating Chinggis Khaan’s Birthday. We headed into the large performing arts building east of the Square. We watched from a great vantage on the theatre’s second floor. Chris also commented on the Soviet style of the theatre. His experiences in Russia sure feel cool to hear. 

Chinggis Khaan in Opera

We witnessed an epic retelling of Temüjin’s journey to become Chinggis Khaan. I felt especially impressed by the opera’s dramatization of Temüjin’s loving mother, his captive wife and the rift between him and his blood brother Jamukh. I felt chills from the solo performances of the woman who portrayed Temüjin’s mother Hö’elün. I felt that she really captured a mother's love for her son. 

I felt the most emotional from the final performance by the man who portrayed Jamukh, Temüjin’s friend. The way the singer as Jamukh compared his life to Temüjin’s left me feeling heartbroken to recognize that Jamukh’s betrayal of Temüjin was imminent. Temüjin ultimately had to overcome Jamukh to become Chinggis Khaan. The actors depicted them impressively. 

With the show entirely in Mongolian, it led me to considerably practice my listening skills. Peculiarly, I noticed that Temüjin’s father’s name sounded an awful lot like the Mongolian name for “Jesus.” Есүхэй sounds close to Есүс. But that was just a coincidence. Yesükhei didn’t have much to do with Yesüs. Anyway, the show, in its marvelous performances, stage and costumes, increased my interest in the life of Chinggis Khaan and led me to read more about him that night. I love great performances. Anyway, the next morning would kick off Advent 2O22.

You can read more from me here at memoryLang.tumblr.com :)

[llynwen]

wow! That was such an enlightening and beautiful answer to my question, thank you so very much, and congratulations on graduating soon🎉! I felt that same thrill of recognition seeing the people and their homes on the show, because yes poverty really is the same all over. I live in a blue collar town in northeast America, with forested hills instead of wetlands and logging instead of fishing, but I look at their clothes, at the places they hang out, at the porches and lawns filled with clutter and machine parts nestled between the trees, at the small dark house interiors, and I think "this all could've been filmed down the street from me." It must look depressing to others but I find comfort in the familiarity. We're all just surviving as best we can nestled in the detritus of abandoned industry and reclaiming nature, keeping our lives manageably small with little daily tasks and rewards, and beyond our town limits the land itself infinite as space. I guess that bigness is what sets apart American life, thousands of people go missing in the wilderness every year and it's just taken as a given. There's a whole plane that crashed in a Vermont forest in the 80s which I believe still hasn't been found. One thing not shown onscreen, and I don't mind this since true detective is a horror drama and it wouldn't fit the tone, are the threads of community we maintain—church suppers, family game and movie nights at the library, small town festivals, Christmas tree lightings in the square and such. Life is a patchwork of privation and joy.

One thing I will advise you about if you come here (welcome btw) is picking the state with the best resources for you. Montana is gorgeous but the New England states have the best healthcare, and the east coast in general has the most public transit with our trainlines. If what matters is the job than you can visit anywhere I guess, but outside of the cities you better have a coworker/host with a reliable car willing to drive you around, because otherwise you will be stuck and lonely in the miles between anywhere. We joke about Rust being a passenger princess but bumming rides is a way of life here. Other than that, don't whistle at night in the southwest, always being more money than you think is needed to the store, look up any Indigenous nation near where you stay to maybe visit their cultural center, and have a good time!

hi again! so sorry for taking this long to respond, I've been busy with school and other shit, you know how it is

america is such a fascinating and complex place fr, and the negative aspects of it you mention were never shown in the media i (and may other europeans) consume. we're fed this image of this perfect land of the free american dream you can achieve anything if you work hard enough self made man kind of thing. but I'm glad to hear that you have this community - in my experience, that is not really the case here. i hardly ever talk to my neighbors (occasional good mornings and that about it), i don't go to church, but the people who do also don't really know one another, people only every talk to their family members and friends from places like school and work. i feel like in this aspect we could for sure learn from y'all.

when i do come visit I'm pretty sure it wont be permanent (unless chevy does actually wife me, then who knows). i just want to get a taste of that cowboy life i crave so much. i want to see the national parks (hope i don't go missing) and spend some time in the Space of it all. I am aware of the lack of public transport and i am prepared to drive everywhere, but thank you for the heads up. i also know about tax not being included in prices of stuff - which, what the fuck. that's so stupid. same with tipping - why not just pay workers living wages? I will for sure be taking the time to visit the Indigenous people in the places where I'll be staying. I'm actually writing my master's thesis about the Anishinaabe and Inuit people, and even though my area of focus is canada I'm sure I'll learn a great deal from the Indigenous people of the us as well.

thank you again for talking to me (and for your patience), and I'd really love for you to come off anon, be it in my dm's or under this post. I'd love to talk more about the show in general or just cultural issues. but no pressure!

[libidomechanica]

And sith a man with a bastard shrewe

Over the rest a dwarf-like Cato cowered.     About a stone bridel in my tyme. On the Garden-side. Wood where there kept. This is what     ye may likne youre leve, that for him. As rich as heavy fire, while falling through THAT Love ask,     and she heart, has she singer to burye

hym precious as they have y-wedded fyve! But if     it be whan the strook myn ese? He deyde whan the Soul scatter’d Camelot, though I knew no     Wrong, and all the Samaritan: thou hast pass’d, like a pass, the Ouzell shrill and bonie face     I saw a crowd of Hungarians

under the arms serenely by the secret powers     breakers plunge and of rye, that swell thee breed Mark tellė kan, oure Lord in liuely not     in vaine: for whom? ’ Truth and monogrammed watches keepe, that make earthen Bowl did I sow, and     here we joined at her but do not shrieks

and riche, and for him. She left scole, and overtrail’d     with a bastard shame you to gracious to hous, to her from his blazon’d baldric slung     a moment, and night of tho? By the world should I thy souerayne prayse to sing: ne let     housefyres, nor deathsong, as well agree

withoute make. Shook their better just Káfir than     al the world as in a glassy country so fared she liked the sin most unmeek,—I knew     to be transfigur’d with little Crescent all perform what that, self-murder and cancelled     for Love. Your eyes so suited, and the

sky like hollow throat, cling, strange the womanhood is     cast down into clamor’s hour. Am I failing like a noon-dew, wandering creation     with his wyf. With heart, let not me my Lion seed-pod and blamed hymself was slayn, that     euer it remembreth me bothe madonna

and caught the lawn, the songsters twitter in the     dreamy urn; farewell! No longer time that press my claim, nor did I adjourn my Lip the     same wode a croce; nat of my purpose was she, Blythe by the blind with oyle of burning     Contempt shall belong to me, and

no last words not ever, and the other euill spright,     save thou dost despitus. How cold is this, folly, or our Eccho ring. And how can my     Muse these meadows, which the fooles, and grone? That all their fair college and that I ne sholde     he me that mind my wheel; my finger

yours liker must be thine. And robb’d me of this same     nightgown would survived. I am thine— but. That he was a flowery sister and less;     True, ’ she says, she loved thee for help—for It rolls impotently on as Thou or I. Within     the Acidalian brooke. That euer

it remembreth me about the palace floor the     ground; years Rose-bud-like my dear nancy, Nancy; yet I’ll try to look up, and its Treasure     that straight to a small sweet Idyl, and fro with barly breed of purėd whetė seed, that now     is rage; the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall

not hear again the sting from thee more. But cease your     state, your proud faces and impute my Fall! Only Herrick’s left alone kingdom come. I     smil’d, and I think about the greatest hoord, in Christmas here and hills and still enjoy.—I     too would theyr prayse. My mind is sweet hours

from our showed the Pussy-cat went. She goes out to     all, to each. And thanne hadde I levere was a catch. For all a kiss—thus doth cherish: she     carven stern they hem mysavyse. Of índulgence; so it goes. From the words to seyn, my     selfe to see, I quit my Joy, hope, which

trembling into the Abbey-ruin in the evenings     that moves over you, lifting cheer. Ah my deere ware, and so that in my House, light of     the East has caught up true. Again and a staircase ending of all: sappho next, a     principal: smooth Anthea, when the wind,

thou with eternal Footman hold the sweet. That press     the will, for slandering and drunken ben of ale. Gusty shadow wher-with shut eyes are     dead! And the land. And everich hath of God hath yive to wedde, a Goddes armes two! Now     lies the wall, then fancy played the Golden

Grain, and leave the carpet tonight. My sheep are     lost a thing it should I doubt not thy Heart’s Desire! That ye may live and day, for his     merchandized whose terrified vague finger yours ne’er a peevish Boy, would     And sith a man with a bastard shrewe!

[now-winter-comes-slowly]

A Christmas Childhood

by Patrick Kavanagh

One side of the potato-pits was white with frost

How wonderful that was, how wonderful!

And when we put our ears to the paling-post

The music that came out was magical

The light between the ricks of hay and straw

Was a hole in Heaven’s gable. An apple tree

With its December-glinting fruit we saw

O you, Eve, were the world that tempted me

To eat the knowledge that grew in clay

And death the germ within it! Now and then

I can remember something of the gay

Garden that was childhood’s. Again

The tracks of cattle to a drinking-place,

A green stone lying sideways in a ditch,

Or any common sight, the transfigured face

Of a beauty that the world did not touch.

My father played the melodion

Outside at our gate;

There were stars in the morning east

And they danced to his music

Across the wild bogs his melodion called

To Lennons and Callans.

As I pulled on my trousers in a hurry

I knew some strange thing had happened

Outside in the cow-house my mother

Made the music of milking;

The light of her stable-lamp was a star

And the frost of Bethlehem made it twinkle

A water-hen screeched in the bog,

Mass-going feet

Crunched the wafer-ice on the pot-holes,

Somebody wistfully twisted the bellows wheel

My child poet picked out the letters

On the grey stone,

In silver the wonder of a Christmas townland,

The winking glitter of a frosty dawn

Cassiopeia was over

Cassidy’s hanging hill,

I looked and three whin bushes rode across

The horizon — the Three Wise Kings

And old man passing said:

‘Can’t he make it talk –

The melodion.’ I hid in the doorway

And tightened the belt of my box-pleated coat

I nicked six nicks on the door-post

With my penknife’s big blade –

There was a little one for cutting tobacco.

And I was six Christmases of age

My father played the melodion,

My mother milked the cows,

And I had a prayer like a white rose pinned

On the Virgin Mary’s blouse